Keryl Raist's Blog, page 45

38 Weeks: The Ninth Week

A/N: Burn Notice romantic fluff with a side of angst. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

On Sunday of the ninth week, Fi still wasn't really feeling better. The pills helped. She wasn't throwing up, as much. But not throwing up as much was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the same thing as not throwing up at all, or feeling anything even remotely like healthy.

Michael wonders what moron named it morning sickness. From what he can see, the only time Fi isn't feeling sick is the part of the morning between waking up and getting out of bed. Namely, about seven minutes.

She's lost all of the weight she put on. This has produced a strangely curvy and haggard look. Her cheekbones and orbitals are much too prominent. And once again he can count each vertebrae. Yet breasts, hips, and tummy are still more rounded than before. To some degree, she looks like a parody of fashion model chic.

He can hear her retching on the other side of the bathroom door. The first time that happened, he went in to offer comfort and whatever help he could. She made it extremely clear that one thing she did not want was him seeing her like that. So he left, and counted himself lucky she was feeling too tired to have done any damage to him while expressing that opinion.

He finished dressing. They're supposed to be going to his Mom's in an hour, but he isn't sure she's going to be feeling up to it. Madeline isn't a great cook, and they all know this, so for the last month they've been round-robbining the cooking. One of them goes to her place to make dinner, but this week it's Maddie's turn. Even on a good stomach his mom's cooking isn't easy, and roast beef, cooked a few steps beyond well done, a few steps beyond jerky, really, might not be a good plan for Fi.

The toilet flushes and he hears the sound of running water. He hopes that means Fi will be out soon. Sometimes one bout of vomiting seems to take care of it, and she almost feels normal after.

He hears the water shut off, but the door to their bathroom doesn't open.

A lot of the time, it doesn't.

Mike sat on the bed, looking at the ultrasound pictures. Tonight, no matter what, they are going to tell his mom and Jesse.

He's looking at the side shot. Arms, legs, finger and toe buds, supposedly the start of ears and fingernails. He flips to the next shot, the heart. The baby is about an inch long now, which means the heart is...about the size of a sunflower seed. He can remember the whooshing sound, and the sight of the blood moving through it.

As he thinks about that, sees the ultrasound image of the blood flowing in his mind, he remembers Nate's last heartbeat, and the feel of his blood as it stopped moving. Those images, sensations, vibrant in his mind, and suddenly keeping that tiny heart beating is the most important thing in his life.

And if that heart is going to keep beating, then it's best given to someone else. Someone who lives a safe, boring life far away from Miami, and the hundreds of enemies he and Fi have made over the years.

Setting a deadline for telling everyone isn't about making the decision. It's not like they've been waffling. They haven't been having long, fraught conversations about their options. They know what they're going to do. Mostly, the purpose of the deadline is to give them as much time to pretend as they can.

But as soon as they go public with this, they lose that ability to pretend, to fantasize about a life with the child and each other.

Fi comes out twenty minutes later, she's got makeup on and looks, well, if he's being honest, sick. Sure, it's better than when she's not got makeup on, but nothing about her says vibrant or healthy right now.

"How are you feeling?" It's a dumb question, and he knows it's a dumb question, but he doesn't have anything better in mind.

"Like I'm in the middle of the longest hangover ever."

"Do you want to skip this?"

She flops onto the bed. "Yes."

"You can. I'll go talk to her—"

"But I'm not going to."

"You don't have to do this. It's not going to be easy—"

Fi sits up and holds his hands. "I know; that's why you aren't going to do it alone. She's not just your mom. She's the grandmother of our child, Michael. We'll do it together."

"Okay."

It's a short drive. And, with the weight of what they're about to say, half an hour is going even faster than usual.

"I don't think I've ever looked forward to a conversation with my mom less." He was certainly dreading about telling her about Nate, but now, because he's had that conversation with her, this one is even more daunting. One more loss on top of a year packed with loss. One more moment of watching her eyes take in the details and see that something horrible is coming, one more moment of watching calm crumble into something terrible and terrifying.

Fi squeezes his hand as he parks the Charger in front of his mom's house.

"She'll understand."

"I hope so."

Before Nate died, he's sure she would have understood, and probably agreed that putting the baby up for adoption was the right thing to do. Now, though? Anything from looking at them calmly to bursting into tears and punching him is on the list of possible reactions.

They walk in, and Fi's still holding his hand. He appreciates the comfort of her touch, and is sure that his mom will see and know something is very wrong.

She's in the kitchen, messing with something on the stove.

"Michael, Fi, you're early." She quickly grinds out her cigarette and opens the window. Looks like Sam was right about not smoking around Fi.

"We want to talk to you," Michael says.

"Well, you're here, talk." There's a bit of a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. She knows half of what's coming next and appears amused.

Michael takes a deep breath, sure the next moment is going to go very slowly. "Ma, Fi's pregnant." And it does. It's an agonizing few seconds. He sees the grin break out on her face. She moves toward Fi, ready to embrace her, but then she notices neither of them are smiling. This should be good news, but they look like they're announcing a funeral. The grin falters, slips from her face, and she stops a step away from Fi, her hands drop from Fi's shoulders and fall to her sides.

She turns to Michael, and he can see fear and anger on her face. "That's not all of it, is it?"

"No. We aren't keeping the baby. It'll be safer raised by someone else."

The look she gives him is withering with its scorn and disappointment. "Bullshit! You've always been afraid of truly, fully, insanely loving someone, and this is just your fear coming out." She turns to FI. "And you." She shakes her head, looks mad enough to spit at Fi. "How could you let him convince you of this? I've always expected more from you."

In normal circumstances, say, before Nate died, before the last year where every pillar of his life but this family was ripped away from him, Michael would have taken a deep breath and responded in a cool, even if that coolness was only a skin-deep veneer, and rational method.

But he can't do it now. He's too emotionally exhausted, and the image of their child's heartbeat won't leave his mind. "Bullshit?" He yells it, and Madeline flinches away, while Fi grips his hand. "Do you think I like this? Do you think Fi and I just want to dispose of an inconvenient child?"

The part of Madeline that flinched vanishes, and all that's left is five feet of fire, leaning toward Mike, wanting to fight, wanting to hurt him as badly as she's hurting right now. "Yes! You'll always take a little pain in the short term to avoid emotional entanglements, to avoid having to love something." And he's sure nothing his mother has ever said has cut him this badly. "If you're not going to keep it, you should just have an abortion and be done with it. Sitting here torturing all of us for the next seven months is just cruel."

His brain slows to a crawl. There's literally nothing going on in there.

He hears Fi, from what sounds like a very long distance say, "I left the IRA because I wouldn't kill innocent people; you think I'm going to start with my own child?"

"Please. Don't get high and mighty with me. It's not a child, not to you. If it was a child, if it was your son or daughter, you wouldn't give it away. You give away things, not children. You're both being cowards, and I don't want either of you in my house. Leave!"

Fi tugs him, still in shock, out of the house. They're half way to the Charger when his mom opens the door and yells, "People like you don't deserve children!"

Three hours later Sam shows up at their door, with Jesse in tow.

"You told your mom."

Michael hands him a beer as Sam settles in at the breakfast bar. Jesse leans in next to him and takes another beer.

"Yeah. She didn't take it well."

"We know," Jesse said. "That was the least comfortable meal in the history of food. By the way, you don't tell me in person, I get to find out from your mom?"

Michael sighs, and Jesse feels like an ass. He was trying to lighten the mood, but seeing how wounded Michael looks makes him want to kick himself. "Jesse, Fi and I are going to have a baby and then give it away. We were planning on telling you tonight at dinner, but we told my mom first, and she kicked us out of the house."

"I know. I'm sorry. Where's Fi?"

"In our bathroom. She cried until she started throwing up again, and I've been ordered not to stick around for the throwing up. If you're willing to risk getting your head cut off, you can go in and see if she wants company."

"I'll do that." Jesse stands up, goes to the fridge, grabs one of the Gatorades for Fi, and heads to the bedroom.

"How's she doing?" Michael asks Sam.

"Angry. Really, really angry. Embarrassed. Jesse and I went over exactly how many of your biggest fans are still out and about, and how some of the ones who aren't have a track record of getting out. Detailing how Simon managed to get free of a super secret, super high security facility once already seemed to bring home the idea that you've got very dangerous enemies. I think that got through angry, but then there was sad. Mourning. I think she had fantasies of the four of you all doing family things together, like Christmas and birthday parties, and now it's gone. She'd gotten some baby clothes and toys, and when we got there she was packing them up and getting ready to take them back."

Michael's posture slumped, and he got up, got himself a glass and poured a shot of scotch. "I know the feeling." He shoots it back and heads into their bedroom. The door to the bathroom is open, and he can hear Fi and Jesse's voices. He goes to the nightstand and gets the pictures.

In a second, he's back with Sam. He lays out the pictures. "This is our child, Sam." He touches the pictures. "And these are the only sorts of pictures we're ever going to have of her... him... We won't be there for Christmas or birthdays. We won't band aid scrapes, or teach him to fight. He'll never learn how to turn a cell phone into a tracker, or how to turn kitchen equipment into firebombs. But he'll also never be used as a pawn. He won't get kidnapped, held for ransom, or killed for revenge."

He touches the picture again. "We'll never know if he has his mother's eyes or mine, but he'll be safe."

He hears the front door close, and his mom, crying, walks into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Michael. I am so, so sorry."

A/N: Okay, I can hear you all thinking, "Keryl, what the hell? Fluff with a side of angst! I've been crying for three chapters now, what sort of fluff is this?" ;) Okay, not really, but I know from the comments that some of you are concerned about this.

I'm a novelist by trade. (Really, go to Amazon, search Keryl Raist, you'll find three novels. I wrote them.) 38 Weeks was my NaNoWriMo, and I made word count. As a novelist, I'm a firm believer in the fully rounded plot arc where an issue will arise, different options for dealing with the issue will be floated, tried, and eventually discarded, finally a solution will be chosen and everyone will get behind it. Likewise I'm a firm believer in the character arc, where whatever issue is driving the plot will cause the characters to change over the course of the story.

As of 11/30 I'd written the entire the first draft of 38 Weeks, so I can promise you the following:

A. I will finish this. You aren't going to be left hanging at week 23. I'll be updating every Saturday and Wednesday from now until March 13th.

B. Sad stuff will resolve, but not right away. Multiple potential solutions to the issue will be explored. But on the sad front, this was the worst, hardest chapter. It perks up from here.

C. The fluff will return, and it will be glorious clouds of cottony joy.

D. But not so fluffy that Mike and Fi go horrendously OOC. It'll be Burn Notice fluff.

E. There is a happy ending, and when I write a happy ending, I happy the ever-living-snot out of it. None of this we're-at-peace-with-the-sad-stuff sort of endings for me, or you, dear readers. Nooo... happy is coming, and it'll be way happy. There are five weddings in the epilogue. Characters you haven't even met yet are going to get a happily ever after.

F. You'll be glad you kept reading.

Okay, see you at on Saturday, with Week 10, where there will be no crying.

Grand Gestures and Day To Day Life: 6.14.1

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A/N: Pretty much everything that could go wrong, has or is about to. Sam's POV as he's thinking through the next move. Want to start at the beginning? Head here.
6.14.1
Loyalty, honor, duty. Those are the three pillars of Sam's life, and until a week ago, they had served him well.
At least, as long as he's had something, someone to be loyal to, a cause to honor, and actions to shape duty.
For a long time Uncle Sam and the promise of America was what held is loyalty, defined his honor, and gave him duty. And he knows that sounds quaint. And look, he knows that the US isn't all puppies, rainbows, and sunshine. His first tour of duty was the Hanoi evacuation, and if there was ever a time when the US screwed the pooch, that was it. And while he didn't like that job, hated seeing broken families and desperate people begging to be rescued, it didn't shake his faith in the ideal of America. He knows that's something the younger generation doesn't seem to get. He can see it in Jesse, the ideal of America isn't something in him. He joined up to make the world a better place.
He and Mike joined up to make the world more like America. Well, he joined up for that. And he knows Mike believed that once upon a time. Once upon a time, Truth, Justice, and The American Way mattered, it meant something, something good, and noble, and worth dying and fighting for. Worth bleeding for. And Sam fought for it, bled for it, and found satisfaction in it.
But the world changed, and suddenly patriotism meant something different, and by 2005 there were no clear cut lines, and something that should have gotten him medals for improving goodwill and protecting the innocent almost got him dishonorably discharged, and did get him tossed out of the Navy.
He knows that by 2006 he had a reputation as a washed-up, old drunk, but what else is there fit to do when your world turns upside down, the one thing you were good at was taken away from you, and the people you loved, the country you bled for, and the cause that mattered as much to you as your own life, suddenly decides you're on the wrong side and tosses you away?
And then Mike was there, and Fi, and suddenly there was a new cause to honor, they could go and be modern day Robbin Hoods, or the A-Team, or Superman, well, Batman really. And actually doing it gave him new duties. And new people to be loyal to. Sure he didn't exactly love Fi when she showed up, but she's grown on him, and over the course of the last six years she's done more for him than anyone who isn't Mike. And Mike, the two of them have so much history together. It was easy to fall back into following Mike. It's easy to be loyal to Mike, because no matter what, Mike always had his back. Jesse, God, they screwed him six ways to Sunday, lied to his face, and he's still with them. Jesse is worth being loyal to.
But mostly, when it comes down to it, even if there was no Fi or Jesse, and for most of their history there wasn't, it's all about Mike.
Sam knows Mike in a way Fi and Jesse don't. Well, in a way they didn't. He thinks they're getting the idea now. Mike is... was... is—is damn it, he's just tired—worth following. But there's darkness in there. Mike slid into being a vigilante a whole lot easier than Sam did, because Mike never really got the whole law and order thing to begin with. The difference between being a spy and being a soldier. And Mike's always had that edge, he thinks it's part of what he shares with Fi, that doesn't care about law, doesn't care about trials, or the idea of justice, not unless it comes at the end of the gun, and he's the one pulling the trigger.
And that's always scared him about Mike. He met Mike while Mike was working with Larry, and even then he could see that recklessness, that... Sam doesn't have a good word for it; he just knows that it makes him deeply uncomfortable, because, while Mike is on your side, he's the best ally to have, but if he's not, then he's also not playing by the rules that Sam has burned into his heart, tattooed onto his skin, and melded into his soul.
Mike's the smartest guy in the room, and it doesn't bother Sam to admit that. The problem is, when the smartest guy is broken, when he's making bad decisions, everyone pays.
And until two days ago, until he held Elsa's face in his hands, watched her cry, and kissed her goodbye, he was willing to pay for Mike's bad decisions. Mike's the leader. Loyalty means he follows. He's chosen Mike, much like Fi has, for better or worse, but for the first time he's realized his loyalty has been split, and that somehow Elsa's crept in. Somehow, over the last year, she's gone from his sugar mama to something he cherishes, something worthy of being loyal to. Somehow she's crept into his heart and claimed part of his loyalty, part of his duty, and treating her properly has become a matter of honor.
A man with no loyalty isn't a man, and a man with two loyalties is useless, undependable. So he's here, sucking down a drink, because first and foremost there's Mike, but for the first time since they've met, including all the times he's almost died for him, he's wishing Mike wasn't his first loyalty.
Sam knows that if they can get out of this, if somehow this can be fixed, though he doubts that, intensely, that Mike will cease to be his first loyalty. If this ends, and if there's any shot that she'll have him, he's going back to Elsa and choosing her. But right now, that's a future he can't even dare hope for, let alone plan on. What's going to happen, if they're lucky, is spending the rest of his days in some tiny out of the way place that doesn't co-operate with US extradition laws. If they aren't lucky, Riley will catch them, and he'll fry because Mike murdered Card, and because no matter how much loyalty hurts, he's with Mike 'til the end of this, and this time the end likely will be the end.
God, he needs another drink, or six.
A/N: For those of you unfamiliar with some of the nifty kinks of US criminal law, usually for a murder to be a capital crime, you've got to be in the right state (and Florida is one of them) and you have to actually pull the trigger. But... if you are involved with something that results in a dead lawman (and I'm assuming the CIA counts for this) they'll fry you weather you pulled the trigger or not. They'll fry you for driving the get away car if the guy you're driving killed a cop, whether or not you knew about it. Now, does this often happen? No. Taking capital murder off the list of charges is usually used to get guys A, B, and C to testify against guy D who actually did pull the trigger. But it's still on the books.
So, best case scenario, Mike's looking at the death penalty, and Jesse and Sam are as well if they don't roll on Mike. Fi, since she isn't a US citizen, will likely be handed over to the Brits as a terrorist from her IRA days and get to enjoy their tender mercies. But at least in this version they actually do get trials and have a chance to explain to a jury what the hell happened. Who knows... with the number of people who owe them favors a tampered jury, very good lawyers, or yet another level of conspiracy could get them out of this.
But that's the best case scenario.
If the CIA or whomever decides they want this whole problem to go away, they can claim the four of them are terrorists (And there's more than enough shady stuff on all four of them to make that stick. Associating with a member of the IRA is probably enough to do it.), and under the NDAA (voted in by Congress last year, and signed by Obama) accused terrorists, even US citizens captured in the US, no longer have a right to due process or a trial. Basically, if you're an accused terrorist, all of your Constitutional rights and protections get tossed out. Accused terrorists get dropped in a hole and vanish, never to be seen or heard from again.  
Anyway, if the next eppy or two goes the way I think they will, these facts will probably become relevant. 
Should have one more update on Thursday. Have fun and enjoy!

Free Today!

 
Is free today on Amazon. 
The back reads: Sarah Metz just got to Sylvianna College. She went in search of a biology degree. She found a group of wizards on the run from their past. They remember her. She doesn't remember them. Over the next year, she'll help them fight off the creatures trying to kill them, fall back into love with the man who used to be her husband, break the heart of her best friend while doing it, and maybe, if they're very, very lucky, not remember who she used to be.
Sylvianna is a modern day fantasy with a scorching hot erotic romance and a deeply layered plot. Angels, demons, magic, free will, destiny, and true love all weave into a complex tale of the search for redemption.

Give it a shot if you're looking for a dark, erotic, sometimes funny, but never fluffy tale.

38 Weeks: The Eighth Week

A/N: Burn Notice romantic fluff with a side of angst. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.  



First thing Monday morning, Michael and Fi were at her gynecologists. They re-did the pregnancy test, and once again it came up positive.
"So, there's no chance this might be something else?" Fi asked her doctor.
"We'll do an ultrasound, just to make absolutely sure and see how far along you are, but the chance that it's something else is awfully small."
"When can we make the appointment for the ultrasound?" Michael asked.
"It's part of the first pregnancy consultation. We've got one here, and when we get done with this, you'll head three doors down, and Sarah, our ultrasound tech, will check everything out."
What followed was a very long, very detailed, and very nerve wracking medical history. By the time they were done, they had even more pamphlets about high risk pregnancies, the name of an OB who specialized in high risk pregnancies, and actual statistics to go with all of the potential ways a pregnancy could go wrong.Michael didn't find having the stats particularly comforting. He especially didn't find the stats on trisomies (due to Fi being over forty) or Autism and schizophrenia (due to him being over forty) even remotely comforting.
He was sitting on a hard plastic chair, filling out yet more paperwork, while Fi vanished behind a curtain and got changed into yet another of those patient gowns. Apparently he was looking like grim death, probably glaring at the paperwork, when Sarah came in.
She shook her head, took the information from him, and tutted. "They gave you the high-risk-pregnancy, here's-everything-that-can-go-wrong, information, didn't they?"
He may have grunted by way of response. It's possible he said yes. He wasn't really paying attention.
"You have to remember, less than three percent of babies are born with a birth-defect. Sure, you're high risk, but high risk is still awfully low." He had a sense that there was a hole in the logic there, but it was the first really comforting statistic that he'd run into today, so he held onto it. "Come here. You see this?" She showed him the screen for the ultra-sound.
"Yes."                  
"Once your wife gets changed, you'll get to see your baby there. Have you ever done this before?"
"No."
"Seen an ultrasound of a baby?"
"Yes."
"Not like this, you haven't. We've got the latest imaging technology here. If she's far enough along, we'll be able to see your baby's fingernails."
"Really?" His interest perked up at that idea.
"Really. You won't just hear the heartbeat, you'll be able to see the blood moving through the heart, all four ventricles, brain, spine, kidneys, you name it, and as long as it's there, we can see it." He smiled at that. "And, one thing to remember, when they give you those horrible here's-everything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong speech, we can fix so much more these days than we ever could before. They can actually do surgery now on the baby, before it's born."
Fi came around the screen, and Sarah walked over and introduced herself. She explained what she was going to do and why she was going to do it, how everything was going to work, and how, in half an hour or so, they'd have baby pics to show their friends.
It was certainly bizarre to be standing next to Fi, knowing what the lab tech was doing to her. Michael was trying not to think about that. Fi squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers back.
And in a second, all thoughts about how they were getting the pictures were wiped away by the picture itself. It took a second for him to orient what he was looking at, but once he recognized it, he laughed, and Fi poked him for it.  
Baby Westen was mooning them. And Sarah had been right, there were details galore. He could see very tiny feet, and, eventually, as she moved the probe around, arms, legs, and a head. And she did spend some time getting a lot of images of the heart, and showed them how the blood was flowing the way it was supposed to.
She told them that the baby looked to be ten weeks along, but the doctor would give them a more precise number. Sarah then took a whole lot of measurements, and printed out a stack of photos, several of which Fi and Michael got to keep.
Sarah excused herself, leaving Mike and Fi looking at the image on the screen. He was still holding her hand, but his other hand drifted to her abdomen, and rested lightly against it. She put her hand over his and squeezed it.      ************
"How'd it go?" Sam asks as they meet up at Carlito's after Fi's OB appointment. Supposedly he's there because Ricky is about to join them for a job consult, but he doesn't need to be there for the consult and he does want to know the appointment went.
Fi's begged off this one, wanting to get a nap. Most of the time Fi having no interest in anything besides sleeping would worry Mike, but he wants a little time to talk to Sam by himself, and with Fi pregnant, he really doesn't mind the idea of her being nowhere near anything that might go boom or might make her want to build something that goes boom. Sure, Ricky's said the job is non-violent, but still...
Sam's staring at him expectantly, and he realized he hasn't answered the question. "Good. She's ten weeks along. Which means the baby is due in August."
"Ten weeks..." Michael can see Sam thinking about that. "We were burning down your home, taking out Card, and cleaning up the mess that came after that. When did you two even find the time to... Never mind, I don't want to know."
Michael finds Sam saying his usual line somewhat surreal.
"How about the rest of it?"
"So far everything looks good. They did an ultrasound so they could figure out how far along Fi was. It's got two arms, two legs, fingers and toes, the heart was beating just fine.  It looks a whole lot like a shrimp and is about the size of one as well."
"Boy or girl?"
"Can't tell for another ten weeks. Sam, could you not say anything about this to my mom or Jesse? We still don't know what we're doing, and we'd like to have that planned out before making any announcements."
"Not a problem, Mike. But remember, your mom already knows, and there's only so long you can hide out before she'll be camped out at your place with an excuse to snoop around and see why you two have gone into hiding."
"I know."
They dropped that topic as Ricky came over, sat down, ordered an iced tea, and began to explain how, since Sherrod Washington was out of the game now, the Garden Terrace Mafia was fighting over new leadership. Once upon a time, Valentine, the rapper he works for, used to be a member.
As Ricky pointed out, gang warfare might provide a certain mystique and make for good lyrics, but it's bad business. Everyone will be better off if this problem were to go away.
Valentine offered to negotiate a settlement.
But since Razor G, one of the men in line to gain power was his cousin, the other two factions didn't trust him to be impartial. Looking for a possible impartial man to handle negotiations brought up Mike's name. He's got enough street cred that everyone will accept him as a negotiator. He's got enough of a reputation as a man who's capable of handling himself that he won't be easily intimidated. And he's got a reputation as a man with no vices. He can't be bought off with women, drugs, cars, or cash.
"Let me get this straight, you want me to mediate a takeover of power between three warring gang factions?"
"Exactly," Ricky said. "No matter what happens, or who you find for, all three groups have pledged that no harm will come to you or yours. And if anyone does break that truce, every other member will back you in taking care of the issue."
"But they haven't pledged to abide by what deal I come up with?"
"No. This might only stop the fighting for as long as they're all talking. But it's a start."
"A start." He thinks about it. It certainly sounds like a job that won't involve shooting, at least not at him. Though part of him is wondering if this is some sort of play to take him out because he helped set up Sherrod in the first place. Would Ricky do that to him? Would Ricky even know if that was in the works?
"They really just want a mediator?"
"Just a mediator."
Sitting around, listening to tense and dangerous men talk might not be Mike's favorite pastime ever, but it's easier than being one of those tense and dangerous men.
A thought hits, with Fi pregnant, having a couple hundred extra pairs of eyes watching their back would be a good thing. Another thought hits, they don't have health insurance, and medical care is expensive.
So for the first time ever, he asks, "How much will it pay?"
"Sixty thousand. Each group is willing to put up twenty grand. If you can come up with a plan everyone likes, an additional hundred grand will go on top courtesy of Valentine."
"I'm in." Mike was suddenly feeling extremely motivated to make sure everyone was happy with what he'd come up with.
******************
Later that evening, Mike came home with dinner. He had a half dozen small plates from one of Fi's favorite restaurants, and was hoping she'd be willing to eat something. The pills made sure that Fi only threw up once or twice a day, instead of six to eight times, but they didn't make her feel good.
The house was dark and cool. Fi hadn't turned on any lights, and twilight had robbed it of the sun.
"Hey, Fi." His fairly standard greeting. He didn't hear a response and went looking for her. Not on the porch or the kitchen, he'd been hoping she'd be one of those two places.
Instead she was in bed, and while it's true that in general Mike is in favor of finding Fi in their bed, lately she's been there so much he's getting worried.
She's on her side, wearing pajamas, and curled under a light blanket. He sits on the bed next to her, touching her face. "Hey."
She shifts a bit, blinks at him, and makes eye contact. "Hey."
"I got small plates from Severnon. Want to have some dinner?"
"No. Just want to sleep."
"You sure? I got all of your favorites. Crispy kale with hazelnuts, hosin lambchops, duck spring rolls..."
"I'm tired, Michael. You eat them. I'll have something tomorrow."
"Please, Fi, you've got to eat."
"Michael, if I eat, I'll just throw it up in half an hour. I just want to sleep."
"Can I at least get you a drink? Sweet tea?" He hates sweet tea, but it's the closest thing to a glucose drip he can think of, and she needs some calories.   
"Really, I just want to sleep. I'll get something later."
"Okay. I'll let you rest."
He sets his laptop on the island in the kitchen and unpacks the food. Michael quickly makes up a plate for himself, saving the bits that he thinks look most attractive for Fi, hoping the sight of them tomorrow will get her eating.
Time to google. He's been reading up on pregnancy, so he knows that being tired, crabby, and nauseous is normal. But, Fi's sleeping something like twenty hours a day right now, and he's thinking that's beyond normal tired, beyond even normal pregnancy tired.
He's not really finding anything useful. Nothing says how much sleep a pregnant woman needs, let alone how much sleep she'd want if she's so nauseous she won't eat anything. He certainly understands that if you're not getting much food energy, then you're not going to want to do anything strenuous. Still...
He comes across something about baby blues and warning signs of depression. That looks horribly familiar. There's information about getting help, and about possible medications, but nothing about what to do if you're depressed because your heart is breaking. It seems to Mike that being depressed when you're giving up a baby you desperately want makes sense.
He keeps googling, writing up questions for Fi's doctor, checking how many calories she should be getting, and trying to find a way to fix this.
********
Thursday night. Michael is not, under the best of circumstances, a deep sleeper. Slight, out of place noises will pull him from asleep to fully awake in a matter of seconds.
A scream will do it even faster, and bring with it him jerking up, gun in hand, scanning the room for danger.
His heart is still pounding as he sees nothing besides Fi sitting up, screaming.
He drops the gun, and scrambles the few feet toward her.  He rubs his hands down her arms. "What is it?" She's not looking at him, doesn't respond to him. "Fi." She's still screaming. "Fi!" He shakes her gently, realizing she's not awake. "Come on, baby, wake up." He doesn't usually call her anything but her name when he's being himself, but right now he's scared and trying to get through whatever dream she's caught in. "Shhhh... You're safe, Fiona. You're here in our bed. It's time to wake up, love. Wake up." He rubs his hands up and down her arms. She jerks a little, and stops screaming.
"Shhhhhh... You're okay, love. We're home." She curls into his arms, feeling very small against his body, and begins sobbing and shivering. He holds her close, lips against her forehead, whispering to her, "Shhhh... It's okay, Fiona, it's okay."
Between sobs, Fi gets out, "She was in danger. She was in danger because of us, in pain because of us, and there was nothing we could do about it."
Michael doesn't need to ask who she is. "We'll find a safe place for her. Far away from here and from us. Somewhere she'll never have to look over her shoulder and worry." His own voice breaks as he says that, but it seems to comfort Fi. Her sobs slow, draining off into quiet tears.
They spent the rest of the night that way, talking and crying, quietly, about the baby they have to give up, the child they'll never know.
The next morning, Fi got out of bed, and actually ate.  

Original Fic Friday: Hunter's Tales Volume One

A/N: So here begins the first Original Fic Friday post. These are stories by me, featuring my characters. Some are already published, some are new and upcoming bits. I'll see how the muse hits.
That said, welcome to Hunter's Tales Volume One: Billy Price. (Yeah, that's it, in it's entirety over on the right.)

Chapter 1.
With a last flick of the foundation brush, my skin is done. I look as close to human as a vampire possibly can. Now it’s time for lipstick, and, to go with this outfit, that lipstick has to be red.
I glance at the suit sitting on my bed with adoration. I love that suit. I bought it in Berlin in 1931 and have kept it in pristine shape ever since. Granted, I haven’t worn it for anything but costume parties since 1944, so the upkeep isn’t too difficult. 
It always bothers me that, when people went retro, they skipped the ‘30s. The ‘30s had style, especially compared to what would follow. And in 1931 Germany, the Weimar-era party wasn’t quite dead. There were still cabarets where a beautiful woman in an exquisitely tailored men’s suit was welcomed with open arms. By ‘33, it was dead, and by ‘33, I was back in the States.
“Delilah” by the Dresden Dolls comes on. Perfect. Mood music to go with dressing.
I wrap my hair into a low bun. Yeah, it’s not quite right for the era, but I’m not about to cut it. Yes, vamps can cut their hair. I don’t know what Anne Rice was on with her image of a vamp sitting in a room filled with hair, but it’s not even close to true. We’re dead; we don’t grow. We certainly don’t grow hair. So, if we cut our hair, it stays cut. When I was turned, my hair was long enough to reach my hips. In the 1920s, when everyone else was bobbing their hair, I cut mine to mid-back length and left it there.
As much as I love the style of the thirties, the tools for achieving those styles are so much better now. I pick up a scarlet lip pencil, color the whole lip in, apply lip stain, then the setting liquid. Let it dry. Five minutes' work and I have a perfect fire-engine red mouth, and it will stay that way as long as I want it to.
Eyes take another five minutes. I wink at myself in the mirror. Okay, I’m not as pretty as Dietrich, but my makeup is better.
Time to dress. I go for vintage from the skin out. Two reasons for that: I do really like the old style, and the scent of old clothing will confuse my prey.
The iPod micro I clip to my bra will help confuse him further. It plays a soft heartbeat on eternal repeat. I don’t usually do this, but if tonight goes the way I think it will, he’ll be close enough for it to matter. If the mark is really alert, he might notice my heart rate never varies, but I haven’t seen a really alert one in a long time. Theoretically, if he is really sharp, he might notice the lack of pulse at my throat, or he might have, if I hadn’t buttoned the collar of my shirt all the way.
A few dabs of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Hermia will confuse him further. I might not smell perfectly human, but between the perfume and the clothing, I’m awfully close.
I set the gray fedora that goes with the suit at a jaunty angle on my head, take one last look in the mirror, and head to the party.

When I was an actual teenager, girls didn’t go to school, let alone high school. Rich girls were tutored at home. Everyone else was already working or married. My family was well-off and trying to do better. I, like the rest of my family, helped in my father’s butcher shop. I had a fine hand, so I ran the counter, did the paperwork, and kept inventories.
But that was a very long time ago. I’ve been eighteen for over 350 years now, and I’ve spent most of the last ten of them in high school.
I hate high school. But you go where the prey is, and the prey is in high school.
For that, I have Stephanie Meyer, Joss Whedon, and whoever wrote the Vampire Diariesto thank. They made the whole vampire thing so cool to the kids. Little girls are falling over themselves in the search for a never-ending, mystical love of epic proportions with a vamp.
My eyes physically cannot roll far enough to express my disdain.
But it does make my job easier. I know where the prey is. I set my trap. Usually in about three months I’ve gotten him to the point where he thinks I’m easy pickings. He thinks he’s seducing me. We head off to a secluded point, he gives me this lame-ass ‘It’s so lonely being immortal, eternity is such a long time, but I’m all but making his dead heart beat again’ speech, I pretend to fall for it, and then, when he thinks he’s in charge, I drain him dry and stake his ass.
Yeah, that’s right. I hunt vampires. I am a vampire. I add a whole different level to vampire hunter.
And, no, it’s not some sort of angsty, self-hating, saving-humanity crap. I am not now, nor have I ever been, Angel, nor do I have any interest in being him.
Meyer got something right: we’re the ultimate predators, the top of the food chain. And now food will literally fall into our laps and beg us to eat it.
How painfully boring.
Sure, some of my fellows adore this. They sit back and take advantage of this age of easy food. They’re always flushed with fresh blood and have gotten lazy. Good for them. Me? I live for the hunt.
Until 1980 or so, humans feared us. They stayed away. We had to work to get them into a situation where we could eat them. Hunting them took skill, and it was marvelous.
They don’t know what precisely is wrong with us, but they know on a gut level to stay away. Before 1980, it was harder to hide the fact that we don’t quite look right. As Arlene said on True Blood, “Honey, we’re white. He’s dead!”
The whole sunlight thing has nothing to do with us bursting into flame. It’s entirely about how hard it is, even with good makeup, to look right in full sun. (And no, we don’t sparkle. God, Meyer, what the hell were you thinking with that? You don’t want to know how many twits I’ve seen spraying themselves with glitter in an effort to look the part. I consider it an honor and duty to put them down.) We’re really pale, and our eyes never look quite right. Mine were brown, but every year I’ve been dead they’ve gotten a little lighter; they’re sort of cream-colored now. These days, I wear contacts.
In the pre-electricity age, when everything was lit, dimly, by flame, we could blend in pretty easily at night.
Then, suddenly, even in the darkest parts of the night, everyone had full on light anytime they wanted it. Do you think it’s a coincidence that belief in vampires lingered on much, much longer in the less educated, less technologically advanced parts of the world? Ha!
Blending in from the ‘30s to the ‘70s anywhere in the first world was a pain in the ass. Not impossible, mind you, but not easy either. There’s a reason why most of us are good with makeup and costuming.
But in the 1970s and ‘80s there was Punk and Goth, and suddenly we could skip the makeup (well some of it) and wander about in plain sight. (I understand we did this when Elizabeth I was Queen of England, and for a long time, one in three Geishas was a vamp, but I don’t know if that’s actually true.) People just assumed we were part of a counter culture, and if they weren’t part of it, they left us alone.
By 1980, something shifted, and we were starting to be seen as romantic.
By 1985, you couldn’t go to a punk club and not have someone offering to let you eat them.
I gave up on humans then.
I spent more than a decade looking for new prey. Five years hunting Werewolves convinced me they’re just too animal. You can manipulate them too easily. And they always know exactly what we are. You can’t fool their noses. So, it’s not so much a hunt as an all-out fight. I like a good fight, but that’s not the fun bit. The fun bit is the hunting.
I spent three years trying to even find a fairy. I keep hearing they’re out there somewhere, but if they are, I’ve never seen one.
Can’t eat ghosts or demons or anything of the spirit world, so I never bothered.
I spent a year in the west going after Wendigos, Coyotes (not the little doggie things, the Tricksters), and other creatures of Native American lore. Some of them are fantastic hunting, but they don’t taste very good. And while I do want a good hunt, I also want to eat well when it’s over.
Hunting Wendigos pissed off a Shaman who had been turned a long time ago. I ended up hunting him and realized not only was it a blast, but, since he eats the same stuff I do, he was awfully tasty.
I’ve been hunting vamps ever since.

I stare at the Riverland High School parking lot. He’ll be here soon, ready to finish up his hunt. He wanted to pick me up at my place, but I won’t let that happen. I’m willing to play a teenager. I’m not willing to live like one.
I’m a few minutes early and take the time to adjust my posture. Vamps like girls who look like they’ve got low self-esteem. They like the loners. People with lots of friends who think well of themselves are not so easy to manipulate. So, when I ‘transfer’ to a new school, I start out as funky, low self-esteem, art chick. This lets me be pale, dress in eclectic clothing and makeup, be ‘deep’ and interested in ‘death.’ I write lame poetry. (Okay, I steal lame poetry. There are so many angsty teens spilling their sad little guts in blank verse on the web. I just crib from them.)
I am catnip for vamps. I start off slouchy and avoiding eye contact. Really defensive body posture. I blow everyone off for two solid weeks. Two reasons for that: First of all, it’s in character. Secondly, it lets me figure out which one the vamp is.
Look, we don’t have any magical ability to tell who’s a vamp and who isn’t. We’ve got good hearing, vision, and sense of smell, but if we could hear well enough to focus in on the heartbeat of everyone within fifty feet, we’d end up screaming from the louder sounds. If we could smell each person around us… Well, we probably can, but most of us learn how to shut that off. You don’t want to smell everyone around you. Our vision is good enough to see if the person has a pulse at his throat. I can see it across a room. A human who’s looking can see it from three or four feet. I have a large and interesting scarf collection, plus several thick chokers in unique patterns and colors. And, if the vamp is really into the long, slow seduction thing, I’ll eventually break out my cheongsams, which have the advantage of looking fabulous on me and hiding my throat.
This one isn’t really into seduction. I started school on October 1st. Today is the 29th. I’ve just gotten to the point in the routine where I’ll make direct eye contact during conversation and slouch a little less when he’s around.
I spot him walking toward me from the far end of the parking lot. It’s a Halloween party, and he’s dressed in his usual fare. See if you can guess which vamp type he’s going for: long black trench coat; tight black pants; dark blue T-shirt; black, chipped fingernail polish; and spiky, bleached white hair.
At least he doesn’t have an English accent. And the name he’s using, Alex, is normal enough.
So, how do I know he’s the vamp at Riverland? Besides the fact that he keeps trying to cozy up to me?
First off, his skin is too good. One month and not a single pimple, blemish, or blackhead. His skin, like mine, is always perfect. Pale, but perfect. The kind of skin you get when you spend fifteen or twenty minutes very carefully applying layer after layer of makeup to make yourself look alive. (I make sure to add a pimple or two at any given time.)
He’s too still when he gets bored. We’ve got a few classes together, and I watch to see what he does when he’s not paying attention. He slouches back in the chair and zones out. When people do that, they move. They fidget, they sigh, and they blink. (For God’s sake, if you want to appear human, you need to blink! People might not notice if you don’t breathe; they will notice if you don’t blink for ten minutes.)
He’s too graceful. If you’re supposed to be seventeen or eighteen, you should, at least on occasion, stumble, drop things, and bump into people. In the twenty-eight days I’ve been watching him, I’ve never seen him put a foot wrong.
He forgets to shower. Look, we don’t need to bathe unless we get dirty. We don’t smell. We don’t shed skin cells. We don’t sweat. He’s had the same small ink stain on his wrist for three weeks now. It’s tiny really, just the spot where the tip of my pen touched his wrist. (Think that was an accident? Yeah right!) On a normal person, even a normal person who somehow avoided bathing for three weeks, that mark would be gone by now.
And, of course, I can’t see his pulse. Granted, that’s not fool proof. Some people have skin that’s thick enough that I can’t see it. But add that to everything else, and you’ve got a vamp.
“Hi, Kate,” he says from a few feet away.
“Hey, Alex. Nice costume.”
“You know me; I’m all about the Halloween spirit. I like yours, though. You’re what, Marlene Dietrich?”
Rookie mistake. He’s let me know he’s way older than he looks. The role he’s playing wouldn’t know who she was. Hell, the role he’s playing wouldn’t be able to identify what decade my outfit comes from.
“Yes. I’m surprised you know.”
He realizes he’s made a mistake. He thinks of a fast lie. “My grandfather and I used to watch old movies when I was a kid. I liked her.”
“Ah. Not a fan of old movies. But I do like historical fashion and clothing, and she’s one of the iconic looks of the thirties.”
“Will I be seeing you in ballet flats, black leggings, and a tight black shirt?”
“No. You need to be built like Hepburn to pull that look off.” One of the signs of wealth when I was alive was being ‘plump.’ We were plump. By current standards, I’m a size 12. Nice and curvy. I look great in this suit. I looked even better back in the corset years. I don’t need to breathe, so I can make myself into a perfect hourglass if fashion so dictates.
He’s looking deeply into my eyes, trying his glamour. This is the hard part. I’m a vamp, so I don’t fall for the glamour. But the girl I’m playing should. What I don’t know is if he’s actually any good at it. So, I have a hard time deciding how glamoured I should be.
I settle for letting my eyes go soft, sighing, and looking back at him with deep longing. I blink a few times, sigh again, and say, “So, you wanna dance?”
“Sure.” He holds his arm out to me. I wrap mine around his.
Dances are great from the point of view of letting the vamp think he’s got me. They suck from the point of view of keeping up the charade of being a human. It took a long time before I had all the details worked out. Another reason why I love this suit: it’s got pockets. And in those pockets, I’ve got a mister filled with slightly pink salt water. A few quick spritzes of that and I look slightly flushed and… what’s the polite term these days? Glowing?
One of the great things about today’s dances, you don’t always have to be facing your partner. Every now and again when I’m turned away from him, I give myself a fast spritz. When we move too fast to see, it’s not just human eyes that can’t track us.
We dance for an hour. Finally, a slow song comes on, and this is always the acid test. If I’m lucky, he’ll be so interested in the seduction he’ll miss the fact that I’m not as warm as I should be.
He pulls me close to him, whispering trite nothings in my ear, as we rock slowly together with the music.
I can feel which bit of him is making the decisions now.
I press against him deliberately, lifting my face to him. He kisses me. His role is to be the aggressor. He’s supposed to be in charge and know what he’s doing.
I play the never-been-kissed, fumbly girl. I let him ‘coax’ me into liking it. He breaks away from me just as I begin to tremble slightly and press more tightly against him.
“Let’s go somewhere more private.”
“Sounds good to me. Where?”
“My place.” Interesting. Usually if they just want a snack and sex, they suggest somewhere nearby and quiet. If they want to take you home, it’s because they want you dead, too. We’re usually quite private about our homes.
“What about your parents?”
“They’re out.”
“Wonderful.” I smile up at him.
The car ride is very quiet. He puts his hand on my thigh as he drives. I giggle and move it to my knee.
“Alex…” I let his name trail off.
He turns toward me. “What, Kate?”
“It’s just… Well… We’re going back to your place. And, like, I think I know what you want to do when we get back there. But, like… ButI’veneverdoneitbefore,” I say in a huge rush. Then I look away and discreetly blot off a bit of the ‘sweat’ I applied earlier.
He pulls my face toward his and grins at me. “I’ve never done it, either. But I want to. With you. You look so good and smell so good, and I’ve just never felt this way about anyone before. I want to take you home and make love to you.”
I give him a shaky smile. “Good. How long until we get there?”
“Now.” He pulls into the driveway of a nondescript suburban house. We get out of the car, and I immediately cross to his side of the driveway, pressing tight against him, letting my head rest on his chest. No heartbeat. Perfect. I got fooled once; dude had some sort of thyroid condition, so now I always make sure to check, several times, in a few different ways, that he’s got no pulse.
He opens the door. As soon as we’re through, he’s pressing against me and kissing hard. I pick up a very faint scent of decay about the place. There’s at least one dead body hidden here.
Usually, this is the point where he starts his tragic vampire speech. But he doesn’t. He keeps kissing, heading toward my ear. When he gets to my throat, that’s the end of this game.
I’ve got less than a minute to take care of this. Plenty of time. I push against him, shoving his coat off and pulling away from his lips so I can kiss his throat.
He hisses a little at that. Apparently, he likes me taking charge.
“You need to take off your shirt.”
He’s fine with that. When his shirt is over his head, tangling his arms, I strike.
Most vamps go for the femoral artery or the aorta. In this situation, I go for the brachial artery. I use one arm to pin his arms and face in the shirt. The other holds the stake at his heart. I bite a chunk out of his arm and go to drinking.
Ahhhh… Tasty. Baby vamps are kind of flat and flavorless. But as we get older, we get more interesting. He has about a hundred years on him. Not fine ambrosia by any stretch, more like a good, solid pilsner.
He’s struggling hard, trying to break my hold, but one of the things the Whitewolf guys got right is the more of our own kind we eat, the stronger we get. Right now, a truck could run into us at full speed and it wouldn’t break my hold on him.
He flails less and less as I suck each mouthful out of him. Because we’ve got no pulse, eating a vamp takes more work than eating a human. And since he’s quite unlikely, even when very weak, to let me just prop him against the wall and have at his ankle, it means I don’t get much more than a pint.
Oh well, I’m old. I don’t need all that much. A pint or two a month and I’m good.
When it takes too much suction to fill my mouth with his blood, I give the hand holding the stake a good hard push and feel him crumble into dust.
“Good-bye, Alex.”
I pick my hat off the floor, put it on, and follow the scent of decay to the basement. There is a chest freezer down here. I open it and find two dead bodies. Girls.
Odd he’d keep them in his home. Most of us aren’t into the whole trophy thing. Hell, most of us aren’t even into the killing our prey thing, it’s just… well… not cost effective.
I leave the lid open and go looking for a powder room. All of the new houses have them. And, while we usually don’t like having too many mirrors around, we rarely rip them out.
Yes, we show up in mirrors. Anything you can see with your own eyes is something you can see in a mirror. In the old days, we didn’t like them because they were used to increase the light in a room, and I already covered the problem with that.
I check myself in the mirror. No blood on the suit. Thank God for small favors. I’ve got a wizard of a dry cleaner at home, but he does look at me oddly when I give him fine, vintage clothing with bloodstains. I readjust my jacket, set my hat straight, and tuck the stake into my sleeve.
One last thing to do. I find his phone and call 9-1-1. “I’m at 1284 West Grove Street. There are two dead bodies in a chest freezer in the basement.” 
Then I drop the phone and head off into the night.

A/N: Like that? Want more? The whole story is .99 on Amazon, or you can wait for next Original Fiction Friday for chapter two. 

38 Weeks: The Seventh Week

A/N: Burn Notice romantic fluff with a side of angst. Want to start at the beginning? Click here. 


The seventh week Fi wasn't feeling well. At all.
Sunday, when she laid around in bed all day and threw up six times, Michael thought it was just a tummy bug. He made sure she got plenty of rest and good supply of chicken broth and tea.  He was somewhat surprised to hear his mom sound smugly amused when he called to say they wouldn't be over for dinner, that Fi had a stomach flu, but, well, his buddies had been acting a little off for a week or so now. Like there was some big joke they were all waiting for him to notice.
Monday, when she still wasn't keeping anything down, he started to get worried.
Tuesday, her skin was light gray, puckered looking, and he was very worried.
"Fi, stick out your tongue."
She did. He touched his finger lightly to it, and it was sticky and dry.  He picked her up, protesting weakly, and took her to the emergency room.
The doctor who saw them was polite, competent, listened to his concerns about dehydration and possible tropical parasites, and began with a basic medical history.
"And when was the first day of your last period, Ms. Glenanne?"
"I don't know. Sometime in 2009. I'm on Depo-Provera and don't menstruate as a result."
"Okay." The doc nodded as she made a note of that. "And when was your last shot?"
When she asked that, Fi's expression changed, she looked even paler, and Michael felt the floor tremble, like it was just about to be yanked out from under him.
"Beginning of October."
"Okay." The doctor didn't look up as she wrote that down. But Mike did a quick bit of math and came up with twenty-six weeks. Depo lasts for twelve. "You've been unable to keep anything down for three days, but you've had no fever?"
"Yes."
"Uh huh..."
"Any chance of food poisoning?"
Michael shook his head. "I'd be sick with it, too."
"About your recent stint abroad, you've been back for how long now?"
"Three months, almost four."
"Okay." Mike's thinking parasitic infections usually make themselves known quite a bit before that. And once again, he should be sick, too.
The doctor palpated Fi's neck, armpits, groin, and then stomach. "None of your glands are swollen. Diarrhea to go along with the vomiting?"
"No."
"You've been tired a lot lately?"
"Yes."
"I have been, too," Michael said. He can see where this is going and is starting to desperately hope this is some sort of bizarre environmental poisoning that was hitting Fi harder because she was a lot smaller. "We've moved into a new place recently. Could it be some sort of reaction to the new house?"
The doctor stared at him for a second, and then grinned. "You're not throwing up, are you?"
"No."
"Wheezing, coughing, rash, or hives? Those are common reactions when you're dealing with an allergic reaction to something in a new place."
"No."
"And let me guess, you're also not using any sort of non-Depo-Provera birth control." The grin got even wider.
"No," Fi said in a tiny voice.
"Okay, Ms. Glenanne, the most immediate issue is you are dehydrated. I'm going to set you up with intravenous fluids. I'm also going to give you a prescription for some anti-nausea medication. That way when you get home you'll be able to keep additional fluids in your body. Do you think you can pee?"
"No."
"Not a problem. Once we get some fluids into you, that'll take care of that. But before you leave, we'll do a pregnancy test.  Now, when you go home, I want you to rest. The anti-nausea meds work pretty well, but just because you'll start feeling like you want to eat does not mean you should wolf down everything in sight on the first day. Today and tomorrow stick to light, easy foods. Broth, rice, Gatorade, Jello, toast, tea. Build yourself back up over a day or so before you start back on real solids."
"Okay."
"Good. It's a bit premature, without doing the test yet, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, in a case like this, the issue is pregnancy. So, I'll round up some information for you two about that. It says here you're forty-three?"
Fi nodded numbly.
"You're going to want to see an OB as soon as you can. Even though you appear generally healthy, forty-three puts you in the high-risk pregnancy camp."
"And, if I am pregnant, would this" Fi gestures to indicate being sick, "hurt the baby?"
"Probably not. This early on the baby is getting more than enough nutrition from you.  But, that doesn't mean getting this dehydrated is a good idea for you. Any more questions?"
Neither of them said anything.
"Okay. A nurse will be in in a few minutes with the IV, the meds, and some pamphlets about pregnancy and all of your options. Congratulations!"
Michael managed to whisper "Thank you" as she left.  Then they sat there, Fi in the ridiculous little paper gown, and him, one hip on the hospital bed, one leg supporting him, both of them too shocked to speak.
********
Sam, Madeline, Jesse, and Elsa had a pool going for what day Mike and Fi would figure out they were expecting.
Four more minutes and Sam would have won.
Michael knocked on the door to Sam's place, holding a bag from the nearest drug store. Sam can see Gatorade, some sort of prescription bottle, and pre-natal vitamins through the nearly translucent plastic.
"Mike?" Sam isn't sure if congratulations are in order or not. Michael is definitely in Blue Screen of Death mode. He has a thousand yard stare going, and barely seems to have noticed the door has opened.
He blinks, shudders, and says to Sam, "Can I borrow your bathroom?"
This was so far outside of what Sam was expecting, he's starting to get worried. "Ummm... sure. Mikey, you okay?"
"Just need to be alone for a little bit."
"All right."
Sam points toward the bathroom; Mike put down the bag, and heads to it.
The first thing Sam hears is the faint squeak the towel rack makes when you whip a towel off of it too fast. Next comes the sound of the ventilation fan. After that, the water turns on full blast.
For a moment, that was all he heard, and he figures that if Mike needs to have a good cry somewhere private, or whatever the less girly sounding version of that is, that's fine.  The not nearly muffled enough scream a few seconds later gets Sam moving.
He doesn't bother to knock.
Michael's sitting, back against the wall, towel shoved into his mouth, full-out screaming. For a second, Sam really wished Madeline was here, because Mike needs a hug more than anything else.
No, what Mike really needs is a father. A best friend will have to do.
Mike picked his place because he can't stand to let his ladies see him like this. He's got to be strong for them. But no matter how strong you are, a full on freak out can happen, and it makes a lot more sense to let it happen, get it over with, and then regroup and go on, than to try and pretend it isn't happening.
Sam shuts the door, turns off the shower, sits next to Mike, his knees popping as he eases down. He takes the towel away, and puts an arm around Mike.  He doesn't say anything, just lets Mike cry and hopes that this is a freak out, and not news that there's something seriously wrong with Fi.
He's known Michael for over twenty years now, and never before has he seen Mike this broken looking. From what Jesse said, this is what Mike was like on the flight back to Miami after Nate died. Once again the fear that something might be really wrong with Fi hits, and Sam wishes he had spent a few seconds snooping in that bag to see what the prescription was.
A few more moments pass, and Michael seems to calm down some. Finally he says to Sam, "We can't be parents. Who in their right mind would leave either of us alone with an infant for more than ten minutes at a time?"
Sam sighs and relaxes. All things considered, this is good news. "You'll be fine, Mike. Both of you. You're fast learners. Babies really aren't all that complicated."
"It'll be a target. Between the two of us we've got a medium-sized city's phone book worth of enemies."
That unfortunately is both true and a much more real concern than being bad parents. 
"And we're both over forty which means not only are the risks of some sort of serious birth defect high, but it's also really not good for Fi to be pregnant at her age.  When they gave her the anti-nausea meds, she fell asleep, and I read all the 'helpful' information they gave me about high-risk pregnancies. Which is apparently designed to torture new dads because it tells you about all sorts of terrible things that can happen, but doesn't tell you about how likely any of them are.
"We don't know how far along she is. More than four weeks, less than twelve, but she's been drinking, at least a glass of wine a night, every night. And God alone knows how many hours of smoke Fi inhaled from my mom."
Sam considers it a good sign that Michael appears to be concerned about the baby as well as Fi. "Your mom quit smoking around Fi three weeks ago, Mike. And a glass of wine a night is unlikely to cause any problems. Everyone drank and smoked pretty much all the time my mom was pregnant with me, and yours with you, and most everyone got through just fine."
"Fi isn't most everyone."
"I know, brother, I know."
"There's nothing I can do about this. I can't fight it. I can't outsmart it. I can't fix it."
Sam tries to pick his words carefully here, not sure if this is a welcome idea or not. "You might be able to... fix it."
Michael shakes his head. "I can't bring that up unless she does. And she's Catholic enough I don't think she's going to bring it up." He stares at the bathroom cabinets for a long minute. "My mom stopped smoking three weeks ago?"
"Yeah, Mike."
"So, you all knew?"
"Kind of hard to miss, especially if you live with a woman who's been pregnant. Elsa noticed when Fi started talking about how her clothing was fitting differently. Your mom caught the same thing. Apparently there's only one reason why a woman suddenly adds a cup or two to her bra size without surgery, and that's baby on board."
Michael makes some sort of sound that could be assent, or could just be him letting Sam know he's listening.
"Mike, do you want her to terminate the baby?"
Mike's head falls back against the bathroom wall, and he half-gulps half-sniffles, and Sam swears to himself he'll never tell a soul about this. "I can't allow myself to want anything else, or it will break my heart.
"We'd have to leave. At least as long as she was pregnant. She'd be too tempting a target, soft and slow and clumsy. If we gave up the baby, we could come back after, but..." Mike doesn't have to say how hard it would be, for both of them, to go through nine... six?... however many months are left of their baby growing inside Fi just to give it away. Even if that is the safest option for everyone involved. "And if we didn't, we'd be on the run forever to keep it safe. Half of the guys on the NOC list got 15 years or less. And there's no reason someone on the other half won't escape and come after us. We'd never be in one city for more than a year or two. New names, new jobs, that's one thing for adults, but for a kid."
"Mike, I think you're taking this a little too far. Most of the real psychos that hate you or Fi are dead. A lot of the others are unlikely to want to see what you'd do if they kidnapped your kid. What happened to Anson and Card was an awfully good 'Don't mess with my family' warning to everyone else who might come up against you."
"Would you want to take that risk with your child?"
Sam shakes his head, sadly.
"We keep the baby, and we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. We say good-bye to everyone we love. We give it up, and we go into hiding for the next... however long, and we have to say good-bye to it. It never gets to know us. My mom loses her second grandchild in a year." He sees the question on Sam's face. "Ruth's changed her phone number. She's made it pretty clear she doesn't want anyone with the name of Westen involved with her or Charlie."
"Sorry Mike."
"Not being an uncle to a child I've barely even seen isn't too hard. Mostly, I feel sorry for my mom. Not being a father to my own child is..." He stops talking, tries not to cry, and fails miserably.
"You want this child, don't you?" "Yes." Michael pauses, staring at nothing. "I'm not father material, and I've never felt a desire for kids. But I was half-sitting on her hospital bed, watching her sleep, reading those evil pamphlets, feeling how... It's the worst feeling in the world. All of this danger, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. And at first it was all about the risk to Fi. This could kill her or cripple her. But I kept reading, and they've got pages and pages of things that could be wrong with the baby as well, and I realized it wasn't just Fi I was scared for. And when that hit, the entire rest of our life and the massive fucking disaster it's become hit with it as well.
"Look, I'm not oblivious, and neither is Fi. Willfully ignorant, probably. You think I didn't notice she'd gained two cup sizes, was sleeping all the time, or missed her appointment for her shot? Or that this managed to happen at exactly the right time, when the danger was gone and life could finally go on?  The only way this was ever going to happen was as an accident. And so, oops.
"I knew; I just didn't want to.
"But I don't think it matters that I want it. Or that she probably does, too.  Any child of ours would be better off raised by other people. People who don't have to hope that most of the psychopaths they've pissed off have been scared away."
"Mike, you've been able to do anything you've been willing to work for. This is just another challenge. If you want it, life with your child, here, near the people you love, you can get it."
"How?"
"One step at a time, brother. First step, go home, tell Fi you love her, and find out what she wants to do. And remember, you aren't alone. There's at least three, and really a whole lot more, sets of eyes watching your, and any child you may have's, back. And I want you to remember something else when you're thinking about going into hiding, here, we've all got your back. Somewhere else, you're own your own."
Michael stood up slowly and gave Sam a hand up as well. "You're a good friend, Sam."
"Damn skippy. Now, off with you."     
************
Michael crept into their bedroom, quietly easing the door shut, hoping not to wake Fi.
She rolled over and watched him come in. So much for that plan. He's not sure if he woke her, or if she was already awake when he came in. She was sleeping when he left. Once the anti-nausea meds kicked in and she wasn't throwing up, the pregnancy tiredness took over and knocked her out.
He put down the bag and sat on the side of the bed.
"Did I wake you?"
"No. I was half-dozing, half-awake."
"Okay. How are you feeling?"
"Tired, thirsty, and terribly stupid."
Michael shrugs, grabs one of the Gatorades, opens it, and hands it to her as she sits up, and then says, "Not like you got pregnant on your own."
"It's also not like you're in charge of the birth control. You should be able to rely on me to do the job and do it right."
"Fi, I know what sort of birth control we use. I know you've got to go to the doctor at least once a season for it. We talked about this when you got out of prison. I knew how it worked well enough to ask about it then. You told me when your next appointment was. And we both forgot. It's not like we weren't busy at the time."
"We've been awfully not busy recently."
"True. Still, I don't want you thinking this is all your fault. There's plenty of stupid to go around here, and half of it is mine."
She sips the Gatorade and winces a little. "Don't like this flavor."
"I've got blue, red, purple, green, and orange, too."
"You know there's something very wrong about a drink when you can identify the color easier than the flavor."
"How about the orange stuff? It's probably orange flavored."
She nods. He fishes it out of the bag, opens the new one, and hands it to her. "I got the anti-nausea meds and the vitamins. Do you want them?"
"I've got a few more hours before the stuff I'm on wears off."
"Okay."
She drinks more of the Gatorade. "This one is better."
"Good."
He lies on the bed next to her, looking at the ceiling. He's spent hours, full nights, doing this, but in the past what he's been pondering has been a lot more dangerous, and a whole lot easier for him to control.
"Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"What if I didn't forget?"
He rolls onto her side to face her. He couldn't put a name to the emotion running through him right now even with a week's worth of time and a thesaurus.
"Fiona?"
He doesn't like the way his voice sounds as he says that, and he's guessing his face looks pretty off as well.
She shakes her head. "No, I don't mean skipped the shot on purpose. I wouldn't do that, not to you, not to anyone. Just... I don't know... It's not the sort of thing I'd forget. I've been having sex since I was fifteen. I've never even had a close call before. Not when I was a girl with stars in my eyes and hormones running like crazy. Not in Ireland where birth control wasn't easy to get ahold of, and I was in the middle of a war zone. Not when I've never known where I was going to be or when or who I was going to be with, never. No matter how illegal it was to have it, I always had something and used it to make sure this didn't happen."Michael smiles a little at her and says, "Willful ignorance. I said that to Sam less than half an hour ago."
"You went to see Sam?"
"You were asleep when I left. I needed some alone time, and didn't want to risk waking you up."
"What were you doing that you were afraid might wake me up?"
"I'd really rather not say."
She looks at him carefully, noticing the redness in his eyes and the slight puffiness to his eyelids, and realizes they aren't from lack of sleep.
"So, Sam knows?"
"Yeah. And apparently my mom, Jesse, and Elsa, and possibly all of Miami. Somehow we ended up being the last to know about this, which is where willful ignorance came in."
She nods and drinks more.  "Are you angry?"
"No. You?"
"A little. At myself."
A long quiet moment passes before Fi asks, "So, if you aren't angry, what are you feeling about this?"
"Scared and sad." He kisses her forehead.  "I love you."
"I know. What do you want to do?"
"Be someone else. Someone who could celebrate having a child with a woman he loves. Someone who's not worried about evil sociopaths using you or the child for revenge or leverage. How about you?"
 "I want to keep the baby and build a home and life with you. But I know we can't. It would be safer with someone else."
Another long quiet moment passes.
"I'm sorry, Michael."
"For what?"
"For putting you, us, through this. If it was just up to you, you'd handle this differently, I'd think."
He shrugs again. "It's not just up to me."

38 Weeks: The Sixth Week

A/N: Burn Notice romantic fluff. Want to start at the beginning? Click here. 


During the sixth week, after Mike and Fi had gone home from Sunday dinner at Maddie's house early—both of them claiming to be tired—Madeline looked at Sam and Jesse and said, "So, is she pregnant and they aren't saying anything, or do they really not know, yet?"
Sam laughed. Elsa was right. "Maddie, did you hear any screaming coming from their home lately?"
"No."
"Blue Screen of Death face on Mike?"
"What?" Madeline didn't get the reference, and Jesse was looking at Sam like he can't believe Sam knew what it meant.
"I do read, you know," Sam says to Jesse before explaining to Maddie, "You know, when he gets that look that tells you his brain has entirely shut down and he's just standing there trying to get it started again?"
"Nope." Madeline said. Michael and Fi were acting, well, awfully normal. And not just normal for them, but normal for almost anyone.
Sam grinned. "Clueless."
"You really think Fi's..." Jesse said, looking a little clueless himself.
Sam shrugged. "Elsa was telling me that Fi was saying the dress Michael got her fit really well. Usually things that fit the rest of her are too loose on top."
"Well, okay, yeah, I noticed that, too."
Madeline arched an eyebrow at Jesse and lit up. She had stopped smoking when Fi was around two weeks ago and was majorly jonesing for a cig. "You noticed how a present Michael got Fi fit?"
"Umm. No. Just that..." Jesse blushed scarlet and looked like he wanted to run away.
"You noticed Fi's a bit curvier now-a-days?" Madeline asked.
"No disrespect to her or Mike, but yes, and well, yes. It's kind of hard to miss."
************************

"Do you think we're sleeping too much?" Fi asked as they got ready for bed, at nine o'clock.
"Nah." They were still sleeping a lot. Michael was starting to feel more or less human again, but he was still averaging a good ten to twelve hours a night. And he was figuring that wasn't likely to change for at least a month or two more.
Fi was sleeping right next to him, and getting the occasional afternoon nap as well.
He wasn't worried about it. They aren't kids anymore, and they don't bounce back as quickly as they did back in their thirties, let alone twenties.
And, lots of sleep aside, Michael felt like he could get used to this new schedule. Sleep in, exercise, make breakfast, eat, work on the house a bit, work on whatever the job is a bit, meander down to Carlito's for lunch, eat some more, meet up with Sam and or Jesse, see his mom maybe or go to the beach, work some more, nap, get or make dinner, have sex, and sleep some more.
Quiet decompressing was a good thing. Something they both needed and deserved after the last five years.The downside of all the eating and sleeping was they were both getting a little plump.
The next morning, Michael was working with the punching bag, hitting, kicking, body blocking, while Fi went through her yoga moves.
"It's probably time we do better about eating," she said, shifting into down facing dog, looking at him from under a spill of hair.
He looked at his stomach and reminded himself to do an extra fifty sit ups. He's sure he's never going to look like Sam, but he doesn't want to end up pudgy, either. Yeah, he's not twenty-five anymore or, for that matter, forty-five, but that's no excuse to go soft. "Probably not a bad idea." He could see her looking at her own body.
"I'm getting fat."
"Like hell you are." So, yeah, Fi had gained a little weight. But first off she was at least ten pounds under weight to begin with. And second of all, as he stared at her, in a tank top, no bra, and a pair of cut off sweat pants, from everything he could see every ounce she had gained was in exactly the right places.
Twenty-four-year-olds with big, fake tits might bore Michael to tears. However, a forty-three-year-old with nicely plump real ones appealed to him very, very much.
Which he proceeded to show her, with extreme attention to detail, instead of doing those fifty extra sit-ups.
**************

On Wednesday Sam called with a job.
Evan, Elsa's son, was trying to help a friend, and it turned out he just didn't know what to do or how to help. The friend, Jaime, got in some bad trouble with some worse people, and Evan tried to pull his own Sam Axe gig to get the friend free.
It failed miserably.
So he went to Sam, who he figured would be pretty good at pulling a Sam Axe. And Sam, sitting there, listening to Evan, knew that this was a more than one, or two for that matter, man job. So he called in Mike and Fi.
That job took three days, because while dealing with a collection of rave-running, designer-drug-selling party kids with guns was beyond Evan, it wasn't beyond Fi, Mike, and Sam.
And then they ran into a snag. They needed at least two people to go in, and well... Okay, Mike's forty-six, and Sam is fifty-eight. And while a beautiful woman is welcome more or less anywhere, Mike and Sam are going to stick out at a rave like... well, like a rave kid at a black-tie charity auction.  So, Jesse got called in, and he was more than willing to help. 
Fi liked it because she got to dress up, go to fun clubs, and make about two hundred teeny-boppers fall in love with her.
Jesse liked it because he actually does enjoy raves, though it's not anything he's ever going to mention to the other three. 
Sam enjoyed it because he made Elsa very happy. He was also pleased to see Evan try to do the right thing. Sure, he didn't know how to do the right thing, but trying was a good first start. He even spent a few minutes talking to Evan about how, since he seemed to be interested in blowing things up, doing things with his hands, and helping people, he might want to try the military. And shock of shocks, Evan didn't completely blow him off.
And Michael enjoyed it because all of his favorite people had a good time, no one got hurt, it paid well, and all he had to do was plan while putting furniture together with Sam. 
It was a good week.

Grand Gestures and Day to Day Life 6.12.2

[image error] 6.12.2
For a second, there's nothing beyond savage joy and the fascinating beauty of the fine red line of blood trickling out of Card's forehead.
And then times begins to move again.
There's a feeling that goes with knowing you've completely fucked everything six ways to Sunday and back again, screwing the pooch on your way there with your head up your own ass and your balls making the decisions because your brain didn't so much leave the party as was never invited in the first place.
It's not a good feeling, at all.
Knowing that you've just done all that to your best friend as well, is a whole lot worse.
Card's on the floor and the smell of gunshots, shit, death, and fear is ripe in the room.
And Michael knows this was the worst decision he's ever made.
It's a visceral hit, hard and low in the stomach, and he lurches to a sink to be sick.
There's a point in any war where it's no longer about brilliant tactics or superior force, a point where all that's left is endurance. That's the reason why modern warfare rarely lasts more than five years. Go at it for that long, without a break, and you break.
There was a time when Michael could have smiled, put his own gun away, and then waited for the right time to take Card out.
But that time died when he felt the pulse in Nate's neck stop. It died with Anson pulling his strings and the gut-deep revulsion of having to destroy people to save Fi. It died with months of no sleep and too much stress. It died when it turned out Card had betrayed him, and fire engulfed that minivan in Panama. 
The man who could have made the cold decision here died months ago and the man that's left is too shell shocked to think of anything right now beyond how completely fucked they all are, and how it's all his fault.

38 Weeks: The Fifth Week

A/N: Burn Notice romantic fluff. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.



By the start of the fifth week, Michael was ready to put his plan, "Romantic Date Night: Number One," into action. And like many of his plans, he hit a snag not too far into it. The thing about no longer being part of a quasi-governmental conspiracy is that he no longer has much of an excuse to head out on his own for hours at a time. And since he works and lives with Fi, he's pretty much lost the ability to just wander off for hours at a time without some sort of cover story.
And what he wants to do is going to take long enough he can't just cover it with a grocery run. Fi will get suspicious if he claims to have spent three hours getting yogurt. 
But a grocery run is more than enough time to cover a call to Sam.
"Hey Sam."
"How's date night prep going?"
"Uh. Fine."
"You've already hit a snag."
He rolls his eyes at the phone. "Yes. Does Elsa's hotel have a spa?"
"Of course. Best in Miami, as you might have known first hand if you had used that gift certificate I got you." Sam can almost feel Michael shrug in response. "You do know what's involved in being a five star hotel, right?"
"I'm vaguely aware of the concept. Usually if I'm in a five star hotel, I'm not partaking of the amenities."
"Fair enough. What do you need?"
"To get Fi out of the house today. Can you get her to the hotel? I can get the spa day and some sort of card or something set up, but I want it to be a surprise."
"Can do, Mike." Sam pauses and seems to be thinking about something. "Elsa's not too busy today, no meetings. Mind if I piggy-back onto this?"
"No.  Both of them together will probably take longer. More time is a good thing."
"Exactly. I'll get Fi over here in an hour. Is that long enough for you to get this part set up?"
"Should be fine. What's the name of the spa manager?"
Sam gave him the details of who to call, and Michael hung up and called The Dearabon. Talking to the spa manager let him know they were pretty well booked up all day. Mentioning that this was for Elsa and Fi took care of the booked up issue. Adding a thirty percent tip resulted in a spa manager who was willing to just about bend over backward to do whatever he wanted. So getting a bottle of good champagne with a card that said, "Thought you both deserved a day off—Michael and Sam" added to the spa day wasn't too tricky either.    
Michael got back to the house forty minutes later. Fi looked like she hadn't been up for long. She was still in her bathrobe, hair wet, and eating some breakfast on the porch.
He began unloading groceries.
"What do you want to do today?" she asked as she came in, cereal bowl empty.
"Not sure. No jobs on the horizon. We could go visit my mom." They had been trying to do that more often. Maddie was healing from the emotional trauma of the last few months, but that wasn't the same thing as healed, or even close to healed. When they got back, when it was all done, she had started hosting Sunday dinner at her house, and all of them made sure to make it each week.
Trying to make a conscious effort to act like a family, and to hold their loves close.
"Sounds like a good idea. How about we hit the beach after? I feel like I've been inside too much lately," Fi said.
"We've both been sleeping a lot."
"Today we can nap in the sun."
Michael smiles. "That sounds really good. How about you get into your bikini, and then I'll put some sunblock on you."
"Might be hours before we get to the beach."
He grins, and she knows how putting sunblock on is going to end. Granted they don't have a ton of furniture, but they do have a bed, and it's awfully sturdy. Which they know, first hand, because they've been testing it, a whole lot. 
"Can't be too careful in the sun. Not with your pretty Irish skin. I'll put more of it on you closer to time."  
She laughs and hands him her cereal bowl. He's washing up when he hears her cell ring. "Sam...Uh huh...I had plans...Okay...Fine...This better not take too long..."
She comes out of their bedroom a minute later in shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. "Sam called. He's having some sort of 'ladyfriend issue' that needs my immediate help." She rolls her eyes. "He should just find his wife and get that marriage taken care of. I don't know how he's going to get out of this twice. Anyway... I'm off.   Back soon, I hope."
He kisses her. "Have fun."
She smiles and heads off, and Michael begins to unpack the rest of the groceries.
He's never made sushi before, but that doesn't mean he can't. He's got yellowfin tuna, Fi's favorite, edamame, a bottle of excellent sake, and a few other goodies lying in wait. And what he's not going to make, he's going to pick up from Fi's favorite sushi place.
His cell buzzes as he's watching youtube videos on sushi making, letting him know he's got a text.  
A day off?
Thought you'd like it.
You did, or Sam did?
Believe it or not, I did. Sam's using my good idea on this one.
:) See you tonight.
See you.
Half an hour of youtube videos later, he feels pretty well prepared to turn the tuna into sashimi. Mostly it's a matter of knife skills and picking out good fish, both of which he's way better than average at. Sticky-rice, on the other hand, appears to be something that takes years of practice to get just right, so he's thinking that'll be something he gets to-go.
So... if she gets back around seven, that means he's got eight hours from now until he needs to have dinner ready to go.  Okay, more than enough time.
Shopping time.
While it is true that Michael and Fi have enough things that burn to set fire to all of downtown Miami, they don't have a large collection of plain old candles. Half a dozen incendiaries are all hiding in different corners of their home, but white pillars made of paraffin, not so much.
They had had candles, he remembers that from the loft. But, like many things they used to have, getting new ones just hadn't happened yet.
So, he'll be getting candles. And a dress and shoes. Fi likes dresses and loves shoes. And while it is true that he has gone with her when she's shopped for them, and it's certainly true that he's paid for them, he's never actually gone out and purchased them for her by himself.
Which means he has to do some research. Namely, he needs to know what size Fi wears. He knows on an intimate and very detailed level exactly how big Fi is. He can quote you her measurements from memory. What he doesn't know is what size dress or shoes that translates into. Likewise, he knows what sorts of clothing she likes to wear and what shops she usually buys them at, but he doesn't know what brands or designers she particularly enjoys.
He supposes most people would just go to the closet and look, but most people didn't burn their home and almost everything they owned less than three months ago. Lucky for him and Fi, the loft didn't have a lot of closet space, so most of their working clothing lived in a storage unit. So, he'll be taking a detour en route to the mall to do some research.   
And, once he's got the dress, shoes, and candles, there's setting the scene. Which will probably involve some pillows, a nice tablecloth or two, and minor carpentry. He's thinking that it'd be easier to get a few boards and make a low table than it'll be to actually buy a nice one and get it put together before she gets home. 
He looks around their home one last time before heading out and decides chopsticks and nice plates would be a good plan, too.

Fi was annoyed. She had a perfectly good day set with Michael, and then Sam was calling with this stupid not-quite-ex-wife crap. Again. If the last time wasn't enough of a lesson to track the woman down and get a divorce, she didn't know what was.
So there was something of an irritated black cloud hovering over her, as she stalked into the hotel and found Elsa waiting for her.
Both of them looked at each other in confusion.
"Sam told me to meet him here," Fi said.
"Me, too," Elsa answered.
A few seconds later Alma, the spa manager came over with a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a note.
Elsa took the note and broke into a smile, passing it to Fi. A smile and tears—Fi wasn't sure why that was happening, but suddenly she was so happy she couldn't stand it. Happiness that she couldn't hold in, that just wanted to leak out in tears, burst through her.
Alma opened the champagne and poured for both of them. "Mr. Westen and Mr. Axe have set both of you up with the gold spa day package..." She proceeded to explain what all that entailed. 
Twenty minutes later, lounging about in a robe, waiting for the lomilomi massage and reflexology treatment to kick things off, Fi sent Michael a text.

Shopping was going pretty well. Apparently there are stores that sell nothing but candles. He thinks it's going to take an extra-long shower to get the smell of the place off his skin, but he was able to get a wide selection of unscented candles in various shapes.
He knows all the candles at the loft were one scent. And he also knows there is absolutely no chance of him finding that same scent again. Not in a candle store that smelled so strongly of artificial maple that he couldn't smell anything else. So unscented. No it won't trigger any memories, but he also won't have picked something she doesn't like, or takes away from how the food tastes.
He's found two tablecloths. One in a rich red color, with some sort of gold embroidery around the edges, and two large, flat pillows to match, that will go on the floor, and a smaller, plum-colored one he intends to put over the few boards he's going to turn into a low, Japanese-style table for dinner.
He skipped flowers. They've got tons of them in the house, and Japanese-style table settings usually aren't cluttered up with extra decor.
The dress didn't take all that long. He knew it was right when he saw it, clingy, white, with an asymmetric neck line draping from the left shoulder to right breast and asymmetric hemline draping from right knee to left foot. 
He was hunting for shoes when he got sidetracked.
Michael isn't easy to sidetrack. When he's focused on something, he can range from completely obsessed to just laser-like pin-point accuracy. But either way, when he's on a mission, he's on the mission. And at 12:30 in the afternoon, bags in hand, he was on a mission for shoes.
He was thinking with that dress Fi would like something white, strappy, fabric, not leather, and if there were some sort of sparkly element, preferably on the ankle, not the heel or toe, that would be a good thing.


So, he was actually surprised when something sparkly caught his attention, and it wasn't a shoe.
It was as much not a shoe as something could be. It was a jewelry store.

And the sparkly thing in question was a counter full of rings. Diamond rings. Lots of them. Light gleaming and leaping from the facets of the stones in front of him. Suddenly Sam's comment about this just being a nice night makes sense to him, and he realizes what Sam was asking.

He'd be lying if he said the idea hadn't crossed his mind. From the moment he said he was done with the CIA, it had been hovering in the back of his mind. But from finally finishing Card to now, it hadn't managed to get back to the front of his mind.
Now, staring at a huge collection of rings, it's in the front of his mind.
He wanders into the store, looking at them. A memory of a conversation a bit over a year ago springs to mind, and he knows what he wants.
An eager sales associate sees him, sees the Rock & Republic jeans, the Oliver People's sunglasses, the Chase Durer's Special Forces 1000 UTD, and the labels on the bags he's holding and swoops down on him like very expensive prey.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Maybe. What do you have in asscher cut diamonds?"
The sales clerk thinks for a moment.  "Asschers are very rare. Most people go for princess cut diamonds when they want a square stone."
"It's got to be an asscher."
"Let me look. Do you want just a stone, or do you want it in a setting?"
"Both."
"Rings, pendants, earrings, bracelets?"
"Rings."
The clerk smiles, pegging Mike as an engagement ring shopper, who knows what his girlfriend likes, but doesn't know what precisely he wants to get her. "Okay, let's see what I've got."
Six minutes later he returned with three unset stones, and four rings on a black velvet tray. And like with the dress, Michael knew the right one when he saw it. The stone was smallish, probably about a third of a carat, set on point, and tension mounted between what might have been white gold or maybe platinum. Then another metal band wrapped between the tension mounting, this one a dull, almost pewtery gray. The pewter and platinum bands formed an x with the diamond in the middle. It looked nothing like any of the other rings on the tray, and he liked that very much.
"That one."
"It is fine, isn't it? It's platinum and titanium engagement/wedding ring combination." The clerk picked it up, twisted it a little, and the pewtery gray part fell away from the platinum part, and then placed both halves in Michael's hand. "There's a matching men's band as well. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes."
The clerk came back with a catalogue. "I'm sorry, we don't actually have the men's band in stock. But here's what it looks like." There was no stone, which pleased Michael, because he couldn't see himself, as himself, wearing a diamond ring. Like with Fi's ring, and he realizes that's how he thinks of it in his mind, Fi's ring, there is a platinum band, and it comes together in the center forming an x with the titanium. It's elegant, solid looking, and not plain.
He likes it very much. "How long to get them?"
"Do you need the engagement ring sized?"
Michael picks it up, and places it between his pinky and ring finger on his right hand. The hand which holds Fiona's left. It feels awkward there, too big.   
"Yes. Can I see your sizing equipment?"
"Certainly."
Mike fiddles around with the selection of ring sizes for a few minutes, trying different ones between his fingers, and then says. "She wears a size four and a half."
"Okay. It'll take four weeks to get this sized. And four to eight to get the other one made." Michael nods, no clue as to if that is very slow, very fast, or just normal. But he's not in a hurry. He's got a lifetime of tomorrows with Fi, so one month, two months, or whenever is just fine.
"Let's do it."

While lounging about, waiting for her highlights to finish processing, Fi found another text on her phone.
Surprise waiting for you up at Sam's. Come home around seven, and there'll be a surprise there, too.
She sent one back. Looking forward to it. Do I need to bring or have anything special?
Everything you'll need will be at Sam's.
Fi and Elsa head up hours later and find Sam, happily grinning away. He kisses Elsa, tells her how beautiful she is, and lays down the patented Axe charm.
Then he turns to Fi. "There are goodies from Mike waiting for you in the guest room."
Fi gives him a look that's clearly curious, and he grins again.
She heads in and before anything else about the guest room hit her, she sees the shoes. They're sitting on top of the shoe box on the bed. White, satin, strappy heels with a sparkly little clasp call out to her. They're beautiful and delicate, and she checks to see, the right size.
She had no idea Michael even knew what shoe size she wore. Let alone that he had noticed that she prefers a four inch heel.
She kicks off her sandals and tries them on. They fit. They fit really well, no pinching, no rubbing against her heel annoyingly.
After she stops cooing over the shoes—And she is cooing, which she finds mildly disturbing. They're great shoes and all, but still, this is like reading the card, she's feeling a bit too emotional for the circumstances.—Anyway, after she finishes cooing over the shoes, she sees a dress bag hanging in the otherwise empty closet, her makeup bag on the dresser in front of a mirror, and a note.
Fancy dinner one of the thousand I owe you. —Michael.
She opens the dress bag and feels a breath escape with a slight whistle. It's gorgeous.
Then she looks around some more. She checks the makeup bag. She checks the shoe box.
Michael apparently has an interesting idea of what "Everything you need" means. For example, there's no underwear, but there are stockings, though she almost never wears them. All of her eye shadows, mascara, and eyeliners are in the bag, but no foundation or lipstick. His favorite of her perfumes is in there, as well as all of her hair stuff.
She'd think it was just a matter of him not knowing what it is she does when she makes herself up, but he's even got her eyelash curler in there, as well as the smoothing serum she uses on her hair.
While she's getting her hair ready, it occurs to her why what's missing is missing. He likes to touch her skin, and doesn't like make-up rubbing off on him, so no foundation or lipstick. Thigh high stockings, which he does like her in, but no panties or bra.
So, dinner and sex. Serious sex looking at this set up. 
She smiles.
Michael may indeed be bad at relationships, but he's good at sex. Ridiculously good at sex. And, as she fixes up her hair and thinks about what ridiculously good at sex means, a warm and happy glow suffuses her skin.
She finishes her abbreviated make-up, puts on the perfume, and slips into the dress. She can't quite reach the clasp at the top of the zipper.
"Elsa?" she calls out.
Elsa shows up a minute later. "Oh. He has good taste."
Fi smiles. "Yes he does. I can't get the clasp. Could you give me a hand?"
"Sure." Elsa steps behind her and slips the hook into the eye.
Fi drops her hair over her shoulder and looks at it. "I don't know where he found this. I usually have to have dresses taken in on top, but this one is perfect." Actually, it was even a bit snug, which was a first. She'd never found a dress off the rack that fit the bottom half of her and was snug on top.
"Sam tells me he's been planning this for more than a week. Maybe he got it taken in?"
"More than a week?"
"Yeah."
That stops Fi in her tracks, one earing in, one in her hand. "Really?"
"Really. He asked Sam for help on setting up a romantic night. He wanted to do it up right for you."
"One out of a thousand indeed."
Elsa looks confused, and Fi shakes her head, tears in her eyes.
"Are you all right?" Elsa asks.
"Yeah." Fi blots her eyes carefully, not wanting to smear her makeup. "I've just been really off today. Just happy." She gets herself back under control, and then steps into the shoes.
Elsa looks her up and down. "I'll say this for him, when he puts his mind to it, that man can really shop. I'm impressed. He might be a natural at this romance thing."
"That he might."
She steps out of the room with Elsa and Sam sees them. He whistles at Fi and nods. "Mikey's done good."
"I understand you helped with this."
"Not with this part of it. That was all him. I just gave pointers on what he was supposed to be doing."Fi kisses Sam's cheek and he almost jerks back he's so surprised. "Thanks Sam."
"You're welcome, Fi."
"I've got to get going if I'm going to be there by seven."
"Then off with you."

Fi headed out, and Elsa looked at Sam. Her expression was expectant and Sam began to feel uncomfortable.
"Elsa?"
"She's pregnant."
"What? Wait! Did she just tell you that?" Jeeze one day of girliness and Fi's saying things like that to Elsa. They have got to get her some girlfriends.
"No. I don't think she knows. But she was telling me about how her clothing is fitting differently, and how she's feeling extra emotional, and you've mentioned that she and Mike are napping a lot."
Sam relaxes a little when he hears that. Speculation is one thing, a good thing, because he's having a hell of a time wrapping his head around that idea. Then he realizes he's just standing there and thinks about the last thing Elsa said. "Because they're tired. You know, spending five years fighting a quasi-governmental conspiracy will take it out of you."
Elsa nods. "Uh huh. She's pregnant. Take if from someone who's been there; they've got a baby on the way."
"Can't be."
"Does Fi normally cry when Mike does something nice for her?"
"She was crying?"
"Little bit."
"Huh." Sam backs up to the sofa and sits down hard. Elsa gets him a drink.
"You're gonna be Uncle Sam."
"No..." he's shaking his head and takes a sip of the beer.
"Come on, it'll be fun. It's about time one of your buddies had kids."
"Mike and Fi are so not kid people."
"They'll figure it out. Kids aren't that complicated."
"You really think she's pregnant?"
"Yeah. I bet if you ask Maddie, she'll say the same thing. Nothing gets by that woman."
Sam took a very long drink of his beer. Things were about to get very interesting.

Jeans and T-shirt or suit and button down... Michael stands in front of the closet, towel wrapped around his hips, water dripping off his hair and down his chest, and debates what to wear.
When he's off duty, just being himself, he usually wears jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, he's not exactly off tonight, and he does know what Fi is wearing is very much not jeans and a T-shirt.
The problem with a suit is that he's never comfortable in a suit with bare feet. They're eating Japanese-style, on the floor, low table, no shoes. There's just something that seems wrong about that to him. Sure he has done it, and probably will again, but still, he's not in a fancy restaurant, he's home.
Where he could wear jeans, and jeans and no shoes is just fine for him.     Jeans and a button down?  Maybe... He pulls on his boxers and thinks about that while lighting the candles. All of the prep work for the food is done. Between what he's made and bought they've got enough sushi for three people, if two of those people are Sam and Jesse, who aren't exactly shy about digging in when the food is good. The table is set. One of the good things about a completely empty dining room is that it takes very little effort to set up a romantic dinner.
He's got a playlist set on his computer. He turns it on, and hopes Fi likes it. They don't really have much in the way of songs with some history. He's got what was playing the first time they danced, but for most of their lives the soundtrack has been explosions and gunfire, not ballads. So, with the exception of Can't Help Falling In Love, the rest of the music is soft jazz. Nice to listen to, but easy to ignore as well.
It didn't occur to him how long it would take to light all the candles. He'd gotten thirty of them, which seemed like enough to provide a golden romantic atmosphere when he was shopping, but is looking more and more like a massive fire hazard as he lights them.
For a moment, he ponders Fi showing up early, while he's doing this, and how she would react if he was just in his boxers. She's certainly welcomed him home in nothing but a teddy before. And he's always appreciated that.
But... if they're actually going to eat the food he's spent hours working on (or picking up) dressed is probably a good idea.
Plus, he's somewhat suspicious that him lying on their bed in his underwear in a come-hither pose does not have precisely the same effect on Fi as it does when she does it for him. Michael's fairly certain she'd giggle.
His phone rings, and Sam's on the line. "She left five minutes ago. Should be at your place in ten."
"Thanks, Sam."
"Everything set?"
"Almost."
"Okay. Be real nice to her."
"I intend to."
"Good. I think she's liking this. She actually kissed me on the cheek when she left."
"Huh." That surprises Mike.
"Mike..."
"Yeah?"
"Seriously, be real nice to her. I'd hate to see this much build up to have it go wrong."
"I think I've got this, Sam."
"Good."
Another pause. Mike feels like Sam's trying to say something to him, but has no idea what it might be. Okay, yes, he's got a bad reputation when it comes to this sort of thing, but it's not like he's never been on a date before. He can probably manage to pull off dinner without messing it up too badly. Still a little last minute advice might not be unwarranted...
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Jeans or suit?"
Sam seems to think about that for a moment. "Mike, this is why I always wear the same thing."
"Great."
"Jeans."
"Thanks, Sam." 
"Mike, go easy on the wine."
"Sam?" Okay, that was completely out of nowhere.
"It's has anesthetic properties. Dulls her sense of touch. One of my tricks is to make sure to go easy on the wine for her, no more than two glasses, that way she's relaxed but can feel what I'm doing better. And I drink a bit more of it, so I last longer."
"That's way, way more information than I ever needed."
"If you want her so happy she's buying you cars..."
"Yeah, gotta go." Mike hangs up thinking that was one of the most surreal conversations he's ever had with Sam.


Fi is beautiful. This is one of the non-negotiable facts of Michael Westen's life. In fact, it might be the only non-negotiable fact of his life. No matter who he or she's pretending to be, Fi's his ideal of beauty. Dark hair, light hair, make-up, hair that took an hour to do, and designer clothing, no make-up and covered in sweat and grime, no matter what, Fi is beautiful.
But sometimes Fi is also pretty. And tonight, she's so pretty, so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at her.
Michael might not be very good at this romance stuff, but he's not stupid either, so there are certain things he will never admit, like that fact that he does always think she's beautiful does not in any way negate the fact that he prefers her hair and eyebrows honey brown, her hair down, and her in dresses.   
When she left this morning, she was his hawk, dark, sharp, dangerous and beautiful. She's returned a butterfly, light and delicate, soft waves of honey colored hair cascading down her naked shoulder and arm.He's thinking about that, about how the golden candle light caresses her skin, how her hair rests on her neck and shoulder, the fact that the dress is sheer enough he can see the shadow of her nipple, the shape of her mouth and lips as she nibbles on an edamame. She's talking about her day, and he's certainly watching her attentively, and hearing her voice, enjoying the way it sounds, but he's not really paying attention to what she's saying.
"Michael, are you listening to me?"
He puts his glass down, and moves to sit next to her on her pillow. His fingers brush her face, stroke through her hair, and trail down her naked shoulder and arm.
"No. I'm sitting here, looking at you," he touches her face again, thumb tracing over her bottom lip, "thinking about how beautiful you are, and how much I love you. I'm thinking about how happy you make me, and hoping I make you happy, too."
"In that case, you can be forgiven for not listening to me."
"Do I make you happy, Fi?"
She kisses him, soft and slow. "Yes."
Next

A/N: Okay, I know that's not precisely the right ring, but until I get better at 3d modelling, there won't be images of the rings in my head. In the meantime, the one up there is an on point asscher cut stone in a platinum setting. The guys at Bijou Extraordinaire Ltd. designed that ring, and they've got a ton of other beautiful stuff as well.

The Indie Book Review: Liberation at 50 Paces

As regular readers of this blog know, I've got a soft spot for westerns. Something about the archetypical dusty town out west where good versus evil gets settled with six guns makes me very happy. And I've also got a fondness for steampunk.

So, Liberation at 50 Paces, a western steampunk short story, was set perfectly to make me a very happy reader. Not only do we have the dusty town and a duel, but there's also pitch perfect western voice. Oh yes, very happy Keryl over here.

Now, full disclosure time here. I know and like Jarod Crews. He didn't ask me for a review, nor did he read this before it went live.

Okay, now that's out of the way, let's talk about Liberation.

First off, it's a novelette. Though, being of an old-school turn of mind, I'd call it a short story. Either way, we're talking about an hour or so of easy reading.

People who are wary of short stories often complain about the fact that it's hard to really get to know a character in such a tiny bit of space. And I'll admit, as a writer, I consider that the number one challenge for writing a short story. There are a number of tricks for how to get character across quickly, foremost among them a distinctive voice, and in Liberation, Crews absolutely nailed the voice.

Less than five paragraphs in you feel like you know Hanson, (the main character) because his voice is so clear, so perfectly unique. Honestly, and this probably says as much about my geek cred as Crews' writing style, the western voice was so well done, when I was reading, I could hear Nathan Fillion's Malcolm Reynolds speaking.

For short stories, plot is often the next level of concern. Many short stories don't really have one. They're more prose poems than actual tales. And, while I'm a character reader, I do have to have something happen to keep me enjoying a tale.

I was pleased to see there was a distinct plot arc for Liberation. At first glance, the plot is fairly generic. Boy meets beautiful girl, boy falls into insta-love with beautiful girl, boy does something stupid for girl, girl's very powerful husband is understandably upset about the whole thing. And I'll admit, I was starting to get worried that this was going to be a great character trapped in a blah story, and then Crews pulled out a fabulous twist at the end, making me very, very happy.

Do I have quibbles about this? Sure. (When don't I?)

The story revolves around the idea of freedom. And that's a great theme, especially for a Western. Still, I would have liked to have seen more done with it. Hanson lives in a slave trading town, which he hates. It's a symbol for both Hanson's personal feelings of being bound, and also a meta for how damaged and constraining the world this story is set in is. Yes, this is a short story, but a thousand or so more words would have fully cemented this theme into place and given us a bit more concrete motivation for Hanson's actions.

The steampunk aspect of this story is just setting. It's cool setting, with some really interesting gizmos that are fabulous, but, nothing about it is vitally important to the plot. This could have been written as a straight western set in Texas in 1859 and would have worked just as well.

Lastly, I'm not entirely sure how old Hanson is. I know he's over sixteen (his sixteenth birthday gets mentioned). But he veers from acting very childish to very adult. His father refers to him as a boy. His voice sounds adult (most of the time). He's certainly gotten himself into a very adult situation.  I guess the reason this bothers me is that the voice I hear speaking in my mind is that of a full adult, and then he turns around and does something that seems suitable for a teenager.

As I said, quibbles.

On the whole, this is a very fine bit of short story writing. It's well worth the hour of reading time.