Michael closes the motel room door behind him, miserable in dripping wet clothes that are plastered to his skin and trying his damnedest not to shiver from the chill. It had been a warm, spring-like day earlier, but the evening rain storm brought a cold front along with it, which explains the crashing thunder that continues to erupt at shorter and shorter intervals, shaking the overcast sky.

Sara stands in the center of the room, in what little room there is in this shabby motel, her arms folded over her chest and her posture straight. She looks pale and worn and the oversized sweater she's swimming in makes her look more vulnerable than usual.

She also looks very, very angry.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, hoping to cut the worst of it off at the pass.

"Two days," she says, and her voice is colder than the chill wind outside. "You left me here for two days, Michael. You said you'd be gone for eight hours at most."

"There were complications --"

"There are always complications," Sara says, and she looks up at the ceiling, a gesture that Michael has come to recognize as a sign that she's trying not to cry or kill him, one or the other.

"I know," he says. He tentatively takes a step toward her. "And I'm always sorry. None of this -- things aren't going exactly as I planned." He doesn't point out that a key reason things are not going as planned is that he had never planned on her being with him, had never planned on developing feelings for the woman who was supposed to be little more than a mark inside prison walls. Had never planned on needing to take care of anyone on the outside other than his brother.

Had never planned on Sara being Sara.

He suppresses a shiver -- Christ, he's freezing, and would do anything to get out of these wet clothes -- and takes another step toward her. She doesn't move away, which he hopes is a good sign. "Are you all right?" he asks. "Did anything happen while we were gone?"

"I'm fine," she says, but her voice is still hard. "Nothing happened. I watched an I Dream of Jeannie marathon on TV. The only danger I was in was possibly dying of boredom."

"Good," he says in relief. "I mean, not good that you were bored, but --"

"I don't even know why we're talking about this," she says, and retreats, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It doesn't matter what I did. It only matters what you did. So whatever you had to do -- did you do it? Did everything go," and her next two words sound like she can barely stand to form them, "as planned?"

Michael's body gives in and starts shivering, and he can't seem to stop it. "Yes," he says. "But how can you say that what you do doesn't matter? I--" He breaks off, because he can't stand being in his own skin anymore.

He heads to the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and turns on the shower full blast, at full heat, desperately trying to warm up. He unbuttons his shirt and strips it off and then just stands there for a moment, willing the heat to rise, needing the warmth to penetrate his skin.

There is an icy breeze as the bathroom door opens and Sara steps inside and closes the door again.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Just cold," he says, and at the word another shiver runs through him.

She reaches out and presses her palm against his bicep. "You're freezing," she murmurs. "You should get out of the rest of those clothes."

Despite their current acrimony he can't help but give her a lascivious grin.

She almost laughs, he's certain of it. "I'm speaking strictly as a doctor," she insists.

"Well, that's disappointing." Still, he kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, then pulls off his pants, and he has to admit he feels better. He leaves his boxers on, though, feeling that nudity is somehow inappropriate at the moment. He chances a look at her, and when their eyes meet she looks away.

"God, Michael," she says with a sigh. "What am I doing here?"

"Being with me," he says, softly, stubbornly. It's never truly occurred to him that she would do otherwise.

She leans back against the tiled wall. "If I'm going to be with you, then I should be with you," she says.

He shakes his head; it's an old argument already, even though she hasn't been with him that long. "Not when it's too dangerous for you to come along," he says.

"You don't get to decide --"

"Sara," he says, and his voice almost breaks at the end of it. "You have to let me keep you safe. It's the least I can do for you after...after all that I've done."

Her face softens at that, but she doesn't respond.

The bathroom is now thick with steam and heat and Michael feels the chill finally leaving his bones. He reaches over and turns off the water, then steps over to Sara.

"I can't let anything happen to you," he says. "I don't know what I would do if --" He can't finish the sentence. He just looks down at her, willing her to look back up at him.

Which she finally does. Her eyes are dark and there's a sheen on her skin from the steam. "Don't you get it, Michael? That's how I feel every time you leave," she says.

The only appropriate response to that is to kiss her. She's stiff at first, holding back, but then she opens her mouth to him and places her hands on his bare skin. He reaches up to palm her breast and she sighs against his lips. His cock stirs, begins to harden, and he presses into her, wanting her to feel it.

Her hands move to the edge of her sweater and he helps her pull it over her head. As it falls to the ground Michael kisses her collarbone, her sternum, the dip between her breasts. Her skin is soft and dewy and tastes of salt and vanilla. Filled with a sudden urgency, he reaches down and undoes the button of her jeans, pushes down the zipper, then grabs the waistband and yanks the material down her legs. She gasps but lets him do it, pulling her bare feet up through the bottom of the jeans one by one. He sinks to his knees and repeats the process with her cotton underpants, then gently pushes her legs wider and presses his mouth to the dark triangle of her sex.

"Michael," she whispers, and he feels her run a hand over his bristly scalp. He uses his fingers to push aside her folds and flicks his tongue over her clit. She stiffens and sucks in a breath and reaches up, places her hand against the back of the bathroom door to brace herself. He continues his efforts, tasting the sweet smokiness of her, thinking the soft sighs she's now emitting are the most beautiful sound in the world. After a few moments she lifts up one leg and balances it on the toilet to give him better access, which he takes advantage of, craning his neck so that he can tongue her opening and trace the contours of her folds with sure strokes.

"Oh god," she murmurs, and then she comes, tiny spasms against his mouth, high-pitched moans leaving her throat.

He straightens up as she lowers her leg and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling her to him. He kisses her throat, nuzzles her ear. "Let me take you to bed," he says, thinking it all feels seedy suddenly, going down on her in a motel bathroom still filled with steam and heat.

She nods without speaking and he opens the door, then takes her hand and leads her out into the room, which feels shockingly cold after the warmth of the bathroom. He pulls aside the covers on the bed and pulls her down onto the mattress with him, then rolls her underneath him and tugs the covers up to the middle of his back.

"You're still wearing your boxers," she points out with a hint of a smile.

He grins down at her and then rolls away to wriggle out of the garment before positioning himself on top of her again. He notices that while he was taking off his boxers she was taking off her bra. Stealthy. Her small, firm pink nipples pucker in the chill air, and he brushes one with his thumb.

She arches up against him. "Michael," she says through gritted teeth, the word a demand, and he wonders if there is still anger there.

No matter right now. He reaches down to guide himself and pushes inside of her slowly, carefully. She pulls her legs up to accommodate him, hooks her ankles at the small of his back. As he begins moving inside of her she runs her hands over his arms, his shoulders, then places her fingers on either side of his jaw, cradling his head.

He braces himself with one hand and with the other covers her breast, running his thumb over the hardened nipple. She is so hot inside and her eyes as she looks up at him are so deep. "I need you so much," he whispers, and means it. She is simultaneously his sanity and his madness and he can no longer imagine his life without either.

She opens her mouth, looks as if she is about to say something, but then he jerks his hips and she bites her lip and closes her eyes, her head rolling back. She tugs on his ears and he obeys, lowering his mouth to hers, kissing her hard. "God, Sara," he whispers against her lips. He has never experienced this before, this uncertainty, this plunging off a cliff, and he hates that he doesn't know how to deal with it, can't solve it like an engineering problem or a crossword puzzle. She is chaos.

"Michael," she says, and there's a high-pitched tinge to it, and he doesn't know if it's because she's enjoying herself or because he's annoying her. Her sharp moan when he squeezes her nipple makes him think it's the former.

He lifts her legs and rests them against his shoulders, allowing him to sink in deeper, and she murmurs a "yes" and reaches up to caress the side of his face. He thrusts into her hard, fast, grunting with the effort of it now, and his orgasm takes control of him almost before he is ready, enveloping him in hot, wet, shaking release. With his cock still twitching inside of her, he moves his hand to her clit and strokes it in the way he's learned that she likes. He watches her face as her breathing quickens, her cheeks flush, and then finally she comes too, milking his softening cock, whispering his name.

After a few still, quiet moments, he pulls out of her and rolls over beside her. She rolls over, too, onto her stomach, and runs her hand over his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she says.

"Don't be," he says. "I didn't want it to be like this."

She props herself up on one elbow and looks down at him. "How did you want it to be?"

He smiles, reaches up to twist a strand of auburn hair around his finger. "I'll tell you when we get there," he says.

End.