I mentioned at the beginning that this was a grown-up fic. Well, here's where grown-up comes in. Sexy stuff ahead, you can go here if you prefer a PG-13 reading experience.
"Michael McBride would have had me twice by now," Fi whispers low in his ear as she snuggles close in the seat next to him, waits for the auto save on his computer to finish, and closes the laptop.
"He wouldn't have cared at all about the fact that we're in a plane full of people or that he had a report due."
"Unfortunately for you, you're on a plane with Brendan Jensen." But she's right. He wouldn't have. Michael McBride would have taken her hand, walked, boldly, to the loo, opened the door for her, and had her up against the door. Michael McBride cared bugger all for whatever the other people in the plane thought.
Alas, Michael Westen isn't Michael McBride. Not anymore. Not the least of why is because Michael McBride was 36 and Michael Westen is 45, and that almost decade has had an impact. He's a little slower, he doesn't heal up as quickly, he's a bit softer around the middle, and while Michael McBride could handle twice in one day pretty easily, and on one extremely memorable occasion, three times, twice in one day is a very special occasion for Michael Westen.
Though, with the adrenaline from fighting off the Russians still lingering, and the remembered feel of the quick, up against the wall screw they got in between getting back to the hotel and running to the plane, he's thinking that today might indeed be a very special occasion. And, even if it's not for him, there's no reason why it can't be for Fi.
Not like there's much else to do. The report is basically written; he's just double checking it. They're in the air and won't be in Miami for more than five hours. Hours that he could use to do something fun. Hours that he could use to try and be a better boyfriend, or, feeling the ring on his finger, husband.
He puts the laptop into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, and shifts in his seat a bit. Fi gets the idea of what he's trying to do, and stands up. He rests so his back is against the arm of the chair and the window. Michael stretches one leg along the line where the seat and the backs of the seats meet, and lets the other fall to the side.
Fi smiles, grabs a blanket from overhead, and settles herself between his legs, her back against his chest.
Thank the CIA they're in first class. And thank God it's an almost empty flight. They've got plenty of room, and no one is in the seats across the aisle.
"Pillows?" he asks her.
She flashes him a slightly annoyed look, but grabs two pillows for him. Another difference between Michael Westen and Michael McBride. McBride wouldn't have cared about the arm of the chair digging into his back. Westen, on the other hand, has had enough bruised and broken ribs to appreciate a nice, soft backrest for something like this.
Fi resettles herself between his legs. He makes sure the blanket is over both of them, and not so snug as to show what his hands might or might not be doing under there.
She sighs, relaxes against him, and closes her eyes. He strokes her neck, kisses her ear, and also relaxes back for a moment. They could be taking a close and snuggly nap.
"Have you how?" he asks, voice low, almost drowned out by the rumble of the plane's engine, his Irish accent, which occasionally comes out for playtime, audible.
He slips his hand under her pants, appreciating how roomy they are for the first time, and begins to lightly stroke her through her panties. Soft, gentle strokes, only his fingers moving, the rest of his hand and arm still.
"Would we go to the loo, lock the door, and then, once in there, you'd back up against the door and I'd wrap your legs around my hips? The kind of fast, hard shag where we just push clothing aside, because taking it off takes too long?"
She breathes deeply, and one of her hands clenches on his thigh. Westen doesn't usually talk in bed, but she absolutely loves it when he does. McBride, on the other hand, did have a penchant for narrating the action, and that's how he knows she loves it. And why, though it doesn't happen as often as it used to, it still does.
"Or would you have me? I'd be back against the door, you'd sit on the loo, pull me out, and suck me down?" He feels his own body stir a bit at that idea. It has been an awfully long time since they've done that.
"Of course, if you did that for me, I'd return the favor." He pulls her panties to the side, and slips his middle finger along her clit. It's a slow and firm stroke. Mostly pressure, very little friction. He knows he can't get her off doing that, but he can drive her crazy. He can have her squirming and moaning and all but begging him to just go a little faster if he works at it.
And he wants to work at it. "I'd back you up against the door, tug these trousers down, prop one leg on the sink, and pull your knickers to the side with my teeth. Then I'd slip my tongue against you, rubbing in slow, lazy circles, feeling your hands clench in my hair and your legs tremble."
His fingers move just barely faster, a hint of slide to go with gentle but firm pressure. "Would you like that, my beauty?"
She's squirming against him. The motions are still slow and small, trying to look like they're just getting a bit of a nap, not shagging on the plane. But she rocks her hips minutely, trying for a bit more friction, just a little more to help get her over the edge. Her hips squirming against him, his hand on her, and his words are all combining to make sure that today will indeed be a very special occasion.
"Or, how about we start that way? How about I run my tongue along you, savoring your taste, until you're clenching and twitching around me, and then I stand up and slip into you. Then I can feel your beautiful quim pulsing around me as I pound hard and fast into you, finishing us both off."
She moans at that. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, he more feels it through his chest than hears it. "You like that idea, do you? Want me, fast and hard, inside of you? Just like this afternoon, in the hotel, where I pinned you up against the wall and slid into you so fast it made us both groan." He speeds up his fingers.
"The whole ride back I was wishing you had worn a skirt. Would have pulled over, bent you over the seat, and had you then and there if you had been wearing a skirt."
Violence might be foreplay for Fi. And it's not precisely that for Michael. But he's not unaffected by the adrenaline and blood lust that a good fight brings up. Plus, he does love being able to come in, guns blazing, and save the day. Fighting with Fi at his side, knowing she's hot and wet and wants him, well, that is foreplay for him. Quality time, indeed!
He lowers his head an inch further, so his lips brush against her ear while he continues to whisper. "Can you not picture it, luv? In the Hummer, kneeling on the floor, one of your legs up on the seat, me right behind you, and deep inside, while my fingers dance over you." And with that he speeds all the way up, no more of this teasing slow pressure. If anyone were to look, they could see his arm and hand moving. He shifts his leg, bringing the blanket up a bit further, hiding his actions.
"Can you feel my breath on your neck, my hand on your nipple, the other on your clit, and I slip inside, filling and stretching you? I can feel you, your body tight and tense, hot, aching on the edge of climax, needing just a bit more, a bit faster." His fingers run faster, and the other hand snakes to her shirt, stroking her nipple through the fabric.
He can imagine it. He can almost feel it. Her body, so wet and hot and tight around him. She'd be rocking fast, hands clenched against the seat as a fine sheen of sweat covered her skin. He can feel her, taste the sex on her skin, and he's wishing they had gone to the bathroom, because right now he's hard as a rock and really, really wants to feel her climax on him.
She shudders and twitches, her body jerking slightly, and he slows his fingers. He holds her, feeling her muscles ripple under his fingers, enjoying the way she goes completely limp after climaxing, and, like always, feels ridiculously proud that he was able to do this for her.
They stay that way for a few minutes. He feels her heart beat and breath slow.
He slips his hand out of her pants and licks his fingers off as she watches. She smiles up at him, her naughty, Cheshire-cat grin, and he knows he's going to like what comes next.
"Give me one of your socks."
He's glad she thinks of this ahead of time. Because one thing he absolutely hates is having to stop when he's about to climax. He's also glad she's thought far enough ahead that he's not going to end up spending the next six hours in soggy and then crusty trousers. He hasn't come in his pants since he was sixteen and fumbling with his first girlfriend in the backseat of a stolen car. The orgasm was great. The cold, sticky, everyone-can-see-what-we've-been-up-to mess in his pants wasn't. When it started to dry was worse.
He slips off a shoe and pulls the sock off his left foot.
Fi shifts around so she's leaning on her side against his chest. He crooks the leg against the back of the seat higher than her shoulders, so that the blanket drapes over both of them, and leaving no tell-tale bulges.
The noise of the plane drowns out the sound of his zipper, but he can feel her hands on his trousers, and the too fast, not nearly hard enough brush of her fingers as she slips him out.
She shifts again a bit, and he's wondering what she's doing because whatever it is doesn't involve touching him when her hand, wet and slick, curls around him.
Two thoughts hit at once. Her hand is slick with her juices, and that makes him that much harder. She's not going for slow or easy with this. This is about wrapping that delicious hand of hers around him, and stroking him fast, fingers gloriously tight.
It doesn't take long, three minutes, maybe five? She hasn't given him a hand-job since they were in Ireland, but she's certainly not forgotten how he likes to be handled. Sure, he prefers mouth or pussy, but what she's doing is making his body light up, and his hips want to thrash and thrust as hard as he can.
He doesn't. He forces himself to relax. They're sleeping, right? Just getting a little nap. His head droops back against the window, his eyelids slide shut, and he lays there, trying to move as little as possible and just let her tip him over the edge.
It hits him hard. The pleasure is somehow sharper and more diffuse. Like, because he can't move, because all of the muscles in his body are holding very still, that all the nerves have lit up and danced with hot little tingles to compensate.
A minute or two later, as his heart calms down, and the muscles in his legs and abdomen stop twitching, he feels her zip him back up, and tuck something, probably the sock, into his pocket.
And then, they do nap.
He wakes at some later point. They haven't started to land, yet, so he knows they're still at least an hour out. Fi's still asleep, and he doesn't feel any desire to wake her up by shifting around so he can get at his computer.
She's curled against him, left arm flush on his chest. He enjoys it. They aren't big cuddlers. Touch between them tends to be limited to sex, first aid, training fights, and the occasional don't-you-dare-die-on-me goodbye kiss.
He gently traces her hand with his, and feels the ring on her finger. Mrs. Jensen, for the next few hours.
He remembers the look she gave him when he tucked the rings into her hand. He knows she would like to get married, which is something he finds both comforting and terrifying.
Comforting: He knows they're bound to each other. When she jumped into that shed, there for his, and when she ran to him, her, last stand, that said it all. How much more married can you be than that? And he knows, no matter what, he will be there for her. Strickler is dead because he tried to get between them, and anyone else who tries will suffer a similar fate. So, in many ways, how could married be any different?
Terrifying: What does he know of happy marriages? Nate and Ruth might be the closest he can think of, and if they make it to their second anniversary, he'll be shocked. And, though he might not be the poster child for well-adjusted mental health, even he knows that they don't exactly have a healthy relationship. This whole can't-live-without-you thing probably isn't good.
When he thinks about it, he doesn't want her to die for him, and he's not sure there's any way to avoid that, beyond keeping breathing himself. And he's fairly sure it's not a good thing that if something happens to her, he'll start killing people and probably won't stop until Sam and Jesse take him out.
Though, it's not like getting married, or not being married, changes that.
He fiddles with his ring, knowing there will never be another woman for him. And he's also sure, that like talking to a counselor, he'd have an easier time setting himself on fire than slipping a ring on her finger and letting everyone on earth see something that intimate about him. He has a hard time calling her his girlfriend. He doesn't want the world to know what he loves, because loving something publicly is far too dangerous.
He sighs, holds her close, smells her hair, and thinks about talking to Father Ian. Step one wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Maybe admitting to the world that this is his woman wouldn't be either. After all, not like anyone who might be gunning for him doesn't know about her. The whole living together thing isn't precisely subtle.
Who knows? Maybe he might try holding her hand, without her taking his first, the next time they go somewhere.