A/N: Mike and Fi at the end of 6.14. Want to start at the beginning? Head here.
"Time to close that book and sleep." Fiona took the atlas off of Michael's lap, shut the cover, and set it on the table in front of him. They're in Schmidt's guestroom. Normally that isn't the sort of thing Mike thinks about, if there's a free room, he and Fi get a bit of privacy. That's just how it is. But tonight, seeing Sam talk about Elsa, the fact that he's got a room to himself, with Fi, while Sam's sacking out with Jesse on the sofas in the living room, weighs heavily on him.
"I can't sleep."
"You have to."
He looks over at her, and notices what's in her hands. "Fi, why do you have a bottle of olive oil and a..." He looks at the glass, and sniffs at it. "Glass of white rum?"
"Because you are going to get some sleep. No matter what."
"How is oil or rum going to help with that?"
"Help you relax, help get your mind off—"
She was about to say "all of this" when he cut in with, "He's in love with her."
"I know, Michael."
"I didn't. I thought she was just the latest sugar mama."
"All the more reason to get some sleep. If you're missing things like that, you're too tired. Remember a few years ago, when you were getting ready to work with Gilroy and I said you were going to kill yourself?"
"I had no idea that was going to be a picnic on the beach compared to what's going on now. You have to sleep, or you'll get yourself, and worse, us, killed." The first time she said something like that to him, she was exasperated. This time she's scared.
"I can't sleep, Fi."
"You've got to." She hands him the drink. "Drink up."
"Hung over and tired is going to be an even worse combination than just tired."
"Michael, do you trust me?"
"Then drink up. You don't have to finish it, but I want to see at least half of it in you."
He takes a long gulp, wincing a bit. He prefers scotch or whiskey over rum.
"Take off your clothing."
He looks at her, disbelieving. "We're on the run, Riley could be barging in here any second, and you want me to get naked?"
"I really do not want to be running about in just a pair of shoes."
"You won't be."
"How do you know that?"
"I just do. And you better start knowing it, too, or you'll never sleep. So, clothing off and into bed with you."
"This is bad tactics."
"You so tired you can't tell up from down is worse tactics."
"You know, if I actually do sleep, I'll be even fuzzier after."
"Michael, we're not going anywhere tomorrow. Or the day after. We still have to pick a place, get cash in order, and Schmidt has to get the papers ready. We're here, for at least forty-eight hours, and I want to see you sleeping for at least thirty of them. Now, naked, on the bed, lying on your stomach."
Healthy Michael, rested Michael, hell, even marginally functional Michael would have come up with something sardonic or sarcastic. But this Michael, burnt, frustrated, scared, and hurting Michael, exhausted Michael, in the real sense of what that words means, not the more common use of very tired, gets up from the chair he's been sitting on, slowly, and begins to peel off his clothing.
Fi knows he's lain down with her every night, for an hour or two at least, but she also knows that at best he's been catching half hour long catnaps, if not skipping sleep all together.
She pats the bed. "Lay down."
He sighs and does so. She knows his body language well enough to know he's feeling horrible, with an extra layer of guilty. Sam isn't with his lady. It's his fault. So he doesn't deserve time with Fi. Let alone pampering from Fi. Too bad, you're getting it. You need it. And you're right, Sam needs time with his lady, and he deserves it, too. But right now he can't have it, and you denying yourself isn't going to get it for him. You rested and functional might get it for him, but you're too damn tired to see that, so I'm going to make sure it happens.
She kisses his shoulder, kneels next to his hip, and pours a little of the oil into her hand.
"Besides the burns?"
"Besides the burns."
"Okay." Her hands slip lightly over his back, smoothing the oil over his skin.
"I'm going to end up smelling like a salad."
"You'll survive. I didn't want to ask Schmidt if he had massage oil, so I just grabbed what was in the pantry."
He nods a little, face pressed into a pillow. She's keeping the pressure of her hands light, this massage isn't about working out the kinks or trying to force reluctant scars to melt into soft pliable tissue, this is just about distracting him, relaxing him, and letting his mind get free of reality long enough for him to get a bit of solid sleep.
"I'm thinking where ever we go next should have a beach. Some little cove, with a hammock—"
"I hate hammocks."
She pinches him lightly, but keeps her voice soft, lulling, and her hands smoothly stroking over his skin. "Some little cove, with palm trees, and high rock cliffs to keep us hidden from sight. There'll be a big, soft blanket, and some pillows. A gentle breeze. Shade from the trees. We'll lay about, nap in the shade, play in the water. It'll be warm, and that bright emerald blue green color that some of the islands around here have. And when the sun sets, we'll wander into the little town, and head for the local cafe. They'll have fresh caught fish, conch fritters and ceviche, with homemade beer and rickety tables on the sand. And we won't even need shoes, no suits or no ties, just lazy slow days of sun, sea, food, and sleep."
His body is relaxing nicely under her hands, so with her voice low she keeps telling him about this island fantasy, about the little cottage they'll call home, just a few rooms, with big open windows that let in the breezes, and a huge, plush bed. She talks about how, over time, they'll get soft and plump from all the eating, and brown from the sun. And eventually, they'll have been there so long that no one will remember that they're gringos. They'll just be part of the local scenery. He'll learn Spanish, and her's will get better. And they'll put in a little garden in the back, with a big glass jar so he'll always have sun tea on hand, and she'll plant lemon trees because she likes the way the blossoms smell.
She continues to spin the tale, words coming slower, voice softer as each pass of her hands tells her he's relaxing further. She knows that in reality both of them would find this life horrendously boring after a week or so, but for right now, he needs some serenity, and if she can give it to him with her voice, she's more than willing to.
By the time she's describing the local mercado, the stalls filled high with fresh grown fruits and vegetables, and how they'll walk down each day to pick out what to cook, he's softly snoring. She continues to stroke, and goes from speaking to just humming gently, using her voice to provide white noise until she sees his eyes fluttering.
She lays down very carefully, hoping not to wake him, Michael is a light sleeper to begin with, and when he's on ultra-high alert it gets even worse.
As Fi closes her eyes, she says a quick prayer, asking God to let Michael get a full night's, and then some, sleep.