An Asset

I feel used.

I feel like an afterthought.

I feel like an asset.

An asset is someone that contributes to the success of a mission. And then, when that mission is completed, the asset is left behind.

I love Michael, and I would do anything for him, but a relationship is supposed to be reciprocal, and right now Michael is taking everything I have. And I feel that, despite everything I have done, at the end of the day, I will still be left behind.

I don't deny that I often test the relationship I have with Michael, and perhaps, deep down, I wanted him to come up with some elaborate Michael Westen scheme that would keep me from having to use Armand. But he didn't even try. He didn't ask the questions that I knew were running through his mind. He waited until he got what he wanted to ask what the cost was.

I wonder how far things will have to go before the cost gets too high.

I wonder if the cost is already too high.

But Michael Westen is a charmer. And how can I do anything but swoon and fall right back into our dysfunctional relationship when, just when I've made the decision to put him behind me and move on, he comes in with one of his grand gestures and a heartfelt, borderline emotional apology.

I'm a closet romantic at heart, and with Michael, you take what you can get.

"Fi, we're home."

I'm startled out of my inner monologue with the realization that Michael is correct. We're back at the loft and I barely remember the ride back.

The rest of dinner with Maddie and her new friend Ben was pretty uneventful.

Michael and I laughed appropriately at Ben's jokes and told vague half truths about what we do for a living. Then we said our goodbyes and Michael subtly supported me as we made our way to the Charger, where I spent the ride back contemplating my relationship with the infuriating man who is currently holding the car door open for me, waiting for me to try and get out with as much grace as I can muster after five glasses of wine.

I get out of the car and bypass his hand, instead opting for the railing of the stairs leading up to the loft. He doesn't comment on my behavior but instead follows behind me as I drunkenly make my way up the squeaking stairs.

I'm being careless at this point. Armand reminded me that Michael has some dangerous enemies; enemies that could easily be waiting in the loft planning an ambush. But I don't care. They could shoot me, kidnap me, torture me or kill me and it would probably have less of an effect than what Michael does to me on a regular basis.

It occurs to me that the relationship that Michael and I have could be considered abusive. Not physically, mind you (most of the time), but emotionally.

I understand that relationships are hard and that nothing worth having is ever easy, but Michael takes this to a whole new level.

In any given day I can go from feeling utterly, jump-over-the-moon spectacular to completely devastatingly depressed in the span of a few words from Michael.

I make my way clumsily to the side of the bed before beginning to strip off the suddenly constricting clothing. I grab my favorite shirt of Michaels before pulling back the covers and getting into bed. I hear Michael puttering around in the kitchen for a bit before he too starts to undress, turn off the lights, and get into bed.

I am facing away from his as I feel the bed shift with his weight. For some reason this makes me even more angry than I was before. He didn't even try to talk to me. Didn't even try to make an effort to understand why I was mad at him. Hasn't our time in Miami taught him not to go to bed angry?

But no. Michael Westen doesn't do emotional confrontations. He tries to avoid them at all costs and he certainly doesn't initiate them.

Instead he will wake up tomorrow morning, possibly make me breakfast and go back to work as if nothing happened, expecting help from me as always.

Well, not this time.

"Hey!"

I smirk as I hear the unmistakable thump of Michael hitting the floor as I forcibly kick him out of bed.

"Fi!"

I can imagine the look on his face. The look that says he's disappointed with how I want to handle things. The look that says, "We'll discuss this later."

We've done it his way for months now, but this time, I want to try things my way.

I sit up in bed while he gets up from the floor and turns on the lamp. With a sigh he begins.

"If you want me to sleep on the couch I will."

"No, Michael." That would be too easy for him. "I'm not looking for you to sleep on the couch. I want to continue with our conversation before dinner."

He slumped into the ugly green chair before running his hands through his hair.

"Fi, you're drunk. Can't we do this later?"

I could feel the anger rising. "When Michael? When is "later"? It's always "right after this case," or "after I find whoever's trying to kill me." It's always about you!"

"Damn it, Fi, what do you want me to say?" He stood up quickly then, the force pushing the chair back a few feet, and went over to fridge and pulled out a yogurt. "Someone is trying to keep me out of the agency by framing me for Max's death. Each clue gets me closer."

He slammed the door of the refrigerator, clearly not finished yet.

"Jesus, we talked about this! It was either Armand or breaking into homeland security, and you were the one that suggested him in the first place. I never forced this on you!"

"And that excuses it all, because it wasn't your idea?" I could see my hands start to tremble in my anger. "People died in the grand quest to get you this information, Michael. All so you can go after one more clue and one more lead!"

He took a breath before dropping his voice and looking me square in the eye.

"What choice do I have, Fi? If I don't do this Max's killer continues to walk free and I get shipped to Guantanamo."

It was now my turn to sigh. I stared at my hands in my lap and started playing with the edges of the grey comforter.

"Am I just a supportive partner to you, Michael?"

He seemed surprised at the slight change in topic and took a few moments before he replied.

"I mean… Fi… that was a quick speech at dinner—I didn't mean…"

"Because I wonder what you think the difference is, between a supportive partner and an asset?"

I looked down at my hands again, waiting and dreading his answer.

"Fiona, an asset is a means to an end. You lie to assets. I haven't lied to you, Fi, not in Miami."

"But what happens when the mission is completed and the end is here? What happens when you get back in, and you're sent on secret CIA missions for God knows how long? Am I just supposed to sit here at the loft waiting for you, not sure if you're even going to come home alive? I have all these questions, Michael, questions that I don't think you've even thought about."

Michael turned to throw his yogurt away and put the spoon in the sink. He stayed at the sink with his hands on the edge, staring out window.

"I have thought about them, Fi, but I don't have any answers for you. You knew this was what I wanted from the start. If, if you're not willing…"

The question was left hanging in the air. If I wasn't willing to accept him, every dysfunctional piece of him, I could leave.

But I couldn't. Not really anyway. I might be able to leave for a night, maybe two. Get a hotel, a condo even. The distance could be there, but inevitably, Michael Westen would call to me like a siren and I would end up back in his arms, his bed, and his heart.

For better or for worse Michael is the only man for me. Living with him is hard but living without him is harder, so I persevere.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe I was just tired, but all of a sudden I hear myself saying, "Please don't leave me."

I feel the heat rise in my neck and face. That kind of vulnerability is never spoken aloud between us. I look down at my hands again hoping he didn't hear me or maybe he'll pretend he didn't hear it.

I hear his footsteps as he walks the distance to the bed. He crawls over until he is sitting right in front of me. He lifts my chin and I see every speck of grey in his eyes. He leans in and gives me the gentlest kiss I've ever had. It's not a promise, it never is, but as he leans in and kisses me again, this time deeper, I realize it's all I'm going to get from Michael.

We lie down and spend the next few hours exploring each other's bodies; the bodies we already have memorized by touch, taste, slight and smell.

I wake up the next morning in Michael's arms and realize that nothing has been resolved. I still have my insecurities and Michael still has his bomber. But he still makes me breakfast, with his innocent little smile, and gives me a kiss on the top of my head as I sit down at the counter. He stands across from me, opting for a blueberry yogurt to start the morning.

And we do start the morning, with more international conspiracy theories involving handsome burned spies.

It is my life. It is his life. Both wound together in a web much bigger than ourselves. But we will continue to stand, to fight and to live, together, at least until the mission is over.

Authors Note: (Because you knew it was coming) So I have a bit of a concern with this story. I realized that I feel much more comfortable with 'thought' stories instead of 'speech' stories, hence why the speech may seem a bit jerky with bad transitions. But, I am my own worst critic so maybe I'm overthinking things. In the end, it's all about what you think, so let me know if you have any suggestions for improvement.