I want to share with my readers...my original novel, September Blue, is now available on Amazon and Kindle. The link is available on my profile page or by searching for "September Blue" by Cat Whitney on Amazon. :-)

5-31-12…My first BN fic, although I've been contemplating one for a while. I hope you'll read and review, as life has interrupted fanfiction this past year, and I could use some encouragment as I hopefully start posting some things. But most importantly, enjoy.

Notes...I've taken a little liberty with the backstory of Michael and Fiona's past. If I contradict anything, it's just because I wanted to go my own way. Also, some of what I hint at in Fiona's past is pulled from an episode where she is determined to help a young girl who was sexually assaulted and says to Michael, "I feel very strongly about this." Just me reading between the lines.

The First Time: Physical

Miami, shortly after Michael is burned.

Fiona was contemplating leaving.

I should, really, she told herself.

She couldn't think of a good reason to stay. Michael wouldn't do the same for her. He hadn't done the same for her. He had walked out on her, left her in a run-down flat in the middle of the night with nothing but an angry, broken heart and a web of lies.

Staring at him now, she could tell he was injured. Still, it was hard to find compassion. Michael was no easy target. Fiona knew he'd most likely been wounded in a fight he started. From the looks of things, he had some broken ribs, maybe a concussion. He'd been out for a while. He could have brain damage for all she knew.

I should leave, she told herself again, He'll never know I was here. I'll leave him some money and maybe call an ambulance. He'll be fine. It's more than he did for me…

Still, Fiona couldn't make herself move. Whatever it was that had possessed her to come all this way in the first place, whatever drew her to Michael Westen had her in its grip again. So she sat there, staring at him, angry at him. She stared at him and clearly remembered the first time she saw him. She remembered their first meeting, their first job together working for the IRA. She remembered their first hideout, their first brush with death, the first time they'd had to defend one another.

She watched his slow, even breathing, and remembered.

The first time…

Ten years earlier, Ireland.

Fiona slammed the heavy, wooden door behind them, furiously locking the dead bolts while Michael scanned the place for anyone hiding in the shadows. Then she turned and leaned against the ancient doorframe, her chest heaving with the effort of running. She watched Michael as he checked the main room, the bathroom, the closet, and every shadowy corner.

Finally speaking up, Fiona called out, "It's safe. This place is a fortress."

Michael came back down the short entry hallway, asking in a thick accent that matched her own, "You built a fortress out of a run-down flat in the fourth ward?"

Fiona's lips twitched in a little smirk, "There's a reason I chose the basement unit. And it's not because I'm against large windows and high ceilings."

Tucking his gun in his belt, Michael cracked a smile in return, "You are constantly full of surprises Fiona Glenanne."

Breezing past him into the one-room, studio space she sometimes called home, Fiona threw out, "You said you wanted to work with the best."

Following her, Michael replied, "If only I had known 'the best' was going to be a tiny woman with patience that only lasts as long as her latest hand-made fuse."

Whipping around, gun still in hand, Fiona asked, "Are you mocking me?"

Throwing his hands up in defense, Michael said, "I wouldn't dream of it. And I suppose you've proven yourself."

Setting the gun aside and smiling again, Fiona couldn't help adding, "And you've barely seen what I can really do."

Michael chuckled, and then just watched her for a moment.

Fiona straightened the duvet, which looked expensive compared to the rickety bed it was spread over. Then, she stood and inspected the rest of the room, her long, auburn hair swinging nearly to her waist.

Michael hadn't thought her to be particularly attractive when they'd first met. Of course, she'd been wearing coveralls to hide the small arsenal she'd been packing. Her hair had been dirty and hastily pulled out of her face. Her features were all bones and angles, with lips that seemed more comfortable smirking or pouting than smiling. And when she'd first looked at him, Michael had never seen more Irish eyes in his life. She had raked those eyes over him, eyes that hovered somewhere between emerald green and the color of the stormy sea. He'd kept his cool, looking at her. He wasn't lying to himself when he decided he didn't find her attractive, then. But he knew he'd met his match. She was a killer with a cause, a lost soul who'd been wounded and wanted absolution from the world. So much like him. He'd been attracted to the idea of working with her. Now, though, he realized he was seeing more.

Fiona continued to peruse the room, checking for anything out of order. She stopped at a rickety shelf and meticulously straightened her nic-nacs. Michael watched as she absentmindedly shook a snow globe before sitting it next to two similar ones. He watched the way her long fingers gracefully touched the things she loved most, delicate things, for someone who could be so destructive. His eyes followed her as she walked back to the bed.

Lounging back on her elbows, she kicked off her shoes and stretched her long, lithe legs. Michael couldn't help noticing the way her filmy dress clung to her body, hinting at curves beneath. He suddenly realized how impractical it was, to wear a dress while manning an assault rifle. Glancing at her manicured toes, he wondered how she'd ever managed to keep up with him, running from small arms fire in heels. She was an enigma, Fiona, and Michael suddenly realized he wanted to touch her. Realizing the dangerous path his emotions were taking, he reacted, and tried to piss her off.

"I'll stay here for the night, in case anyone followed us," Michael stated, glancing out one of the high, murky windows.

Stretching to her feet like a cat who'd spotted prey, Fiona stated, "I can take care of myself."

"Really?" Michael raised an eyebrow, "In those heels?"

Fiona cocked her head, and he could almost see her bristling with anger, "I outran you here, didn't I?"

Pulling out his gun and inspecting the cartridge, Michael argued, "You weren't the one shooting."

Stepping closer to him, Fiona growled, "Are you underestimating me because of your own ego, or because I'm a woman?"

Michael smiled, "A little of both, maybe?"

Her eyes flashed, and Fiona spat, "You have no idea who you're working with, Michael McBride."

With that, she whipped the gun from his hand. In a second, Fiona had his right arm behind his back and his neck in a crushing hold. Reacting on instinct, Michael kicked her feet out from under her and flipped her over onto the bed. His immediate reaction was to apologize, but before he could get out words Fiona was back on her feet. She came at him swinging, getting in several well-placed blows to his ribs before he could swing her around and lock his arms around her. Fighting her forward, he pushed her down on the bed and held her, trying both to defend himself and yet not hurt her.

"Get off of me!" she hissed, struggling.

"Fiona, you made your point. We don't help anyone if we kill each other," Michael stated.

"What about if I just kill you?" Fiona threatened as she struggled to free herself.

"I believe you. I believe if you wanted me dead, I'd be dead," Michael conceded.

After a moment, Fiona finally stopped fighting. Michael loosed his grip just enough so she could turn over and face him. Her eyes searched his and Michael started to repeat what he'd said. Before he got any words out, Fiona slapped him hard across the face. Recoiling and having to admit to himself how strong she was, Michael met her eyes again. Then, they stared at each other.

Fiona studied Michael's eyes, realizing in her anger how very blue they were. She looked at him and, for the first time, he wasn't just an operative, a cohort, or an accomplice. He was a man, pinning her to her bed.

For a moment, she felt a pulse of fear. Secrets she'd buried, haunted memories, stole their way into her mind for the briefest moment. Another day, another man, before she'd really learned to fight, before she'd been hardened and trained. Images of her sister, laid out on the floor next to her when the men had gone. Both girls had been striped of clothes and dignity. Both had fought for their lives. But Claire was dead. And Fiona would never forget the sight and smell of the blood. She would never lose the rage and the helplessness she'd felt.

She had sworn off of men that day. Not out of fear or shame, but out of sheer hatred. She would toy with them, flirt with them and let things go so far. She would let them kiss and touch, and then she would shoot them. Her sexuality became a tool used against her enemies, and all others were kept distant. Fiona Glenanne needed no one, wanted no one. Until now.

Looking in Michael's eyes, she was certain of his respect for her. There was something about him that matched her, made sense to her, as though she knew him in a way he didn't yet know himself.

He's been hurt, too, she thought, wondering how she could know.

And so, having never had much control over her impulses, Fiona reached up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. Michael seemed startled, but didn't pull away. Instead, he relaxed into her, and Fiona felt his hands on her bare arms. She parted her lips and let the kiss deepen, feeling the heat start to grow between them.

After some time, Michael pulled back and asked, "What are you doing, Fiona?"

Not wanting him to know that she had absolutely no idea, wanting to hold onto control, she stated, "What? You don't recognize foreplay?"

"You tried to kill me," Michael argued.

"I know," Fiona smirked, and pulled him in for another kiss.

Michael's hands wandered up to her hair this time, his fingers tangling in its length. Fiona let her fingers find their way into his hair, relishing how absolutely right it felt to be with him like this. It wasn't until she started to work at the buttons on his shirt that Michael pulled away.

Flushed, he started, "I don't know that this is a good idea…"

He sat up on the bed, and Fiona followed him, nearly pulling herself into his lap as she argued, "You know how you react, when someone has a gun to your head and you just do what your body tells you to do? How you go with what you feel, without thinking? That's how we live, Michael. So…go with it. And if we regret it, it can't be worse than shooting someone, can it?"

It was clearly the most unusual seduction Michael had ever experienced. Fiona could see that she'd spoken his language. She'd gotten to him. And he ceased to protest. So she pressed on, hoping her aggressiveness would cover the fact that, past a certain point, she had no idea what she was doing.

She went on instinct, pushing him back onto the bed and stripping him of his shirt and belt. He kicked off his shoes as she began working her mouth over his neck and down his chest. Fiona could see him starting to lose his calm, even control over himself as she let her tongue trail over his skin.

Meeting his eyes again, she said, "You taste salty, and you smell a bit like gunpowder."

It was their own kind of dirty talk, and Michael pulled her back down and kissed her fiercely. Deftly, he worked his hands under the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head. Not surprisingly, there wasn't much underneath the dress, and Fiona was all but naked. Feeling at a disadvantage, she ran her hands over his chest again, and then let her fingers loosen his pants. With a swift, somewhat violent tug she pulled them away, and then she laid herself out on top of him.

Michael's eyes were fixed on her, studying her between every kiss, betraying his usual stoic indifference with every shuddering breath he took. She knew he was a little in awe of her, and she relished the power. But deeper, she wanted him desperately. Fiona wanted it to be him. She didn't think of herself as a virgin. Her innocence had long since been ripped away. She was no chaste flower. But no one had ever touched her like this, had ever been allowed to unravel her and hold her this way.

And I want it to be you, she told herself, because she couldn't admit it to him.

So she let him roll her over, to settle his weight between her thighs so she could feel his arousal through the thin fabric that still separated them. She let him kiss her lips until they were sore and then run his mouth over her neck. He ran his tongue over the cleft at the base of her neck, and she whimpered. Michael kissed each breast while running his warm hands over her bare stomach. He finally pulled their undergarments away and then settled with her again. Now, though, they were flesh against flesh.

Fiona felt a very literal ache, and she was shocked at the strength of how much she simply wanted. Looking at him, every inch of him lit up something within her, made her feel like she'd been drugged, shot with something that made her blood run like fire. She ran her hands over the muscles in his arms, flexed from keeping his weight off her chest. She studied his scars and his rugged features. She nuzzled his neck and caught the scent of gunpowder again, mixed with sweat and cologne. She let her hands run down his back, relishing in knowing his strength. Fiona touched his bare buttocks, and Michael inhaled sharply.

"Fiona," he choked out, and, for the first time, his eyes were needy.

So she kissed him again and shifted her weight so he could press himself inside of her. She kept kissing him as he moved with her, as his chest slid against hers. She let her legs tangle around his. His arms held her tighter and the friction between them heated their skin and drew a sheen of sweat from each of them. Fiona let herself go, with him. She let herself feel, to ride the waves of pleasure and give in to the sheer intensity of the moment.

Then, she felt him climax. He clutched her tightly and buried his head in her neck. And then her body gave in as well. She hadn't known what to expect, and the feeling of such power and surrender at the same time caught her off guard. Fiona dug her nails into his back and couldn't hold back a cry. She held him, went with him, took him and gave in to him.

And after a long time, she realized she was trembling. When Michael finally looked at her, he kissed her softly. Then, for the first of many times, she saw a look he saved only for her.

His eyes searched hers in concern, and he asked, "Are you okay?"

To cover things she couldn't admit, Fiona smirked and said, "Of course. What? Do you think this is my first time?"

Michael looked at her, trying to see through her, their bodies still entwined from lovemaking, and Fiona knew she was irrevocably changed.

Miami, shortly after Michael is burned.

The first time, she said to herself again, trying to shake off the memory.

He still didn't know. Even after their fiery relationship and all they'd survived, together. When he'd left her that night ten years ago, she still hadn't told him. They were so many things she'd never told him.

And you never have to, she kept thinking, Just leave. Go. Now. It's good he never knew what he meant, what he was to you. He doesn't deserve you.

And still, against everything her mind was telling her, one phrase twisted her heart.

You know how you react, when someone has a gun to your head and you just do what your body tells you to do? How you go with what you feel, without thinking? That's how we live, Michael…

So she kicked him, hard, in the ribs, and met those damned blue eyes when he opened them and asked, "Where am I?"