Indy's bedroom
Fiona shakes her head and laughs to herself as she walks through the suite to Indy's bedroom in nothing more than her white tank top and red thong, her bare feet making no sound on the carpets. Mike had asked for his pants back and she'd given them to him. The resulting silence proved gratifying, but she's worn less on South Beach in February.
Boys. The same the universe over.
Food had helped clear her head, though the hangover still hovered in her awareness. All she needed was another big glass of water and a couple of aspirin, and she'd be fine. She always was. She wondered where Michael was, what he was doing. She can't even begin to think about Max. It still hurts too much. And it will for a while, she knows.
And then there's Indiana Jones.
She pauses to glance at the artifacts on top of his dresser, a curious mix of cultures and time periods. He's clearly the closest Milliways gets to a real celebrity, judging by the attention he garnered while tending bar the other night. He seems to thrive on the attention. It's also clear that he's a very different person from the character in the films. She hopes she knows better than to conflate the two. It's hard to ditch an entire cover story and rebuild the intel from scratch, but she's done it before. (Michael McBride? Cover story.)
She picks up a tiny Egyptian statue, a bit of sand dust clinging to her fingertips as she turns it over and over. These are glimpses of the academic and the adventurer that she can recognize. The hijinks with the ex-flatmate are something else entirely.
And then there's the man who'd opened his door in the wee hours of the morning to take in her sorry ass. He'd given her a glass of water and insisted she stay the night. He'd given her his own bed, had sat there waiting until she was out of the shower, but then didn't take advantage. Instead, he'd slept on the couch and then made her breakfast.
She didn't know him at all, really. And he's heading in to confront her about the little display she'd just made.
Fi smirks, deliciously curious to find out just what the next few minutes hold.
Boys. The same the universe over.
Food had helped clear her head, though the hangover still hovered in her awareness. All she needed was another big glass of water and a couple of aspirin, and she'd be fine. She always was. She wondered where Michael was, what he was doing. She can't even begin to think about Max. It still hurts too much. And it will for a while, she knows.
And then there's Indiana Jones.
She pauses to glance at the artifacts on top of his dresser, a curious mix of cultures and time periods. He's clearly the closest Milliways gets to a real celebrity, judging by the attention he garnered while tending bar the other night. He seems to thrive on the attention. It's also clear that he's a very different person from the character in the films. She hopes she knows better than to conflate the two. It's hard to ditch an entire cover story and rebuild the intel from scratch, but she's done it before. (Michael McBride? Cover story.)
She picks up a tiny Egyptian statue, a bit of sand dust clinging to her fingertips as she turns it over and over. These are glimpses of the academic and the adventurer that she can recognize. The hijinks with the ex-flatmate are something else entirely.
And then there's the man who'd opened his door in the wee hours of the morning to take in her sorry ass. He'd given her a glass of water and insisted she stay the night. He'd given her his own bed, had sat there waiting until she was out of the shower, but then didn't take advantage. Instead, he'd slept on the couch and then made her breakfast.
She didn't know him at all, really. And he's heading in to confront her about the little display she'd just made.
Fi smirks, deliciously curious to find out just what the next few minutes hold.