Cherry Bomb (A Michael Fassbender Fanfic)

3: Breakfast

For the remainder of the evening, I was sure to steer clear of the damn mistletoe and avoided Michael at all costs. I felt so confused. On one hand, it's fantastic to see him again. And to get along as well as we always have, almost like no time has been lost. On the other hand, he's an ex-lover (does that count if it's only been once?) and a whole bunch of old feelings have risen to the surface in the short amount of time I've stepped foot on Irish soil today. The years have been oh, so kind to him. Why isn't he fat and balding? He should be fat and balding! It would make my life so much easier, dammit.

Hours later, most of the party guests have left, save for those staying overnight in the guest bedrooms, as well as Michael and his family. I constantly feel his eyes on me, even when we aren't in the same room. And I like it. I feel on alert. All over. My skin is kind of, I don't know, humming. Or maybe that's the whiskey. Yeah, it's probably the whiskey. Whisky mixed with lust.

Uncle Geoffrey had been making the rounds, never leaving anyone with an empty glass. I'm not much of a drinker, but hey. It's Christmas. And I'm single. And horny. I don't know why that's a good excuse, but we'll just say it is. I slip away to the bathroom, which I know is a terrible idea, because once you open the floodgates, you're in the bathroom every ten minutes. But I've held it long enough. When I come back out, Michael is waiting for me with the ugliest scarf I've ever seen wrapped around his neck.

"Good god, what died around your neck?" I laugh.

Michael puts a finger up against his lip, laughing with me. "Shh! Your grandmother made this. Don't I make it look good?"

I'm gone. Completely plastered. "Pfffttt!" I snort and tug on one of the ends of the scarf. "Yes, it's fabulous. Is this what you received tonight?"

He nods and back against the wall, hands behind him. He looks so innocent but lord knows he's not. I follow his lead and lean against the opposite wall, arms across my chest.

"Are you having a better night?" he asks.

I sigh and nod. "I've had worse, we'll just say that."

He smirks. "My folks are about to leave."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He stares at me. I stare at him. I can tell he's trying to read me.

"Will you be back tomorrow?" I finally ask.

His face lights up and he gives me a huge grin. "My first Christmas back in years and you think there's a chance I'm going to miss out on your grandma's Christmas breakfast? Not a chance, love. Yes, I'll be back."

Oh shit. Breakfast. At breakfast time. Also known as 'hangover time' to those who partake in copious amounts of whiskey the evening before. Great. I feel sick to my stomach suddenly. Maybe everyone will just forget I was here and I can sleep the entire day away.

"Save me a seat." And with that, he pushes off the wall, unwraps his scarf and drapes it around my neck. "Hmm. Looks so much better on you."

Oh sweet swaddled baby Jesus in the manger. It already smells like him. I tell myself I'm not sleeping with it. I'm not sleeping with it. I will NOT snuggle with it or sleep with it.

But I totally do. And I wake up in a pool of drool to loud obnoxious banging noises downstairs as my grandmother and others prepare the big traditional O'Conner Christmas breakfast. My head pounds, my brain threatening to explode. As hard as I try, there's no going back to sleep. I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes, yawning until the corners of my mouth feel they could rip. I grab my toiletries and some clothes and stagger into the hallway and see the guest bathroom is occupied so I lean against the wall and wait.