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Michael | Sonnet
Rockin and a Rollin'
Tue Feb 14, 2006 11:30

The earthquake struck at five-eighteen in the morning, ripping straight through the town of San Mateo, California. The damage was extensive, including some done to San Francisco Int'l Airport, and the nearby towns of Burlingame, Hillsborough, and Millbrae, which was where Michael Pierson had lived until that morning. Literally jolted out of bed at an hour no sane actor would contemplate, he'd slid across his bedroom and into the hallway, watching as the back half of the house he shared with other creative types vanished into a mudslide care of said earthquake.

He couldn't remember how long it had taken to crawl back to his room and locate the jeans he'd wore the previous evening, toss on shoes and socks, and grab the backpack kept nearby just for this sort of emergency. All the man knew was that it hadn't been enough time, fingers scrambling to find purchase against rough asphalt as he leapt from the sinking remains onto the street outside. Ten years in California, and it was the first time he'd been in such a horrific situation. Thank god his stepfather had insisted on the emergency pack.

Michael remained sprawled on the ground for a long while, eyes taking in the destruction wrought up and down his street, and farther down towards San Mateo. Car alarms were going off around him, barely visible through a smoky haze that permeated everything and smelled ... on second thought, he wasn't going to even try and decipher each smell. Call him prudent, or a coward.

"Head north, folks. They're setting up shelters at the Airport."

Police megaphone cut through his attempts to get his head straight, still unable to believe what had actually happened, and Michael hated being interrupted. It tended to turn his mood sour, though a few select friends might've said it actually improved his disposition. They would have been summarily decked.

"Bite me..." He promptly informed the officer, which, on any other day, would have gotten him clapped in irons and sent on to headquarters, but somehow this one miraculously decided to pass on the loudmouth and consider the circumstances and simply waved him on. After pushing himself to his feet, Michael found out that he'd lost both shoes and socks in the mad dash from certain death - the backpack survived only because he'd slung it over his shoulders in some automatic decision. This left two choices, to stay and risk being caught in an aftershock, or hobble his way over bits of broken glass and other assorted nasties.

He opted to stay put. Slicing up his feet-- the earth trembled underneath his ass, flinging the actor further out into the street. Saint Murphy must have been looking out for him, because the one patch of ground that held no dangerous objects whatsoever was currently occupied by an old Korean woman, still wearing her nightgown and hair curlers. He'd landed on his back in what felt like a briar patch, and what turned out to be the remains of a motorcycle, now twisted so out of shape the only way you could tell was the 'Harley Davidson' emblem in the dirt.

"... me."

Michael lifted his gaze to the sky, mood so sour now that it would take an act of God to improve anything. But, against his better nature, the man eased himself up once more and hobbled across the trash-strewn ground to rescue the old woman, both of them prime choices for an ER visit. But no one came. After the one cop had left, guiding survivors toward the airport, the street seemed eerily quiet.

There were other hold-out, more intent on looting abandoned apartments than finding a way out of Hell, and Michael was forced to defend his backpack more than a dozen times as the sky lightened, illuminating the level of damage across the western Bay. In two hours he'd only made it to the end of his block, and it was there he stayed until some jerk in a fancy patrol car pulled up and began bellowing his name via megaphone.

Just like that.

In all honestly, Michael couldn't remember exactly what he'd said to the guy, only that he was sure he'd meant every vicious word, even after he'd been handed a phone and told his sister was worried about him. Only said sister's voice suddenly issuing into his ear stopped the tirade and brought a small semblance of calm.

Michael, love, calm down. Can you get to Oakland airport?

"I don't have any fracking shoes, Sonnet." He sighed, trying to reign in the wild cascade of words. "Probably. It'll take me a while. Why?"

Because I'm going to buy you a plane ticket, idjit. Just get there as best you can. Go up to the American Airlines counter, honey. We'll get you out here asap!

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Sonnet, can you call Dad and let him know I'm alright?"

Absolutely, love. Just find a way to the airport. I love you.

Michael returned the reciever back to it's own, his stance one not of contrition but defiance. "I need to get to Oakland. Do you know of a way across the water?" He was going to assume the San Mateo Bridge was down, either from damage or prudence on the part of the SFPD. Or the National Guard.

"Absolutely, love. Just find a way to the airport. I love you."

Sonnet handed the phone back to Devon, knees shaking so badly that she sat down before they buckled. Devon began speaking quietly to whoever was now on the other end, but his partner paid little attention. She'd scooped the other phone back up and was calling the same number that had opened up such a can of worms for Officer Holmes.

"Hey, Dad?"

Sweetheart! We haven't been able to get through yet, the lines are still blocked. Ben sounded more haggard than usual, nudging her to do away with the small talk and get straight to the point. "I know, but Devon managed to get through somehow. Michael is alive and making his way towards Oakland. I need you to purchase a ticket for him and fax a photo in case he doesn't have any ID on him."

Will do, pumpkin. Click.

Sonnet slowly set the phone back down, stood up on wobbly legs and headed into the kitchen. Coffee. Pure, unadulterated caffeine was what this situation called for. And a shrink, maybe, because she'd never felt so helpless in her life. Shaking hands poured out a small measure of plain, instant Folgers and split it between two cups. How interesting, her mind whispered, that you know where all of his coffee mugs are.

The officer mentally told herself to shut up and continued to stave off a panic attack with this simple, domestic chore. It wasn't until her nose caught the scent of cologne, seconds before she felt herself gently eased back against someone with a large, bare chest wearing a towel that Sonnet realized she was still shaking.

Devon gently turned her around, obviously thinking to rock her back and forth like a little doll, or perhaps she was too influenced by her own mother. "He'll be fine, Officer Tennyson." Damn! He wasn't supposed to sound so sexy when reassuring her. "I know ... it's just--" The woman stopped, words stuck in her throat. Maybe it was the fact they both wore little clothing. Or the high probability that she was just a touch deranged at the moment out of worry for her brother. Or, if one used that whole honesty concept, it was simply that she'd lowered her barriers.

Whatever it was, Sonnet's lips met Devon's, though she wasn't sure who had started leaning forward first, only that his arms tightened, effectively imprisioning her against the counter. So brief the kiss, for he stepped back almost immediately, shaking his head as if to dispell some horrible vision. The cop turned around and walked away, shoulders hunched against whatever the image in his mind detailed.

It pissed Sonnet off.

Coffee forgotten, she stalked after him, outstretched fingers barely catching hold of his arm in the living room. "You are such a little idiot at times, Holmes." And with that enlightened statement, Sonnet found the courage to lean up and re-connect the kiss. Just one kiss, and then she'd go take a gazillion showers. But the one led to another, and another, then one more. She couldn't stop, and Devon didn't. It wasn't a matter of questions, really, only two people acting on something primitive.

Too far to the bedroom, they tumbled backwards onto the couch, hands and lips and limbs tangled up removing shirt, underwear and towel in an effort to connect on the most basic of levels. In fact, aside from the overwhelming urge to get as close to him as possible, Sonnet found herself downright enjoying the experience. And from the way Devon was grinning several hours later, she had to assume he had too.

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