Sam sat staring at his phone. Well, he sat in a relaxed pose with his phone on his thigh, glancing at it every few moments, almost imperceptibly. Almost. To Shawn, Sam may as well have been holding the cell pressed to his face, hitting 'redial' constantly and screaming Michael's name in frustration.
"Everything okay there, Samuel?" asked Shawn, his voice carrying a mock-curious tone.
"Just peachy." said Sam, smiling.
"Really?" asked Shawn.
Sam's smile tightened. "Really."
Gus noticed Fiona's index finger tapping on her machine gun. He misinterpreted her worry as a threatening gesture and sat transfixed, watching intently and nearly jumping at every sharp click. Fiona noticed that he was watching and ended with a concise tap.
Then the loft, apart from the low hum of electrical equipment and Miami's own white noise of occasional screams or gunshots, was in silence. Shawn, unable to endure the quiet, began to hum a title tune from an 80s television program. Sam recognized the song, but couldn't quite place it. Eventually, the humming began to drive Sam mad in its familiarity yet impossible-to-place nature. Just as Sam was on the verge of finally discerning the tune, there was a knocking upon the loft's door, and three clear raps broke his concentration. Shawn stopped humming.
Sam and Fiona stared at each other. They hadn't expected any visitors, and even then none of those who typically prowled around Michael's place fit the knock; a drunk or druggie wouldn't have rapped politely, and despite the explosions and chaos they'd caused over the past few days, they weren't expecting any cops. There was Michael himself, but Michael had a key and would have called to let them know he was okay before stepping in. He'd better have.
Sam bit his lip and moved a little to the left, hiding his shotgun behind the loft's stairs. Fiona raised her eyebrows slightly, staring at Sam. A few seconds of silence passed, followed by another three knocks on the loft door.
"Well, answer it!" said Sam. Fiona rolled her eyes, got up, deposited her own gun out of sight, retrieved a handgun, hid it on her person, and answered the door.
Shawn struggled to turn and see, then looked back toward Sam. Sam put a finger over his lips, then went into the kitchen and got a handgun out of a drawer. Despite being unable to see, Shawn could hear the voices from the door fairly clearly.
"Is this the residence of a one, ah... Michael Westen?"
The question was asked in an urgent yet businesslike male voice that Shawn and Gus both immediately recognized. It was a voice that, at that moment, made Shawn intensely nervous.
"Now, what would make you think that?" asked Fiona. She recognized the stranger just as well as Shawn did, but didn't show it.
"I'm in no mood for games, miss. I'm currently in the middle of a very serious countrywide investigation and I'd greatly appreciate it if you were to step aside and allow me to search the premises."
Fiona raised her eyebrows.
"Please?" asked a woman's voice. Another voice for Shawn and Gus to recognize. This was not good...
Fiona looked toward the man and ignored the girl. "How about I step outside so we can discuss this further?" she asked, one arm placed suggestively around her own waist and the other hanging loosely on the door frame.
"Excuse me?" was the only response she received, and it happened to be delivered in a very agitated tone.
Even from inside of the loft, Sam could tell that Fiona's typically killer flirty charm was having no effect whatsoever the stranger. The man outside clearly had something else on his mind, and Sam desperately hoped that Fiona could change it.
"If that's the case, we're busy at the moment. Do come back later."
Fiona moved to lock the man out, but the stranger put a foot in the door.
"I'll have to insist."
It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes; the guest was not nearly as easily deterred as he and Fiona had hoped. As if they didn't have enough to deal with! He unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt, picked up a beer, and swaggered over to the door, doing his best to block any view of the inside when he arrived. He then downed the remainder of the beer, crudely wiped across his mouth with a wrist, and put an arm around Fiona.
"Wha's goin' on here? They messin' with you, baby? Huh?" He glared up at the man in front of him.
"As I explained, it's an investigation." said the stranger. "If we could just have a look inside..."
"Don'chu need a warrant or somethin'?" asked Sam, leaning forward and drunkenly leering at the blonde woman next to the detective. There were two of them. Great.
The detective's nose twitched in disgust, and the woman to his side crossed her arms.
"Just let me-"
"Nnnnno." said Sam, shaking his head. He then moved forward, opening the door further and forcing the male detective to move his foot in order to step back.
"Look," said the younger partner, doing her best to be polite, "Let's try again. I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara and this is Detective Carlton Lassiter. We'll only need a moment of your time. Promise!"
"You'n have a moment of my time anytime, hon," said Sam, before turning to Lassiter. "'Ey, you, sticks, I bet you ain't no cop. Hell, you don' even seem to be from 'round here. I bet you just came here 'cause you want Big Chuck's girl! Well, you can't have her! I tell you right now, Big Chuck ain't one to let some out-of-towner harass his lady, bud. So stop harrasin' her. Stop tryin' to get my lady!"
"Big Chuck?" asked O'Hara
"Damn straight, hot stuff!" After winking lecherously at her and causing her partner's face to contort in disgust, he turned toward Lassiter. "Now, git!"
"Look, Chuck, if you had any idea what I've been through, any idea of what you're doing, you big, disgusting, low-life drunkard scu-"
"He's scaring me, Big Chuck!" said Fiona, grabbing onto the front of Sam's shirt and sobbing into it.
"Get the hell outta here! Can't you see you're upsetting Big Chuck's lady? Damn!"
"That, that's ludicrous, we-" stammered Juliet, unsure of what to do.
"Come on back in, honey, Big Chuck'll make it all better..."
Before they could react, Detectives Juliet and Lassiter had a door promptly slammed and locked in their face.
On the inside of the loft, Sam and Fiona felt that they could breathe easy, if only for the time being.
"Next time we pull that one, Sam, would you please refrain from fully unbuttoning your shirt?"
"It's called getting into character, Fiona. I'm sorry if my methods offended you."
"No, Sam, I believe it's known as overacting."
"Eeeveryone's a critic. You should just be happy we got out of that; they bought it, and that's what matters."
"How did they know where to find us?" asked Fiona as she placed the handgun on closest thing the kitchen had to a table. "We ditched that car quite some time ago."
"They embedded a very small tracking device in my lower vertebrae." answered Shawn, deadpan as ever. Sam and Fiona merely stared at him.
"Simple procedure, really. Anyway, that was impressive!"
"You think so?" asked Sam smugly, turning toward Fiona as he did so.
"Yes! You forgot one thing, though."
"And what would that be?" said Sam as he looked down and rebuttoned his shirt.
Sam paused a moment, then looked up from his buttons. "You don't-" he began before being interrupted by the loft's door being violently kicked in by the detective who apparently refused to take no for an answer.
There was a moment of chaos; a moment of yelling and of desperate grappling for guns.
Then Detective Carlton Lassiter finally came face-to-face with the man who somehow thus far avoided the swift retribution of justice for having dared violate his precious auto.
Shawn smiled meekly.
"Hey! Lassie! How you doin'?"