Milli-Verse: Things You Forget
Mar. 17th, 2012 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luvs_yogurt It's not that happy hour wasn't exactly happy, he's getting out and meeting people... but just like in Miami, Michael seems to find the ones that cut him deep when it's the last thing he wants to think about. When he steps back through the door at the back of Carlito's, he stops for a beer only to find his wallet again empty.
When he opens the door back at home, the loft is empty and quiet - the late afternoon already draping shadows across the unmade bed and scarred floor. He retrieves the last beer from the fridge, thanks Sam for at least leaving him one, and then downs half of it before dialing the familiar number.
"Hey Mom."
"Michael? Oh God, what's wrong this time?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to see how things are going."
Madeline Westen is silent for a long moment. He can hear her light a cigarette and exhale into the receiver before she says; "All right, I'll bite... what do you need?"
"I don't need anything, can't I can't just call my mother?"
"You can, but you haven't in twenty years," she replies bitterly.
It's an exaggeration, but not by much. "Yeah, well... that's my fault."
"Well... yeah, it is." She laughs, but he knows it's her nerves more than genuine humor. "Michael, you're... you're making me a little nervous. Have you been drinking?"
"I had one drink and I'm drinking a beer, but I just wanted to make sure that everything is going fine. Is there anything you need? Do you want me to come fix anything or maybe put in that alarm system we were talking about? Maybe I could pick up something at the store..." He's rambling, he knows it but he can't stop the flow of words - it's the first time in a long time he's been forced to remember that he's more than a spy.
"Michael! Stop it, you're scaring me!" Her voice pitches up and he stops mid though, swallowing back his emotions with another large slug of cheap beer. "What's gotten into you?"
It takes a minute, but he restrains himself - once more the stoic voice and calm mind. "Sorry... I've just... I was thinking about you and, uh... Nate and how things are going."
"It's fine, Michael... you know that. We make do."
"I know," he replies quietly, they always have. Even in the worst of times the Westens have made do.
She exhales loudly against the receiver again; "Actually, since I've got you on the phone... you think you could give a friend of mine a call? She's worried about her grandson..."
Of course she is. "Sure," he agrees, clearly more quickly than she had expected he would; "what's the number?"
When he opens the door back at home, the loft is empty and quiet - the late afternoon already draping shadows across the unmade bed and scarred floor. He retrieves the last beer from the fridge, thanks Sam for at least leaving him one, and then downs half of it before dialing the familiar number.
"Hey Mom."
"Michael? Oh God, what's wrong this time?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to see how things are going."
Madeline Westen is silent for a long moment. He can hear her light a cigarette and exhale into the receiver before she says; "All right, I'll bite... what do you need?"
"I don't need anything, can't I can't just call my mother?"
"You can, but you haven't in twenty years," she replies bitterly.
It's an exaggeration, but not by much. "Yeah, well... that's my fault."
"Well... yeah, it is." She laughs, but he knows it's her nerves more than genuine humor. "Michael, you're... you're making me a little nervous. Have you been drinking?"
"I had one drink and I'm drinking a beer, but I just wanted to make sure that everything is going fine. Is there anything you need? Do you want me to come fix anything or maybe put in that alarm system we were talking about? Maybe I could pick up something at the store..." He's rambling, he knows it but he can't stop the flow of words - it's the first time in a long time he's been forced to remember that he's more than a spy.
"Michael! Stop it, you're scaring me!" Her voice pitches up and he stops mid though, swallowing back his emotions with another large slug of cheap beer. "What's gotten into you?"
It takes a minute, but he restrains himself - once more the stoic voice and calm mind. "Sorry... I've just... I was thinking about you and, uh... Nate and how things are going."
"It's fine, Michael... you know that. We make do."
"I know," he replies quietly, they always have. Even in the worst of times the Westens have made do.
She exhales loudly against the receiver again; "Actually, since I've got you on the phone... you think you could give a friend of mine a call? She's worried about her grandson..."
Of course she is. "Sure," he agrees, clearly more quickly than she had expected he would; "what's the number?"
