Michael Westen

Milli-Verse: Nightmare

2012-06-13T03:54:56Z

[ooc: BIG OLE WARNING OF DOOM ON THIS.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR GRAPHIC PHYSICAL CHILD ABUSE.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.]

Please, please don’t ever call me a hero. Heroes don’t fear pain; they’re molded, tempered and honed by it.

“It was me!” Young Michael, barely an adolescent, stands in between his parents – staring his father straight in the eyes even as the hand that had just split mother’s lip is directed toward him. It’s early enough that he’s still drunk from the night before, still reeking of whiskey and beer.

The cops are gone now, they’d let Madeline off with a warning for shoplifting since the owners refused to press charges, but in the process they woke Frank up from his Sunday morning sleeping it off. Michael wishes they’d have stayed – that they had noticed the way his mother flinched and tried to hold back tears when she heard him tell the police he’d take care of the problem. Never mind that he would have actually done it if he’d known what they needed – and probably gotten away with it. Never mind that it was aspirin to bring down his little brother’s fever and some food because they were broke again when his father’s paycheck didn’t make it past the bar.

“I was stealing; she told them it was her so that I wouldn’t get in trouble.” Michael stands his ground even when a slap across the face closes his wild eyes. He can still hear the sound of leather clearing denim belt loops.

“Michael, no…” Madeline gasps, barely whisper that nobody hears above the hard and fast rain of blows from the belt.

Thighs, stomach, back – always places nobody bothers to look until a kid shows up with one too many black eyes to write off as ‘boys being boys’. Places Michael’s used to being hit. “Damn it Frank, that’s enough!” his mother’s voice cracks and he can hear her light a cigarette to cover the fact that she’s crying – a world away he can imagine Nate curled up in the closet doing whatever he can to block out the noise and pretend that nothing’s happening

“You’re next,” he growls.

“It’s your fault,” Michael yells, he knows he has to do something to draw the attention back to himself – he can handle it. “If you could pull your head out of the bottle long enough to think for two seconds you’d know that.” He opens his eyes only a second – just long enough to see buckle coming for his face. He’s aware of the strike, the yellow and red star of pain, and then wetness on his face as his mother screams at Frank to leave. The door slams and as Madeline’s smoke comes closer and her fingers tug at his clothes to check his bruises.

Something soft is pressed against his face and his mother sighs; “I… I can’t take you to the hospital, honey. Not like this. Here…” She blots at the cut on his face, ruining her best white washcloth in the process; “look at me, Michael.”

Forcing his eyes, he realizes the wetness is blood and it’s not as close to his eye as he knows his mother fears – but it’s deep and it hurts worse than anything else. “I’m fine,” he whimpers, the first big tears finally allowed to roll down his cheeks when he hears the thunder of the Charger blowing down the driveway.

After a long, quiet moment of staring at each other he knows that his mother’s breaking. She thinks he’s stupid for taking the beating, for forcing himself between them. “He’s not a bad man,” Madeline swallows hard, her mascara running dark lines into her tearstained foundation; “he’s only like this…”

“When he’s drinking,” the boy’s voice is barely a whisper and as she leads him to the bathroom to clean him up and teach him how to make a couple stitches with rubbing alcohol and fishing line. In the mirror, he can see Nate lingering in the doorway and watching him – confused, barely old enough to understand what’s going on and desperately pretending the lie they’re going to tell the school is truth. Michael was in a fight with a bigger boy, yes, he’s fine.

Spies are terrified of pain; their demons haunt them just as much as anyone else despite having many more of them. They’re just good at hiding it.

A very adult Michael wakes up shuddering and sweating, cursing at the darkness in a world so far from his own it’s the fucking end of the universe. It takes a long run to the bathroom (thanks to the anti-radiation drugs Ellen had pumped into him) to stop shaking enough that he can hold the almost empty bottle of whiskey still lingering in his room from his last visit from Emma.

Choking back the memory, the very real and very terrifying memory that only opens the floodgates of the last few weeks, he pours out the last double and stares at it in the dark room.

Back on Gunsmoke, he’d held a gun to a little girl’s head. He’d shot a man without even feeling it. There had to have been another way – he could have just knocked him out, tied him up with his buddies. Even if he did shoot Wolfwood, the preacher was fine. He didn’t have to put rounds in Pierre’s chest. Even if it was just the gut decision in the heat of the moment, the guilt still weighs heavily on him.

He laughs bitterly and picks up the heavy glass – rolling it in his hands as the limited light catches the amber liquid. His back still aches from the shard of shrapnel from the Wasteland, the circular scar from Paco’s ring is still obvious on the back of his head, and when he takes a deep breath he can feel the tingle of burned lung tissue from New York that’ll never let him breathe the same. Every time he runs further away from what’s waiting for him in Miami, he learns more and lets the pain shape him even further.

When he looks in the mirror and sees the scar he’ll bear the rest of his life he swears he can still feel the strike and knows that he’s not his father. Still, he clings to his drink – whiskey’s not the enemy, it’s a simple thing. A drink, a way to numb the pain – to forget the look of terror on the little girl’s face as he shoved his 9mm against her head with his finger on the trigger.

He takes a long sip, swallowing hard as the whiskey flushes his cheeks and burns his throat until he clears more than half the glass. He knows if he drinks the rest of it, maybe he’ll be able to sleep tonight. And maybe if he gets another bottle he won’t dream about something just as bad – Chechnya, St. Petersburg, Dublin, Fiona telling him she’s walking away, his mother held at gunpoint by people after him, a bomb in front of a store filled with civilians going off while he and William fought an assassin simply to get his attention.

Michael lets out a ragged breath and grips the neck of the empty bottle – room service is damn good at Milliways and he knows when he goes to pour again it’ll be full with the same cheap whiskey that he’s clinging to like a man desperate to hide his demons. The thought’s enough to curl his fingers tight around the glass.

With a loud, angry growl, the heavy bottle shatters against the corner in a spray of heavy glass and whiskey.

“I’m not a bad man.”

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OOM: William Evans Visits Miami

2012-05-27T05:16:06Z

Michael's on his way to the door, his polo shirt and jeans dusty from training with Duncan and a lasso out by the stables most of the morning and a pair of new work gloves hanging out of his pocket already showing signs of wear. He's got a lot on his mind, not the least of which is a small list of items he's on his way to retrieve before heading out to Ellen's world again to fight robots - because that's something that happens now that Milliways has become a considerable part of his life. Spy, cowboy, futuristic robot slayer... why the hell not. Sure beats posing as another millionaire playboy looking to score hot guns.

But then there's also the question of if he should go ahead and start working on the matter of finding this spy that's responsible for his burn notice before the guy finds him... assuming they don't already have a target on his back when he goes through the door.

It's those thoughts that make it so he doesn't even see William when he brushes past him; "Excuse me..." he mutters in a soft, distracted tone - not stopping his steady steps.

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Posted On The Board at Milliways:

2012-05-09T07:07:43Z

[ooc: Looking to take Michael to other worlds for action and adventure and who knows what else. Up for pretty much anything, feel free to utilize any of his spy skills. Contact IC through any means you like to negotiate terms... including payment, unless it's sort of an emergency or you need a favor. He's not heartless.]

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OOM: Millways Room 15 with Emma, Take Two

2012-04-28T03:34:41Z

It's been a long couple days and frankly Michael's not ready to go back to Miami. All he can think about is making things right with Emma, fixing the good thing they have as best he can. After stopping at the bar for a much needed beer he fished a napkin out of his pocket and left Emma a note to come find him.

After a long shower, where he manages to wash away as much evidence of the fire as he can - leaving behind only pink skin that could be a sunburn and singed eyebrows to go with his rough throat and aching chest - he puts on a clean t-shirt and boxers, and then curls up with his pillow and blanket for some much needed rest until she (hopefully) comes to see him.

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OOM: Lady Troubles

2012-04-11T17:45:34Z

After dropping Emma off, Michael doesn't go home right away. The Charger cuts through pre-dawn traffic with no particular direction, slowly rolling past palm trees, bodegas, warehouses and nightclubs - none of which he particularly cares to see.

It's not supposed to feel like this. He's not supposed to feel like this. They've known each other all of two weeks - one brush with death and sleeping together shouldn't make it feel like he's been kicked in the chest to watch her walk away. One night stands happen, a physical connection to deal with stress and anxiety and feel close to someone for a little bit before breaking ties.

That wasn't what happened. It wasn't supposed to happen.

Both the fuel tank and his energy running close to empty, when he finally returns to the loft the sun's coming up. He climbs up to the platform overlooking his bed - he can't sleep when the sheets smell like her - and collapses on the sofa until it's too hot to sleep anymore.

When he wakes again, it's almost one and his empty stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten more than a cup of yogurt in the last two days. As he remedies that with another cup of yogurt over the sink he realizes he's not the only one who's probably not looking their best.

As expected, Sam doesn't answer his phone, but Michael leaves a message anyway; "Hey, uh... Sam. Up for a two mojito lunch? Come by the loft."

Seems like as good a time as any to break out the heavybag and beat the crap out of his fists.

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OOM: Welcome to Miami, Emma

2012-04-01T21:02:14Z

It'd been a strange day already and things were just getting started for Michael. Thankfully his hangover had abated over the course of his unexpected bartending shift and by the time he'd served his last cup of yogurt he was ready to get the ball rolling in Miami.

He took the stairs quickly, almost silent when he turned his key in the lock and opened the door to his room. And just like he'd expected, she was in his bed nestled against the soft pillows with her eyes closed, blonde curls pushed up against her face. She wore the innocence that someone can really only pull off while sleeping, that perfect moment where there is no worry, no considering the next move, only blissful peace. It would be easy to slip into bed beside her, to kiss her again - bold faced and sober and buying in to what part of him really did want to do.

Of course, he wasn't that guy. He wouldn't betray her trust or risk pushing something she didn't want. Instead, he knocked loudly on the door and said; "Emma? We should get ready."

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OOM: Milliways Room 15

2012-03-28T20:29:52Z

After their quick walk, Michael let Emma lead the way back to the bar. He hasn't been up to his room since the apocalypse, but unsurprisingly it's exactly as he'd left it - looking vaguely like every single mid-range hotel room in Miami. A comfortable double bed occupies the center of the room with a small table and two chairs off to one side. Immediately beside the table is a minifridge on top of a small counter sporting a two-cup coffee maker and an unopened bottle of whiskey with two fresh tumblrs. Along the other side of the room is a small closet that Michael hopes still has a fresh change of clothes and assorted odds and ends he needed at one point or another.

"Feel free to make yourself at home," he smiles as he unlocks and then pushes open the door. "It's not much, but it's private and comfortable."

Pacing inside, he does a visual check on autopilot - confirming everything is where it should be (the whiskey being a nice and welcome touch, the bottle had been empty and wine the last time he left) and no nasty surprises were waiting.

"Do you mind if I..." he's already shouldering off his dirty, torn jacket; "put on something a little less destroyed?"

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OOM: Ticket To Ride... A Horse

2012-03-20T04:22:44Z

Meeting Miss Kate was a bit of a surprise, not that he didn't expect to meet a woman from another century in Milliways... far from it - he just didn't expect to meet a lady with a sharp tongue and a knack for horses. Which is precisely how he's found himself dressed down in a pair of worn jeans and a white t-shirt swiped from his grease stained 'working on the car' collection.

He spent the first night in Room 15 since the apocalypse... and it wasn't so bad, really. More quiet than the loft and with a far smaller chance of being woken up by gunshots in the middle of the night. When he woke just past eight o'clock - in whatever passed for local time - he felt refreshed, and dare he say it, enthusiastic about his upcoming lesson.

***

With a slightly cocky gait, he slips on his shades and procures a small picnic breakfast from the kitchen before making his way to the stables. He takes the long way around, enjoying the strange morning chill on his arms as it's warmed by the sun - such a different world from Miami where he'd be choking on smog and applying sunscreen this time of morning.

As he approaches the stable, he keeps his eyes open behind the brown lenses for first sight of his apparent instructor. "Kate?" He calls out with a gentle smile as he approaches the building; "It's Michael..."

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Milli-Verse: Things You Forget

2012-03-17T23:04:36Z

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?"

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Milli-Verse: The More Things Stay Same, The More They Change

2012-02-22T15:36:49Z

Stumbling out of the dimensional door, Michael finds himself back in the silent loft. He's had entirely too much drink as he's spent the better part of a week in that state at Milliways pondering what he's doing in Miami against the backdrop of the end of the end of the universe. It's pretty Zen, really.

With a low moan, he stumbles to the foot of his bed and lets himself fall into the knotted sheets. He can smell Sam & Clementine clinging to the unwashed bedding, but he doesn't care - in the long run, it doesn't matter.

As he falls asleep, his phone gives a single low pitched chirp - the alarm to let him know his dimensional door is locked and he can't go back for who knows how long, if ever.

[ooc: Michael's in a bit of a funk, out of Milliways until after the shift - combing with the MM-verse and likely not continuing much of the TLH stuff as mun just doesn't have the time for it. Old friends, of course, always welcome. Profile and journal under construction for the next several days.]

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