[7s_prompts] 11.2.3] You Were Always On My Mind
(Set in supermantonight. Cordelia is letsbe_clear, Sam is likedollclothes, and Fiona is who_iamnow. All mentioned with permission.)
"The story said she was a prisoner but that wasn't totally true because she had hope and whenever you have hope, you're never really anybody's prisoner." ~The Tale of Despereaux
The things Sam had said to him were circling his mind still days later. Sam hadn't brought it up again, and Michael definitely hadn't, but...he couldn't shake it either. He could only keep telling himself that nothing was happening with Cordelia. Nothing that Sam had hinted at anyway. She was just a sweet girl who had been dropped into his lap in Miami with no idea who she was. She didn't even know what they knew in that she was supposedly dead.
Sam was still working on things, but in the meantime Michael had kept her at the loft where he could keep a safe eye on her. He knew if she was there, by whatever means it came to be, he was supposed to take care of her. That's what he was doing.
In the couple months it had now been they'd almost fallen into a routine of sharing the loft. Michael slept on the couch, having given her his bed. He brought groceries and movies home for her to keep her entertained and fed. They went out occasionally. Usually nothing more than walks or a bit of heavily guarded shopping.
It was like any other job. She was a client and he was dong what needed to be done. There wasn't anything between them. Frankly, she could be a bit of a pain. And she talked a lot and required a lot of his attention. It tended to get in the way when he was doing his other jobs. Which she always wanted him to explain to her what was going on.
It was tiresome, actually, having her there.
But it didn't negate the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Sam's accusations. And he was thinking about it while working what was supposed to be a simple job. So simple that Fi and Sam weren't there, but they were on call in case anything big went down.
So Michael was surprised, to say the least, when he was snapped out of his thoughts by a knock on the window of the Charger. He glanced out at the man he'd been spying on. He sat up straighter before rolling the window down.
"Can I help you?" He asked.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Gary Perry." Michael shoved his hand out the window and extended it towards him.
The man, Darby, just looked at Michael's hand and ignored it. "Mr. Perry, this is private property over here. I don't know what you're doin' here, but I suggest you leave before I call the authorities."
Michael grinned. "No need, no need. I do apologize. I've been driving since yesterday morning and this looked like a good spot to pull over and rest my eyes a bit."
"Well it ain't, so get goin'."
"Yes sirree," Michael nodded. He rolled up his window and backed up, then turned around and started back towards the road. He was cursing himself. He'd just made the job more complicated, all because he wasn't focusing. That was bad.
What was worse though were the sudden bullets ricocheting off his car, and the one that slide through his back window. He swerved before getting the car going straight again and looked in the rear view mirror. A pick-up was coming after him with at least four guys aiming guns at him.
"Damnit," he hissed. He slammed his breaks and spun his wheel hard, turning to face them. He grabbed his gun and started shooting back as they tried their best to come to a stop. Instead they hit the back bumper of the Charger and flipped. Bullets were still flying, but haywire now, more being cast off in surprise.
Michael watched the truck tumble across the dirt and didn't waste any time in hopping in his car and speeding off before they could climb out of the heap. He navigated the dirt road and got himself back onto the highway in seconds, still watching in his rear view to see if they were behind him. They weren't.
His arm stung. It stung a lot. He looked down at it and saw blood, and about an inch of skin missing. He'd just been nicked, but it still hurt like a bastard. He groaned and pressed his hand tight to the wound as he drove home. He didn't have anything at the moment to tie over it, and he really didn't want to stop for any reason.
It didn't take him long to get home and park behind the gate. He climbed out of the car and looked it over. He was going to need Sam's help in fixing her up again.
Michael grimaced as he shut the car door and replaced his hand over his wound. He grunted, debating whether to go inside where Cordelia was sure to freak out on him, or call Fiona. He had a good feeling Fi would be pleased in his pain and suffering for screwing up the way he did, and refusing a passenger for the ride.
So he sighed and started up the steps to the loft. Maybe he'd get lucky and she'd be asleep, and he could just stitch himself up before she even noticed.
864
"The story said she was a prisoner but that wasn't totally true because she had hope and whenever you have hope, you're never really anybody's prisoner." ~The Tale of Despereaux
The things Sam had said to him were circling his mind still days later. Sam hadn't brought it up again, and Michael definitely hadn't, but...he couldn't shake it either. He could only keep telling himself that nothing was happening with Cordelia. Nothing that Sam had hinted at anyway. She was just a sweet girl who had been dropped into his lap in Miami with no idea who she was. She didn't even know what they knew in that she was supposedly dead.
Sam was still working on things, but in the meantime Michael had kept her at the loft where he could keep a safe eye on her. He knew if she was there, by whatever means it came to be, he was supposed to take care of her. That's what he was doing.
In the couple months it had now been they'd almost fallen into a routine of sharing the loft. Michael slept on the couch, having given her his bed. He brought groceries and movies home for her to keep her entertained and fed. They went out occasionally. Usually nothing more than walks or a bit of heavily guarded shopping.
It was like any other job. She was a client and he was dong what needed to be done. There wasn't anything between them. Frankly, she could be a bit of a pain. And she talked a lot and required a lot of his attention. It tended to get in the way when he was doing his other jobs. Which she always wanted him to explain to her what was going on.
It was tiresome, actually, having her there.
But it didn't negate the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Sam's accusations. And he was thinking about it while working what was supposed to be a simple job. So simple that Fi and Sam weren't there, but they were on call in case anything big went down.
So Michael was surprised, to say the least, when he was snapped out of his thoughts by a knock on the window of the Charger. He glanced out at the man he'd been spying on. He sat up straighter before rolling the window down.
"Can I help you?" He asked.
"Who are you?"
"Name's Gary Perry." Michael shoved his hand out the window and extended it towards him.
The man, Darby, just looked at Michael's hand and ignored it. "Mr. Perry, this is private property over here. I don't know what you're doin' here, but I suggest you leave before I call the authorities."
Michael grinned. "No need, no need. I do apologize. I've been driving since yesterday morning and this looked like a good spot to pull over and rest my eyes a bit."
"Well it ain't, so get goin'."
"Yes sirree," Michael nodded. He rolled up his window and backed up, then turned around and started back towards the road. He was cursing himself. He'd just made the job more complicated, all because he wasn't focusing. That was bad.
What was worse though were the sudden bullets ricocheting off his car, and the one that slide through his back window. He swerved before getting the car going straight again and looked in the rear view mirror. A pick-up was coming after him with at least four guys aiming guns at him.
"Damnit," he hissed. He slammed his breaks and spun his wheel hard, turning to face them. He grabbed his gun and started shooting back as they tried their best to come to a stop. Instead they hit the back bumper of the Charger and flipped. Bullets were still flying, but haywire now, more being cast off in surprise.
Michael watched the truck tumble across the dirt and didn't waste any time in hopping in his car and speeding off before they could climb out of the heap. He navigated the dirt road and got himself back onto the highway in seconds, still watching in his rear view to see if they were behind him. They weren't.
His arm stung. It stung a lot. He looked down at it and saw blood, and about an inch of skin missing. He'd just been nicked, but it still hurt like a bastard. He groaned and pressed his hand tight to the wound as he drove home. He didn't have anything at the moment to tie over it, and he really didn't want to stop for any reason.
It didn't take him long to get home and park behind the gate. He climbed out of the car and looked it over. He was going to need Sam's help in fixing her up again.
Michael grimaced as he shut the car door and replaced his hand over his wound. He grunted, debating whether to go inside where Cordelia was sure to freak out on him, or call Fiona. He had a good feeling Fi would be pleased in his pain and suffering for screwing up the way he did, and refusing a passenger for the ride.
So he sighed and started up the steps to the loft. Maybe he'd get lucky and she'd be asleep, and he could just stitch himself up before she even noticed.
864