B5 FIC: Several things Michael Garibaldi was glad he got from his daddy (and a couple he wasn't...)
For likeadeuce: Garibaldi, Delenn, 'inheritance'. I haven't written Michael in years so, erm, I may be rusty...
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Title: Several things Michael Garibaldi was glad he got from his daddy (and a couple he wasn't too sure of)
Summary: er, the title wasn't enough?
Michael got quite a few things from his daddy: his nose and hairline, to start with. He'd been okay with the nose, and the hairline wasn't too much of a nightmare, to be honest. Sure, he'd rather that he hadn't started to resemble a Napoleonic hat quite so early, but given the rest of the crap that had suddenly dumped itself across his life, you could clearly do worse. So, he'd shaved the lot off, and never thought twice on it.
(It helped that Lise didn't care, though. Although, given what they'd been through, his lack of hair really was the least of their problems.)
He also managed to get his love of cartoons from his old man, although you could have shot Alfredo Garibaldi in both knees and he would still have denied it. Knowing that dampens Michael's enjoyment of Duck Dodgers somewhat; what he'd loved most was having someone to laugh with when watching the shows, and having that someone quickly come to view it as deeply inappropriate (even when Michael had been, what? ten years old?) to be spending time watching children's shows took the joy out of it a little. Still, thirty years on and he had the full run stashed on his crystal library, beginning to end, and all the specials that had come out over the years.
(One very special Christmas, when he'd been about eight, his dad had actually bought him a poster of Daffy Duck. A big, ugly thing, mottled with primary colours and garish twentieth-century enthusiasm, it still, to this day, graces Michael's wall.)
Michael also likes to think that maybe he inherited his dad's paranoia. No, wait: his dad's sense of the 'not quite right'. Yeah, that sounds a lot better. After all, one of Alfredo's favourite sayings had been, "it's not paranoia when they're really out to get you."
(Michael isn't even going to waste time thinking on that, given that his gun hand still twitches involuntarily every time he thinks on black uniforms, black gloves, and cold, cold hands.)
And - well.
"Michael," Delenn said, a quiet, concerned look on her face. She still came over occasionally, more for companionship and quiet contemplation than any genuine interest in Duck Dodgers; now, seeing her look around the room that Michael had tried haphazardly to straighten, he wished that she hadn't bothered. "Michael, is there anything wrong?"
(He got two more things from his daddy. Thinking on it, they weren't really much of an inheritance.)
He saw the tell-tale glint of glass peeking out from behind a not-quite-closed cupboard. "Nope," he said.
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fin
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Title: Several things Michael Garibaldi was glad he got from his daddy (and a couple he wasn't too sure of)
Summary: er, the title wasn't enough?
Michael got quite a few things from his daddy: his nose and hairline, to start with. He'd been okay with the nose, and the hairline wasn't too much of a nightmare, to be honest. Sure, he'd rather that he hadn't started to resemble a Napoleonic hat quite so early, but given the rest of the crap that had suddenly dumped itself across his life, you could clearly do worse. So, he'd shaved the lot off, and never thought twice on it.
(It helped that Lise didn't care, though. Although, given what they'd been through, his lack of hair really was the least of their problems.)
He also managed to get his love of cartoons from his old man, although you could have shot Alfredo Garibaldi in both knees and he would still have denied it. Knowing that dampens Michael's enjoyment of Duck Dodgers somewhat; what he'd loved most was having someone to laugh with when watching the shows, and having that someone quickly come to view it as deeply inappropriate (even when Michael had been, what? ten years old?) to be spending time watching children's shows took the joy out of it a little. Still, thirty years on and he had the full run stashed on his crystal library, beginning to end, and all the specials that had come out over the years.
(One very special Christmas, when he'd been about eight, his dad had actually bought him a poster of Daffy Duck. A big, ugly thing, mottled with primary colours and garish twentieth-century enthusiasm, it still, to this day, graces Michael's wall.)
Michael also likes to think that maybe he inherited his dad's paranoia. No, wait: his dad's sense of the 'not quite right'. Yeah, that sounds a lot better. After all, one of Alfredo's favourite sayings had been, "it's not paranoia when they're really out to get you."
(Michael isn't even going to waste time thinking on that, given that his gun hand still twitches involuntarily every time he thinks on black uniforms, black gloves, and cold, cold hands.)
And - well.
"Michael," Delenn said, a quiet, concerned look on her face. She still came over occasionally, more for companionship and quiet contemplation than any genuine interest in Duck Dodgers; now, seeing her look around the room that Michael had tried haphazardly to straighten, he wished that she hadn't bothered. "Michael, is there anything wrong?"
(He got two more things from his daddy. Thinking on it, they weren't really much of an inheritance.)
He saw the tell-tale glint of glass peeking out from behind a not-quite-closed cupboard. "Nope," he said.
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fin