Hello! Old readers, welcome to another fic; new readers, welcome! This is another Michael/Amanda fic (a criminally underrated relationship in my biased opinion) and is told primarily from their POV. Without spoiling too much, this fic is about if Meltdown had gone in a little bit of a different way…
As always, enjoy, review, and all of that stuff!
Lazy rays of sun streamed through the curtains, illuminating their room in a haze of soft reds and yellows. The couple was still in bed, closer to each other than they had been in months, and their hearts thumped against each other through thin layers of clothes and blankets. It was well past morning now, but one of them still wasn't quite willing to get up yet.
"Come on, babe, jus' stay for a few more minutes…" Michael mumbled pleadingly, face pressed into his wife's hair and arms wrapped tightly around her waist. He inhaled the faint scent of her flowery shampoo, a comforting smell he'd been missing too much for the past two months. "It's been so long since we've been like this…"
Amanda gently squirmed against him, trying to get up. "Darling, I am so glad that we're together again and I love it when you act like this...but in case you're too tired and forgot: your big movie premiere is today and I need to get ready…" she said, trying to distract herself from how soft his t-shirt was against her skin and the way his body pressed against her, warm and every type of secure.
His eyes darted towards the clock, and he raised his eyebrows in confusion when he saw what the faded digital numbers burning into his eyes were. "The hell…? It's only noon, babe," he said groggily. "Thing doesn't start for like nine more hours…"
She sighed dramatically and shook her head. "Oh, Michael. You sweet, simple man," she said in a faux-pitying tone, kissing him on the cheek. "Guys like you take a ten minute shower, maybe shave, get dressed, and then you're ready." Glancing over at the clock herself, she frowned. "And girls like Tracey and I...well...I'm just saying that you and Jimmy will be lucky if we make it there on time."
"What do you even do for that long?" he wondered. Over twenty years of being married and having a daughter and he still couldn't quite grasp what exactly they did for hours in the bathroom.
"A lot of boring shit that'll take forever to explain," she sighed before patting him on the chest and managing to disentangle herself from his arms. "Anyway, you should get some more sleep while I go get ready…"
"But I can't sleep without you," he pleaded from the bed. It was true; the only sleep he'd gotten lately was usually alcohol-induced and was almost always interrupted by a nightmare or his insomnia acting up. The past couple nights ever since she'd came back home had been the best he'd slept in months.
"Okay, fine, I'll stay with you until you fall back asleep" she said softly, getting back into bed and under the covers. "But only because you got home at about 4AM last night. You know...what were you doing out that late? I normally wouldn't even wanna know, but now…"
"No, it's fine," he said, snuggling back into her with a hum of contentment. "Franklin needed my help and it took a little bit longer than I thought, that's all…"
Amanda reached up and started running her hand through his hair, much to his happiness. In the minute or two that she'd been back in the bed, she could already feel the tension start to drain from him and the telltale signs of falling asleep start to replace it. "You'd really do anything for that kid, huh?"
He nodded, his eyes starting to flutter back shut. "He's a good kid, Amanda. Plus, he saved my ass a few weeks ago so I figured I needed to help him out for once, too…" Michael muttered before falling back asleep right there before she could ask what that last part meant. Whatever, she thought. It was probably nothing too serious, anyway.
Despite her earlier words, she stayed in bed for a good few minutes afterward; partly to make sure he stayed asleep, and mostly because of the gentle, soft way he held her in his arms. Just as she delicately started to get up, he stirred a little and mumbled, "Love you, 'Manda," before his soft snores resumed.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead before getting up. "Love you, too," she whispered.
By the time that he woke up nearly three hours later, he was-true to his wife's word-shit out of luck. Amanda was in their master bathroom and Tracey was in the other, and neither seemed to show any signs of budging anytime soon.
After pathetically trying his luck with the latter and all but being told to fuck off by Tracey and that she needed to "concentrate,", he was back with pleading with Amanda. "'Mand, please. I just need a few minutes to shower…" he said, trailing off as he thought back to their conversation from earlier and scratching at the stubble on his face, "...and shave."
That seemed to do it. She opened the door, smirking. Judging by her hair up in a towel and the fluffy robe wrapped around her body, she must have just gotten out of the shower herself. "Alright, darling," she said, holding the door open and gesturing for him to go inside. "Since you asked so nicely."
Michael sighed in relief and stepped inside, immediately overwhelmed by the strong scent of her overpriced (and admittedly really nice) fruity soaps and shampoos. "Jesus, babe. Did you use half of the damn bottle?" he asked in disbelief. "You know how much that shit costs…"
"Maybe…" she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes, crossing back over to the counter where she had a decade's worth of makeup sprawled out in front of her. "And yeah, it may be expensive, but it's still a thousand times better than that industrial 'two-in-one shampoo and conditioner' crap that you still use…"
"Hey, I like that crap," he protested. Over twenty years of using it and his hair was still as thick as it had been in the '90s, which was way more than he could say for someone like Trevor. Plus, it didn't smell bad, either… "And I know you don't mind it judging by the way you act when I get outta the shower…"
"Okay, fine: you do smell really nice afterwards," she admitted, sighing when she saw him raise an eyebrow as if to press her further. "...and your hair is annoyingly soft, which frustrates the hell out of me, by the way…"
"Aw, thanks, babe," he said, smirking as he headed towards the shower. Acutely aware of her staring at him, he slipped off his clothes and took an extra long moment to actually step inside the stall of their of their pricey, pure glass shower. He knew damn well that she could see him, and she knew that he could see the blush forming on her face before he turned on the water.
Amanda could knock his choice his choice in shampoo all she wanted, but there was one thing she never complained about: his soap. Soon enough, his own scent overpowered hers, and the bathroom soon smelled of his beloved 'industrial crap' and soap.
Ten minutes later (he swore Amanda had it down to a fucking science), he stepped out of the stall feeling better than he'd been in months. Michael dried himself off and carelessly ran a towel through his hair before wrapping it around his waist.
He joined his wife at the mirror, who was trying to concentrate on twirling the ends of her hair around her curling iron. "Surprised you didn't hop in with me judging by the way you were actin' back there," Michael said with a laugh as he swept his dripping hair back from his forehead.
"Oh, believe me, I was getting tempted," she said, "but I didn't wanna have to redo all this shit, so sorry, babe."
"Ah, damn," he muttered sarcastically as he pulled out his razor and started slathering shaving cream on his cheeks. "Maybe you'll show me that little dress of yours as an apology, then?" he asked hopefully while he started to shave away the thick layer of stubble forming on his jaw.
Amanda scoffed, eyes narrowed with something between concentration and annoyance. "For the millionth time, it's a surprise. You know how much I want tonight to be perfect, Michael. And besides, if tonight goes well, who knows? Maybe you'll get to take it off later," she said with a wink.
He ran a wet washcloth over the remnants of shaving cream on his face, sighing. "Damn it, Mandy, you sure know how to keep me waiting…"
I know, her smirk seemed to say. "Love you!" she said, pressing a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek before he could protest. Her lips soon traveled over to his ear, warm breath tickling against his skin as she whispered, "You look really hot when you shave, by the way."
Oh, it was gonna be a long few hours until the premiere…
Michael stood outside of Ponsonbys, leaning against his car door and checking his watch. 7:00pm. It'd cut a little close, but he'd make it. Can't say that for the girls, though, he thought with a laugh. He just hoped his son (and ride) would be on time, he reflected, pulling out his phone and calling Jimmy, who answered on the second ring.
"Mr. Big Movie Producer!" his son greeted him happily.
"Hey, Jim, you're still coming to the premiere, right?" Michael asked, tapping his foot against the pavement anxiously. He had to admit: he was a little nervous. It was, without a doubt, the biggest night of his life and he was determined to not fuck it up.
"Oh, yeah! It's like my one hope of getting laid ever. I'm all over it," Jimmy said. "I got us a sweet ride for tonight. Y'know...that reminds me that we should totally have a chauffeur on staff now that you're a movie producer and all…"
Michael had to chuckle at that. Of course. "Let's just get the first show out the door, okay?" he said. "Pick me up at Ponsonbys, alright? I just need to pick up my tux."
"Alright, Dad, I'm on my way. You better have a badass tux!"
A smirk crossed his face. "Oh, you better believe it, kid. I'll see you soon," he said before hanging up. He walked towards the store with a confidence he hadn't had in a long time.
Ponsonbys had been his favorite store since the moment his plane had landed in early 2004. It had always represented the unattainable wealth he could've never had back in North Yankton, so the day they'd gotten there he'd traded out his old flannels and t-shirts for tailored suits and dress shirts. Now, standing there inhaling the scents of the expensive cologne and perfume, he felt like he'd finally made it in Los Santos.
He'd had the tuxedo made the second Solomon had told him about the premiere; he'd been too excited to do anything else but daydream of this night.
One interaction with the ever-cold cashier and ten-thousand dollars later, he stood in the back dressing room, looking at himself in the mirror. From this angle, he almost didn't look like a forty-five year old, washed-up bank robber, but looked more like the twenty-three year old, up and coming bank robber that he'd been on his wedding night.
"Who's that handsome devil?" he muttered to himself, adjusting his tie and smirking at his reflection before heading back outside.
Jimmy, much to his annoyance, wasn't there yet. "On my way, my ass," Michael muttered under his breath. He stuffed his old clothes into his car and grabbed his pack of cigarettes before resigning himself to his fate.
"Time to wait…" he said, sighing and putting a cigarette in between his lips as he walked towards the side alley by the store (Rockford Hills was big on the whole "no smoking" thing).
He had just brought his lighter up to the Redwood when his phone started ringing in his pocket. He immediately grabbed it, expecting to see Jimmy or Amanda calling him. Instead, he was greeted with Devin fucking Weston's overtly smug profile picture.
"Ah, shit…" he mumbled under his breath before answering it. "Hey, Devin...look, I need to say, about Molly, man, I'm sorry. But I didn't do it-"
"I told you to slow it down, Slick," Devin's voice was angry and seething, so different from his usual annoying cockiness. He had to admit, it made him a little nervous. Needless to say, they weren't friends after the whole movie studio incident.
"It was an accident, okay?" Michael stressed, too busy trying to explain the shitty situation to notice the massive Mesa pulling up outside the alley. "I was there, but I had nothing to do with it."
"Sure, yeah, hey," Devin cut him off dismissively. "You made a fool out of me, Michael, and that is not something that I'm going to forget!"
"Look, Devin, I said I'm sorry. I feel bad for you...but you don't threaten me, 'cause this movie's happening, alright?" Michael's voice had taken on a hard edge by this point as he angrily paced the length of the alley. He let out a deep breath, figuring it was useless to piss off the billionaire further. "But let's just calm down, and try to be friends again."
"Oh, absolutely, Slick. Forgive and forget. Namaste," Devin snapped before hanging up on him.
"Fuck!" Michael growled as he tossed his forgotten cigarette to the ground. He sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Whatever, he thought. The movie premiere was in an hour, whether Devin liked it or not.
About a minute after his ill-fated phone call, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Devin himself. "Meltdown may be happening, but it'll happen without you."
"The hell…?" Michael muttered under his breath, instinctively reaching for the inside of his jacket to where he usually kept his pistol, but found it empty. Shit, he thought in a panic. He'd left the holster in the car. He immediately broke out in a run down the alley in a dead sprint towards his car. It was a death threat if he'd ever heard one, and he knew he needed to act fast.
Michael didn't even see the guy in front of him until he ran into him, falling onto his ass as if he'd run straight into a brick wall. Looking up at the guy, he may as well have: the guy was at least a half a foot taller than himself (and Michael was a pretty tall guy himself) and was about two hundred pounds of pure muscle.
"Ah, shit, sorry, man," Michael stuttered out as he scrambled to his feet and stepped in front of the other guy. "Didn't notice you there-"
He didn't even get the rest of the sentence out before the distinctive click of a switchblade popping into place sounded through the air and there was a knife against his back
"Don't fucking move or it goes into your throat," a low, gravelly voice hissed into his ear. The knife twisted deeper into his back, piercing through his clothes and a little bit of skin, drawing small beads of blood.
"Alright, okay," Michael said calmly, mentally mourning the loss of his expensive tux. He allowed the unknown assailant to drag him back into the dark alleyway and throw him hard against the brick wall. "So, what do you want? My wallet?" he asked almost boredly, not really having the energy or the time right now to get mugged.
"Nah. I want something a little more than that…" The other man grabbed him by his shirt collar and turned him around. Michael's eyes widened when he saw the distinctive Merryweather logo on his shirt. "Devin Weston sent us for you. I guess I'm just the lucky guy to find you first…"
The knife pressed into his cheek next, blood forming along the edges of the blade.
Michael grimaced in pain. "And you're here to...what? Kill me? Obviously not since you would have done it already," he said sarcastically, though his voice was starting to shake a little.
"Oh, I'm not gonna kill you. Mr. Weston gave us specific instructions not to." With no warning, the mercenary balled his other hand up into a fist and punched him in the stomach. Michael fell to his knees in shock and pain, wheezing, and stubbornly tried to stand back up before earning a punch to the jaw. "This is what happens when you fuck with Merryweather."
Since being intimidating obviously wasn't working, Michael tried to turn up the charm. "You're right. I shouldn't have gotten into your guys' business. Just let me go and-"
The fist met his mouth next, making his blood splatter across the pavement. "Shut the fuck up, okay? It's not gonna make things any easier for you."
For once in his life, Michael didn't have any smart comments or sarcastic remarks to shoot back. He just let himself be beat into submission until he couldn't even try to fight back anymore.
By the time that the mercenary seemed to have exhausted his anger, Michael was laying bloody and beaten on the edge of unconsciousness, barely paying any attention to the mercenary standing above him on the phone.
"...Yes, I got him, Mr. Weston," he said monotonously, pausing and glancing over at Michael as Devin no doubt said some dumb shit. "No, he's alive. Just had a little fun with him is all. I'll bring him back to you in one piece…"
Maybe this is it, Michael thought hazily as he looked up at the distracted Merryweather agent. His chance to get the hell out while he could. He got onto his fours, glancing up to the freedom of his car only a short run away, and started to get up to run as fast as he could. This is it-
The mercenary didn't even look down from his phone before he gave Michael a swift, hard kick in the ribs, sending him sprawling back down to the ground. The loud crack sounding through his body made sure he didn't get back up again. Michael finally cried out in pain, clutching his injured side with his hand. Some of his ribs were definitely fractured, if not broken. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but only stuttering attempts of words could come out.
His attacker finally hung up the phone and looked down at him in something like admiration. "Goddamn, you're a fighter though…" he mused before leaning down and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt with only a whimper of protest coming from Michael. He started dragging him back towards the Merryweather-issued Mesa as if he weighed no more than a feather.
"Let's go get you to Weston…"
Amanda had never been more nervous and excited in her life than the moment she'd set foot on the red carpet. It all felt like a dream, or a scene straight out of one of her husband's favorite movies: the plush red carpet, the camera flashes, the fireworks, and, oh God, the celebrities. She felt her legs shake a little and became absentmindedly thankful that her heels weren't too high.
"Holy shit, Mom," Tracey whispered in her ear, voice a mixture of excitement and awe. While Amanda was nervous, her daughter was anything but. She was practically lapping up the attention from the paparazzi and the younger actors.
This is probably heaven for her, Amanda noted with a soft smile. "Well, if things go well tonight, I'm sure your father will get us invited to a lot more of these," she said, smiling over at the cameras herself.
"Yeah, I hope so," Tracey said, eyes bright with happiness before a thoughtful look crossed her face. "You know, where are they? Dad and Jimmy, I mean."
Amanda shrugged indifferently. "Probably trying to be fashionably late. Your father's never been the most punctual guy, anyway," she said, but a nervousness still started to nag at her. He wouldn't be late for this, right? He'd been way more excited for it than her and Tracey combined.
"Whatever, I don't mind waiting," Tracey said, fluttering her made-up eyelashes at one of the actors before her gaze flitted over to some guy doing something for a Weazel News. "Oh, hi, Lazlow!"
The guy, who had very poorly done piercings on his face and one of the most questionable haircuts Amanda had ever seen, immediately panicked. "Ah, shit! Come on, shit dick!" he told his cameraman, muttering, "Her dad is fucking crazy, trust me," as he ran off inside the movie theater.
Both of the girls immediately burst out laughing at the encounter. "What was that about?" Amanda said through her giggles.
"Oh, Dad can tell you all about that one. It's a fucking hilarious story," Tracey said with a smirk.
"I bet," Amanda said, looking around the red carpet anxiously, hoping to find her husband, but saw a familiar face instead. "Oh, thank God…" she muttered under her breath before walking over to him and the much-younger girl draped over his arm. "Mr. Richards!"
Solomon's face immediately brightened at the sight of her. "Amanda, darling!" he greeted her happily. Michael had introduced them a few days ago, and the older producer had quickly taken a liking to her ("You're not like all those brain-dead Vinewood trophy wives," Solomon had told her. "Michael is one lucky man!"). "And, please, call me Solomon."
She smiled at him in relief. "Alright, Solomon. I'm just glad to see a familiar face here."
"Yeah, the first premiere will do that to ya. One moment you're a fresh-faced guppy banging all the actresses and the next you're a lecherous old has-been on his last legs!" Solomon said in the same happy, booming tone he always used. "But I digress! Tell me, Amanda, how are you?"
"I mean, the whole thing's amazing so far, really," she said almost breathlessly, still a little overwhelmed by the whole thing. "...but have you seen Michael? I can't find him anywhere and I thought he'd be here by now…"
"I was about to ask you the same thing," Solomon said, frowning. "I haven't seen the kid yet, but I know he'll turn up. He wouldn't miss this for the world!"
"I know, but…" she started, before being cut off by the older man, who was glancing down at the watch.
"Ah, shit. Listen, I have to get in there, but come find me when he gets here, alright? I'll see ya in there, kid!" Solomon said before calling out to the young actor Tracey was currently flirting with. "I wouldn't do that, Milton! Mr. De Santa would not be happy if you were cozying up with his little girl!"
The actor immediately looked up like a deer in headlights and practically ran away from Tracey and over to where Solomon was being escorted inside by his security detail.
"Damn, he was cute, too," Tracey pouted, rolling her eyes.
In any other circumstance, Amanda's overprotective mom instincts would've kicked in and she would've been disapproving the boy her daughter was trying to get with. Right now, though, she had other things on her mind.
"Where the hell is he?" Amanda asked nervously, looking around the nearly empty red carpet. Right as she'd been tempted to just go in, with or without her husband and son, her phone started to ring from her purse.
She immediately answered it, anger seeping into her words as she started to berate her son. "James Michael De Santa," she started, using his full name that she only reserved for when she was really pissed off. "Where the hell are you and your father?! I've been worried sick-"
"Mom," her son started in a quivering voice, stopping her rant dead in its tracks. "I-I don't know where he is. I can't find him…"
Her blood immediately ran cold as her son confirmed her worst fears. "Wh-what are you talking about?" she stuttered, trying to ignore Tracey walking over and trying to interrupt her.
"I-I'm where he said he'd meet me and he's not here...his car's here but...but I can't find him. I swear, I've looked everywhere, Mom," he said, panting, and she could hear him walk around before her son let out a frantic curse of, "Oh, fuck…"
"What is it? Are you okay?!" she asked, clutching the phone to her ear tightly.
"I am, but, Jesus, Mom, there's so much blood over here...and it looks new…" Jimmy trailed off, voice quavering.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, the mantra in Amanda's head chanted. "Listen, Jimmy, honey, I want you to get the hell out of there right now, okay? Come find me and your sister and we'll handle things from there," she demanded, earning a shaky "okay" for her son before she hung up.
"Mom, what the fuck is happening?" Tracey asked her frantically the second the phone left Amanda's ear.
"I...I don't know, but I think your father is in trouble. We need to get out of here-" Amanda said, grabbing her daughter's hand and starting to lead her back to the car before a red Pegassi Vacca pulled up behind her convertible, and a grey-haired man in a tuxedo stepped out.
"Ah, you must be Mrs. De Santa," he said smoothly, eyes creepily roaming up and down her body. "Michael has talked a lot about you…"
I really don't have time for this, she thought frustratedly. "Uh huh," she drawled out boredly. "And who the hell are you?"
"Devin Weston. Billionaire investor," he said arrogantly, as if it was supposed to impress her. When she just stood there with the same annoyed expression on her face, he rolled his eyes and started to walk towards the theater, smugly saying, "A shame your husband couldn't make it. Looks like he got stuck at the store."