There are sounds Michael has come to expect. He lives over a night club, so it isn't unusual for the noise to continue on until three or later, well after last call. People talking loudly and drunkenly as they stumble and move along the gate; the night club workers taking out the trash and stopping for a smoke: He ignores it, mostly. He keeps his attention, tonight, on cleaning his gun.
Then, a sound comes that makes him stop what he's doing and focus completely on what's going on outside the loft.
A crash as the back door to the club is slammed open. Michael looks at his watch: It's well past three. The noise doesn't belong. He puts the clip back in his pistol and ease toward the door. There's some scuffling, and then he hears his landlord yell.
"What are you doing?"
Michael doesn't hear the rest of it, but the problem seems to have resolved itself. He moves away from the door and heads to the fridge, grabbing a yogurt (strawberry, as Fiona stole the last blueberry, again) as he places his gun on the counter. By the time he throws the nearly empty container away, he's nearly ready for bed. It's just now four, and normally, he tries not to be up this late. Tonight, for whatever reason, he can't sleep. If he didn't know it'd earn him a black eye, he'd go to Fi's and slide in next to her.
On the second step toward his bed, Michael stops. He isn't sure what the sound is, but the he backtracks to grab his gun once more. He walks slowly down the stairs, not liking that this is the second out of place noise in under a half hour. As he gets closer, following his ears, Michael frowns. He's starting to recognize the sound, but he can't imagine…Michael stops the train of thought as quickly as it begins. He can imagine, and he can believe. He's seen much worse than what he knows he's about to find beside the club's dumpster.
He looks around, making sure he's alone before tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. Crouching down, he reaches out a hand, gentle and slow with his movements. Blue. In the harsh overhead light, he sees blue.
"Hey, little man," he says. "You're alright."
The baby doesn't stop crying, and Michael doesn't blame him. Still, they're vulnerable here. Michael slings the diaper bag over his shoulder and takes hold of the car seat's handle. Swiftly, he walks back to the loft and heads up the stairs, making sure not to jostle the crying baby any more than he has to.
Once they're both safely locked inside, Michael sets the car seat down and begins to talk as he carefully undoes the straps holding the child in place.
"Easy now," Michael says softly and then scoops the infant into his arms. He tucks the little boy's head under his own chin and sits down in his chair. "It's okay, little man. You're okay, now."
Which is true, in the strictest sense. 'Little man' is out of the elements and in the care of someone who does not wish him harm. In the care of someone who, in fact, wants to help him in any way possible. However, it's never a good thing when a baby is left by a dumpster.
The sobs have quieted to sniffles, and Michael rubs his temporary roommate's back soothingly.
"There you go," he whispers.
His voice is gentle, masking the rage and confusion inside him. Whoever's responsible…But Michael pushes aside his anger and concentrates on his confusion instead. He's seen babies abandoned before, of course. There isn't much he hasn't seen at this point, but he's never seen a baby left behind in a care seat with a diaper bag before tonight. Someone wanted this baby found and taken care of, not thrown away in the trash truck come morning. It doesn't make sense.
After the little one in his arms makes a soft mewling sound, Michael retrieves a bottle from the bag and sets about preparing formula before the mewling can turn into sobbing.
"Just a second, buddy, and I'll fix you up. I don't like to be hungry either."
The baby seems to understand he's safe from the tone of Michael's voice. He snuggles against the broad muscle of Michael's chest and waits quietly while the spy measure powder into a bottle and adds water, then shakes everything together. Michael chuckles a bit to himself. He's a lot more used to explosives than baby bottles.
Michael sits back down and turns 'little man' onto his back. The baby looks up at him, dark brown eyes full of trust, and Michael is quietly taken aback at the sight. He eases the bottle into the baby's mouth and is rewarded with happy suckling noises. Michael watches as the infant eats as though famished, a lot of unidentified emotions welling at the surface. For the most part, he's able to ignore them, telling himself he'll have plenty of time later to think about this night. Yet, there's a part of him that can't ignore it and doesn't want to. It's the same part of him that has him missing Fiona late into the night.
He pushes that last thought away quite forcefully and concentrates on the tiny face before him. Whoever he is, the little one in Michael's arms is a pretty baby. His skin and hair are both dark, indicating he's Cuban, but light enough that Michael's sure at least one of his parents are white. He's also well cared for- He isn't underweight or sickly looking, and from what Michael can see, there's no sign of abuse. It only makes this entire situation more puzzling.
Puzzling or not, Michael can't help but smile as he takes the bottle away and heads to the kitchen for a clean rag to cover his shirt with. He lifts the baby onto his shoulder and laughs outright, if softly, as a loud burp echoes through the room. He fumbles around for a bit, cleans the baby's mouth off, and then walks over to his bed.
He looks at it for a second, then looks down at the brown eyed wonder in his arms. The baby looks curiously up at him, content and sleepy.
Ask me to build a tracking device out of a cell phone, fine, Michael thinks. But make a bed for an infant?
Finally, he moves the blankets around to form something resembling a nest and places a pillow by the edge of the bed. He's a light sleeper, has been for years. He'll sleep on the other side of the bed; if the baby moves, he'll hear it.
Michael lays the little boy down, settling him on his stomach. He wiggles for a second or two, and then seems to be comfortable. Michael gets into bed and gets comfortable, watching as his bedmate falls asleep. Innocent, Michael says to himself. Completely innocent.
He tries not to think too hard on how much this little boy tugs at his heart, but Michael can't deny it's the sound of the baby's soft breathing that eventually lulls him to sleep.