A!N: Playing with Michael here, a little. Let me know if you guys like how I'm doing him, and if I should have more chapters delving into his 'thoughts', so to say. Also, I don't want to sound needy, but I love reviews, and they help give me the energy to write when I have writers block. If you guys could drop a review and just give me an opinion or just tell me you like it, that would be AMAZING! Onwards!
Michael had free run of the house while Nadia started her shift at Haddonfield General. It was strange to him, walking the halls of his childhood home. It hadn't looked this good in any of the years his family had lived there. Nadia seemed to work hard to keep everything clean, and he certainly hoped she never ripped up the carpet in the living room. Somehow, the blood had come up from the carpets, but he knew it was soaked into the base boards. There was no getting blood out of wood. As for the little shits that had come into his home, and tried to take his things, he had been a kind friend in making sure the strays of Haddonfield ate well.
Michael walked down the stairs, running his fingers over the walls, his bare feet making calm contact with each step. He had eight hours alone to do what he wanted, and he wasn't sure what exactly he did want to do. It was still new, not being confined behind walls, not having to hide within his own mind. Michael frowned a bit. Ismael was the man who had told him to look inward, had always been kind. Michael regretted having to kill him, but he knew Ismael too well, always concerned for Nadia, always trying to keep her away from him. Michael couldn't have that. Nadia was his, he couldn't have Ismael in his way, making things difficult. He died protecting his niece, and for that Michael gave him credit where it was due.
Michael did, however, still hold a grudge against Ismael for keeping Nadia away from him the first few weeks she had been working at Smiths Grove. He would hear the nurses talk, hear Ismael warn off the bratty guards. The way he had heard some of the men talk about her, Michael was rather proud of himself for holding back, though Ismael sure hadn't. He'd been written up for punching an attendant making comments. The thought gave Michael a smirk. It faded when he remembered the night he escaped. He'd been so far gone in his own mind he never realized they were in his cell until he heard Nadia call his name.
He remembered the first time he had heard her voice, the first time in so many years. She hadn't seen him, and when he had stood up from his desk to turn and look at her through the door, her eyes were first thing out of her mouth had been his name. He loved it, loved hearing her say his name. It wasn't even a sexual feeling, but he did also enjoy making her scream it. Just the sound of her voice, breaking away at his mind and pulling his consciousness to her. He did his best to talk with her, communicate, but his manners were stiff, interactions rough. He could remember it though. Sitting at his desk, like any other day, gluing paper together, when he heard the sweet echo behind him. It felt like a distant memory had walked out of his mind, and it took them both time to adjust to how things were.
Michael wandered into the kitchen, peering out the window. It was late in the night, and he knew he could get away with leaving the house to walk around, watch through windows. He strangely didn't want to be out of the house, though. He wasn't being forced to stay, and it rather made him want to. He knew he could easily sit still for eight hours and wait, but that wasn't 'normal'.
Normal.
It felt like such a strange concept, and he knew it was something that Nadia wanted. He remembered her talking about it, so much, when they were children. He could remember every single conversation, every detail, every look in Nadia's eyes. Talking about how in the future, when she had a family, she wanted a normal family. A mom and a dad, in a house, happy. He could understand. His life had been normal, to a degree. Then his dad died.
Michael kept walking around the quiet house, looking out windows. The streets were dead, and he liked that. No one trying to break into the house, no one skulking around his yard, trying to get a peak at his woman.
His woman.
Michael had made a full circle back to the kitchen, and looked down at the sharpie tattoo Nadia had given him. The feminine letters, and he grimaced. It was starting to fade. He didn't want it to fade. Michael grasped the sharpest kitchen knife within his reach and began to dig into his skin, starting with the N. Despite the blood, he felt little more than a dull ache as he tore at his own flesh, making her bubbly name a permanent part of him. It was only fair, after all.
He stared at the blood, tossing the knife into the sink. He turned the water on, sticking his arm under the faucet to let it wash away the blood. It didn't take very long for it to start to clot and close. Michael seemed to always heal quickly, barely felt pain. The worst had been the gunshots, like burning punches to his chest. Loomis yelling at him to stop, but he couldn't.
Nadia and Angel were in front of him in that pool. The only two things he wanted.
Angel, Angel, Angel. Sweet baby sister.
Michael exhaled slowly. He didn't want to kill her, but she attacked first. She doesn't recognize you, Michael! Nadia had yelled at him, standing in front of the screaming girl who had come to be known as Laurie. Everything had faded out then, but he had come back around, the pain gone and he knew where to go. Laurie in the car, Nadia in the house. Loomis wouldn't shut up, and his voice had become so obnoxious. Michael just wanted him to shut up.
Nadia was trying to stop him, and he had hit her hard, throwing her against the wall. He didn't want to hurt her, just get her out of the way. For her own good. He remembered nothing after having tackled Laurie, though. Darkness until he woke up in the back of the van, hearing his mother calling to him. The wonderful call of a siren, waking him from a tense dream. He wanted Angel, at first.
"No, Michael. Go home. Our family has taken root again, in the womb of your sweet girl." Deborah had purred to her son, in the middle of that country road. "She will find Angel, and bring her home. Protect her. Protect our special boy."
So, he had come home. At first it was a dragged out mess, then the builders began to come in. Again, it was mother who told him to not hurt anyone. To let them continue their work.
Michael inhaled slowly. It had been a while since he had heard mother, but he was okay with that. There was an odd static ringing in his ears every once in a while, irritating him a bit. There were words in there, but they were garbled and messy. Words in languages he didn't understand. At first, he'd thought it was Ismael, crawling up from hell to scare him away, but he'd heard Nadia speak Spanish enough times to realize that wasn't the language.
Father?
No, it couldn't be. Father hadn't spoken to him in years, and even then, it was quiet little whispers. Encouraging him, urging him on. Telling him not to let anyone walk all over him or anyone he cared about. After his lock up, however, all the voices seemed to quiet down, or stop entirely. Only his own thoughts, daydreams, or nightmares seemed to echo through the open space. As the years passed, he really only ever had two people on his mind, plotting and biding his time.
Now, there was a third little person occupying his thoughts. The hyperactive little bundle he'd buried in Nadia's womb. The way the little boy flipped and kicked and reacted when he touched her belly. Angel had never kicked like that. Michael's thoughts spurred him upstairs to the bedroom, and he stared into the basket full of baby clothes. Picking up a onesie, he stared at the size of it, fitting into just one of his hands. He'd forgotten how small babies were, how fragile. No one would ever hurt him. He was more important than anything.
Michael was beginning to feel antsy, as he dropped the onesie in the basket. He knew where Nadia was, and what she was doing, but he still felt strange with her so openly far off. He could walk to the hospital, but knew she would disapprove. Perhaps hearing her voice at least would make him calm enough to find an activity to distract himself.
Returning once more to the kitchen, he grabbed the phone off the counter, tapping in the cell phone number that had been written down on paper nearby. He needed only glance at it to fully remember it. There was a hurried click on the other end after only two rings.
"Mikey? Everything okay?" Nadia was tired, Michael could tell. Her voice was just a bit gravelly and held the slightest hint of an accent. He only breathed into the phone, which made her sigh. "I'll be home in the morning. I'll bring some breakfast, okay?" He fumbled his thumb over one of the buttons, pushing it to make a little beep to let her know he understood. "Okay. I have to go. I really gotta piss and get back to my patient. I love you." There was a pause, before Nadia quickly hung up. Michael stared at the phone, unsure if he had heard correctly. Playing it over and over again in his head, he could feel his chest tingle a bit. Intended or not, he felt much less flustered, setting the phone back in it's spot. He made his way into the living room and plopped down on the couch, looking at her name, clotted and still wet looking, the skin puffy as scabbing began. He picked up the remote and turned on the television, content, for a time.