Hello and welcome back to another chapter :D One more to go!

Faces poked through the haze, lingering there and fading in and out. Amanda, on his left, looking like his hopes, dreams and beauty and everything good he had in the world. Trevor, on his right, looking like his past, chaos, and everything that he used to have. His kids, they looked like the future and like the innocence he'd lost long ago. Fragments of sentences registered in his ringing ears (had the gunshot next to him really affected him that badly?), different voices melding together in his confused brain.

"...the fuck happened to him?!" he could pick out Amanda saying-or yelling, rather. "You said he was okay!"

Trevor's crazed little laugh floated through his fogginess. "Yeah, before he got fucking stabbed!"

He was being carried still, he realized, by Franklin this time who lifted him as if he weighed no more than a feather. He briefly envied the strength of the youth, strength that he used to have before wasting away by a pool for ten years. Blood soaked the floor behind them, painting a trail of crimson red.

It flowed between his fingers, too, warm and sticky. The rest of him, though, was cold. So cold. And scared. He'd never thought he would be, but he was terrified. He didn't wanna bleed out in front of his family, didn't wanna die; he wanted to live more than he had in years. It repeated in his head, a mantra that he couldn't get rid of: I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die...

He faded out.

A new face hovered above him. A stranger's face, covered in a surgical mask, but he had kind eyes. Trusting eyes. He must have been the doctor, Michael reckoned for obvious reasons. Need a goddamn surgeon to fix this, though…

The doctor must've cut off his bloody, ruined shirt, because now he could see his broken body in all of its pathetic glory. His sides were a horrible mixture of black, blue, and yellow, and he could almost see his ribs poking out through his skin. His broken fingers twitched at his side, obviously not a priority as compared to the gaping knife wound in him, which he could barely feel thanks to the IV in his arm pumping drugs through his veins.

Metal glinted off of the light off of the light above him. A needle and that fancy kind of surgical thread, no doubt for stitching up the mess that his side was. The doctor cleaned it first, put on some anesthetic to numb the pain, and then set about stitching it up.

Michael, high from the medicine and his own pain, watched him without a word. He did it so casually, as if being in some dark warehouse and saving some washed-up bank robber from bleeding to death was an everyday occurrence. Easily, he pulled the skin together, looped the thread through either side of the cut, and repeated.

He asked Michael questions. Did he know who he was? Did he hurt anywhere?

I know who I am and I hurt everywhere, Michael wanted to say, but he couldn't get the words out. Couldn't manage to open his mouth to form anything but whimpers of pain.

He faded out again, but couldn't help but wonder if he would wake up this time.

Amanda sat anxiously outside of the room where her husband was being operated on. It had been a couple hours since Michael had been brought back, bleeding, unconscious, and barely breathing, but her anxiety had not lowered once. Her tears had only just stopped, and she sat there biting her lip as to not start again. He could be dead or alive, none of them knew yet.

None of them-not her, not the kids, not Franklin, or even Trevor-had said a single word since then. They all sat there, the same stoic, worried expression on their faces, and tried to not think of the hypotheticals.

Finally, the doctor emerged, exhausted and covered in blood, and sighed tiredly. Trevor spoke up first because all of them were too scared to. "Well?!" he growled out impatiently.

The doctor took off his mask, revealing the slight smile beneath. "He'll live," he said, earning a collective sigh of relief. He gestured for Amanda to get up. "Mrs. De Santa? A word?"

She got up, legs shaky from a mixture of stress and overwhelming happiness, and followed him into the room where Michael was. He was on the bed, unconscious and pale, but alive. About a million IVs were in his arm, his face was swollen and bruised, his torso was covered in a thick layer of bandages, and his hand was in a cast, but that was okay. He's alive, she reminded herself, almost giddy. He's alive and he'll be okay.

"So…" she said, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. "How bad was it?"

"He's not out of the woods yet," the doctor said. "Along with the stab wound in his side and the amount of blood he's lost, he had multiple slashes across his back, two broken ribs plus with a fractured one, and three broken fingers. His face doesn't have much damage aside from the bruises, a minor concussion, and the gash on his head, which didn't require stitches. Luckily, I didn't find any water in his lungs-"

"Water in his lungs?" Amana echoed, confused. "Why would that happen?"

"He, um…" he trailed off, not able to meet her eyes. "They said they tried to drown him."

"Oh…" she said, feeling new tears form at the edges of her eyes. She glanced over to Michael again, could see the sadness in his face even while unconscious, and swallowed hard. "I see..."

"Look...the point is your husband is a very lucky man, Mrs. De Santa," he stressed. "The biggest concern I have for these next couple days is a fever and infection, but after that, it's just a matter of time before he wakes up and by then it should be all recovery. It will take some time, but he'll be okay."

"Good…that's good," she said, nodding. "Thank you, for everything…"

"Ah, don't thank me. I'm just doing my job," the doctor said, smiling slightly, before starting for the door. "I'll give you some alone time."

The second that door shut was when she broke down crying in happiness. She gently took Michael's uninjured hand in hers and pressed a light kiss to his wedding ring. "You're okay...you're okay…" she repeated to herself. "Thank God…I love you so much…"

A few minutes later, her sobs had subsided and she managed to sit up, sighing. Time to wait...

Her days melded into a routine: wake up, go see Michael, go back home, try to sleep, and repeat. The kids had been there almost as much as she had, glued to Michael's bedside, and were about as relieved as she was. It was day four of him being unconscious now, and the three of them had barely left his side during the entire time.

Amanda looked over at her husband, smiling slightly. He was a lot thinner than he used to be and the stubble on his face was thicker than usual, but the bruises on his face had started to heal and a little bit of color had returned to his face. It was only a matter of time before he woke up, she reminded herself.

"Hey, Mom," Tracey said, interrupting her daze, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Jimmy stood behind her, shifting on his feet anxiously. "We...we're gonna head out for a little bit. You sure you don't wanna come?"

Amanda shook her head. "You guys go ahead. I need to stay here, anyway."

"You're allowed to leave his side more than a couple times a day, you know. Nothing bad is gonna happen to him here," Tracey said softly.

"I know that. I... I just don't want him to be alone in case he wakes up," Amanda said, earning sad looks from her kids. "I'll be fine. Honestly. You two go. You're young, you have lives."

They left and, despite their protests, she could tell they were glad to get away from the place for once. She turned back to Michael, who was unsurprisingly still unconscious, and started to look through the pile of DVDs on the table. "Alright, darling, what will it be today…?"

She'd brought the DVDs along with their old DVD player from home (luckily Lester had already had a TV in the warehouse) and had been playing a few of his favorite movies every day. Part of her watched them in hopes that he-somewhere deep in his unconscious mind-could hear them; the other part watched them because they reminded her of him. Yesterday had been both of the Shoulder of Orion movies and a Phil Collins concert tour DVD (which she had admittedly enjoyed). Today, though, she wasn't quite sure.

"Rum Runner or Vinewood Zombie?" she said under her breath. Decisions, decisions, she thought, but ended up picking the former. It had always been his favorite and to be honest, she'd always hated Vinewood Zombie.

She had just put the movie on and sat back down when Trevor walked in. He glanced at the TV, smiling a little as if recalling some fond memory. "Ah, I remember this one. He never shut the hell up about it."

"Just be grateful it's not Vinewood Zombie," Amanda said, smirking. She looked over at her husband's psychotic best friend that she'd known longer than almost anyone, and sighed. "Hey...I'm, ugh, I'm sorry for yelling at you when you brought him in...shit was just so crazy and I was so worried. I guess...I guess I just wanted to say thank you for getting him out of that hellhole…"

"You saying thank you? Wow, that is probably the most mature thing I've ever heard you say, Mandy," Trevor laughed. "These past few months have really changed you, huh?"

"I guess they have," she said, smiling slightly as she looked back on all of the chaos of those past few months, the past few years even. At least something good came out of it, she reflected, glancing down at the wedding ring she'd finally started wearing again. One question still lingered in the back of her mind, though. "I need to know something, though, Trevor: why did you help us? Michael told me you, um, found out-uh, you two had a fight and have wanted to kill each other since…"

Trevor nodded along to her words, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. "Well...I was gonna tell Franklin to go fuck himself, but then the kids started asking me and...I don't know. Those two deserve to have a father, no matter how much of a treacherous fucking snake he is. Plus, he's obviously had his fair share of karma lately," he said, gesturing to Michael's unconscious form. "And what's the fun in killing him if I don't get to make fun of him anymore? He may be an asshole, but he's our asshole."

"That might just be the nicest thing I've ever heard you say, Trevor," she said, shocked. "There might be hope for you yet. A small, tiny minuscule, maybe…"

"Hey, don't think this'll be a regular thing, okay? I got a reputation to uphold," Trevor said with a chuckle as he turned around and started towards the door.

"He did miss you, you know," she said suddenly. Trevor stopped dead in his tracks, but still faced away from her, making her continue. "I don't know if that helps anything, but...he did."

Trevor's fists clenched at his sides, and he was practically seething with rage when he said, "If he did, which I doubt," he trailed off for a second, taking a deep breath. "...then why did he play dead for ten years without a call or anything?" He turned around to face her, but instead of anger, all she saw was pain and sadness.

"Look, Trevor, you of all people should know how much bullshit this whole 'male pride' thing is," she said bitterly. "You and I know him better than anyone, and I know that he missed you. The first night we moved here, I was unpacking all the boxes and he just...sat there, staring at the TV. You know how bad it was the first few months, it was on every news station: 'the late, great Michael Townley.' He sat there, every night for three months, looking through every channel, just hoping to find anything that said you were alive. Every night, I tried to get him to come to bed, but he just said he'd 'be there soon' and stayed there until 5am," she said, voice growing soft and shaky. "He did miss you, Trevor."

"I...I need to fucking think about this," Trevor said before storming out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

She looked down at the floor, sighing, before glancing back up to Michael. She grabbed his hand, trying to ignore the thick, spongy layer of bandages around his wrist, and squeezed it tightly. "You better wake up soon…" she whispered.

About a couple minutes later after Trevor left, Franklin came in. "Hey, what's up with Trevor? Dude ran out of here looking depressed as shit…"

Amanda waved his concerns off dismissively. "Nothing. Just drama that happened over a decade ago…" she groaned, putting her head in her hands. "Tell me something, Franklin: do all men have to be as difficult as possible? I mean, my husband, my son, Trevor, all of them..."

Franklin laughed a little as he sat down in the chair on the opposite side of Michael's bed. "I really shouldn't be the one talking, but yeah, I'm pretty sure they do," he said.

She gave the young man a crooked smile before looking down at Michael. She gently ran her thumb along his wedding ring, finger sweeping back and forth against the cool metal. "We weren't always like this," she said. "So hateful. We used to be happy, but I guess he doesn't talk about that time much, huh?"

"Uh, not really, no. He only told me a few things about, uh, about how it went downhill with y'all," Franklin said sheepishly. "I still don't know what happened with you, him, and Trevor back in North Yankton."

"Well…" she said. "Let me tell you, then. It was 1990 when I first met him. Back then, I was still Amanda Cooper, a college dropout turned stripper with enviable hair, no money, and no real plans. One night, this guy and his friends show up at the club I worked at. They're all wasted, but hey so was I. I had my eye on one of them, but then this guy keeps trying to flirt with me. I thought he was kind of a cocky asshole at first," she said, smirking at Michael.

"...but he was cute and charming then one thing led to another and he took me home. He was a hot bad boy and I was a hot bad girl, so we kept seeing each other. We dated for a few months, feelings got involved, and then next thing I knew, I was pregnant. He...he proposed a couple weeks later, in the middle of a snowball fight we had. So fucking cheesy," she laughed, wiping a stray tear away from her cheek. "Tracey came along and then two years later, Jimmy did, the little shit. It was hard, with him having that job, but we made it work. We loved each other and that's all that matters, right?" she asked, earning a nod from Franklin.

"Right," she continued shakily. "But one day, about a few weeks after he almost got killed during a job, he tells me about this guy he met. This FIB agent he made a deal with behind my back. I knew we needed to get out and come to Los Santos...but he didn't even tell me about it until a week beforehand. I just wish he would've…" she trailed off. "So, we get to Los Santos and we're happy for a good few years. We both should've seen it coming, though…"

Franklin finally interrupted her for the first time since she'd started talking. "Seen what coming?"

"That we weren't meant for this…that we never were gonna be one of those happy, normal suburban couples, but we kept pretending like we could be, even though we were both miserable. I tried to help him for a while, until I just...stopped. We pushed each other away, but we kept pretending everything was fine. Well...we did until one day I came home and found him in bed with a stripper." She hung her head for a moment, blinking back the tears from the memory. "We both started drinking too much after that. That was three years ago, and I'm pretty sure you can guess what happened since then…"

Franklin leaned back in the chair and let out a deep breath. "Wow," he said. "You two are some of the most fucked up people I've ever met…"

She managed a small, weak laugh. "Yeah, I get that a lot," she said. "I treated him like shit, Franklin, and I just can't stop thinking about how he could've died without me ever making it up to him."

"Man...I love the dude like a second father, but to me, it sounds like you both fucked up," Franklin said. "He loves you, though. He ain't perfect, but he does. I know you love his crazy ass, too. I think y'all are gonna be alright in the end. I saved his ass from something like this about a month ago, just before you two got back together and after Trevor found out about that whole Brad thing, and the first thing he asked me about was you-"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wait…something like this happened to him a month ago?" she said, gesturing to Michael's beaten, bruised body.

A look that she could only describe as saying "oh, shit" crossed Franklin's face. "Uh...it's not really my place to start talkin' about it, but I'd ask him about it when he wakes up. I think it fucked him up more than he likes to talk about." He paused, glancing down at his phone, and sighed. "I should go check on Trevor's ass, though. Make sure he hasn't done anything too bad…"

"Okay," she said, gripping Michael's hand even tighter than she had beforehand. "Thank you, Franklin. For bringing him back to me…"

"Ah, don't thank me, Mrs. De Santa," Franklin said, smiling at her. "Good luck with him," he told her before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

Amanda looked back over to Michael, sighing. With her free hand, she gently stroked his face and the fading bruises on it. "What the hell do you get yourself into…?" she whispered. In hindsight, it explained a lot: the nightmares that he couldn't seem to shake lately, the way he'd winced walking around the first few days she'd came home, the new scars that she wasn't able to bring herself to ask about…

"I swear to God, when you wake up, you are not leaving my sight again…" she muttered, stroking his matted hair back from his forehead. When he woke up, they were going to start again and this time, they were gonna do it right. She couldn't bear the thought of the alternative. No, not anymore. "I love you so much, Michael…"

She stood up, fluffing Michael's pillows and making sure he'd be as comfy as possible when he got up. Too focused on the task at hand, she didn't notice him start to stir awake or open his eyes. She didn't even notice him try to (unsuccessfully) sit up until he finally said something:

"Hey there, nurse…"