I probably sound like a broken record at this point, but sorry (again) that it's been so long! This chapter ended up being the longest yet and it took way longer than I thought! On the bright side, it's about 2 times longer than usual! I got inspired for this by jamming out to "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum on an old playlist, and thus this fic was born. I won't spoil too much aside from the fact that it's set after the Bureau Raid and our favorite couple has a lot of regrets at the moment… (Enjoy :D)
Fuck, I'm really drunk. That was the only thought that could form in Amanda's addled mind as she reached for her fifth-or was it sixth? She had honestly lost count after the vodka shots-drink of the night. She really didn't care, though. Her boy toy had left her hours ago; her kids were off doing God only knew what; her husband was probably dead somewhere or, if he wasn't, was hating her guts.
That was why she was there: to get wasted and forget about the mess that her life had become. But she couldn't forget. With all of the liquor and her uncontrollable urge to not remember anything, remembering was all she could do. Flashes of memories from two decades ago filled her head: of cheap perfume, fishnets, and car sex; of the boyish smiles that her husband had always flashed her, of his ambition and bravado that had faded over the last ten years over countless bottles of whiskey, of his love of her that had spoiled like milk and turned into contempt.
Nothing seemed as pretty as the past. Not the bright, flashing lights and the glamour of Los Santos, not the expensive cars and piles of overpriced clothes and shoes, and certainly not the younger men that practically fell at her feet these days.
I miss him, she lamented with a sad sigh, putting her chin in her hands and leaning up against the bar counter. She really shouldn't have been missing him, after how much hurt he'd caused her, after five years of stagnation and anger and cheating and bitterness, but she did, and she couldn't stop it.
He, at least, wasn't doing too bad for himself, Tracey had told her a few days ago. He'd somehow managed to get an actual job as a movie producer, which made her heart ache in some bittersweet way. He'd called her about it, left her a voicemail that she'd never responded to ("Hey, baby!" he'd started it oh-so-happily. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm finally doing something with my life. I'm making a movie! A real one! Call me.").
The very specific image in her mind of him following around his boss like a happy little puppy dog, bright-eyed and swaggering and enthusiastic as he was in his twenties, still made her smile. Michael had always loved old movies, sometimes more than he loved her.
Still, she couldn't quite put together his face after all the months she'd been gone. The light stubble on his face, that soft, dark hair that she'd always loved playing with, those baby blue eyes, but most of all, she couldn't quite see that damn smile. He may as well have been a stranger to her now, and no amount of thinking could put the puzzle pieces of his face together.
Amanda pulled out her phone, scrolling through hundreds of pictures until she found one she liked. It was an old one of them, only about a couple years after they'd moved to Los Santos, and Tracey had taken it while they weren't looking.
It was of just her and him, cuddled up on the couch in the dark with only the TV illuminating their faces. She could still remember that day vividly, despite her drunkenness and despite how long it'd been. It had been Halloween, and he'd roped her into watching some god-awful horror movie that was older than they were.
In the picture, Michael's arms were wrapped around her waist, his lips were against her ear-either to kiss her or tell her some cheesy joke-and he had a genuine grin and happiness in his eyes. She was laughing, and her eyes weren't looking at the TV, but up at him, and they were full of blind love and admiration.
What happened to us? she wondered as she stared it at and zoomed in on his face, at the happiness that he'd once had so much of, the happiness that he only gained now from chasing the past just like her. It wasn't really him, just a collection of pixels that showed what he used to be, but she found herself in awe of him all the same.
No, it's not him, she managed to convince herself after at least five minutes of staring. Not anymore. He'd stopped being that man a long time ago and the best thing she could do was move on…
"Oh, who am I kidding?" Amanda said under her breath, mentally cursing when she noticed the slur of her voice. She could never move on. Not from him. She always thought of the bitter, depressed man he'd turned into and tried to reassure herself that she'd made the right decision, but lately she couldn't get the man he'd been in the picture-all smiles and charm-out of her head. Couldn't get the girl she'd been out of her mind, either. It made her wondered if they could ever be those people again; it made her want to try.
It was a rare moment of clarity in a time where there shouldn't have been one; she was still wasted after all. But what was that saying? A drunk man's (or woman's, in this case) sayings were a sober man's thoughts? Maybe she just needed an excuse to act on them…
If there was one thing the alcohol did, it was make her lose control. Before she knew it, she was reaching forward to grab her phone, stumbling a little as she did, and pulling up his contact before taking a deep breath and calling him.
Fuck my life, Michael thought as he popped open a new bottle of whiskey and collapsed on the couch, spent. It was one in the morning, for fuck's sake, and he'd just gotten home after being roped into doing the FIB's dirty work for the umpteenth time. Running through a burning, collapsing building while having over fifty pounds of firefighter gear strapped to him was not high on the list of things he'd rather be doing, such as drinking and passing out on the couch. He still smelled like a goddamn bonfire. The only bright side of the damn job had been getting his files erased, more payment than any cut could be.
But he was fed up with it, tired of it all. Tired of doing their dirty work, tired of knowing that he'd wake up in the morning and nothing would change, tired of knowing that he probably wouldn't even make it to see "the Big One", tired of being alone.
Michael sighed, looking around the empty house. Yeah, he'd acted indifferent, had told Tracey the other day that he was doing just fine, thank you very much, but that-like most of the things he said-was a lie. He looked at all the discarded takeout boxes, at the empty beer cans and bottles, at the broken picture frames on the floor (victims of the first night he'd been alone after a bottle and a half of alcohol) and felt the emptiness trouble his mind again.
He missed them, so much. Missed Tracey's stupid antics, so much like his own when he was younger; hell, he even missed Jimmy hurling insults at his TV over that dumb game. But most of all, he missed her. Missed Amanda's constant energy and fire, missed her warm, comforting presence next to him in the bed that always stopped his nightmares (no matter how distant they'd become, it was always there).
He missed the people that they used to be, the ones in the picture-perfect memories that were shattered on the ground, surrounded by the broken glass of their frames. You brought this on yourself, a cold voice in his head hissed. You were a depressed asshole, so they left you.
They'd left, moved somewhere far from where ever he was. Maybe it was for the best, he thought as he took a drink. He'd spent these past few months, hell, the past few years even, chasing his past and only remembering why he left it behind in the first place. The endless death and destruction, twenty-four-seven, day in, day out. No rest, no control, no boundaries; the only constant being chaos. It hadn't been the right thing for him back then, and it sure as hell wasn't now.
How many chances at a normal life had he'd gotten, only to throw it away chasing after some job? This'll be the one, baby, I promise, he'd told Amanda so many times back when they were a couple of dumb kids in North Yankton. The one where he'd finally make it big and they could be happy, be normal. But those promises were empty, at least until one day in early 2004 where they finally were fulfilled. He'd thrown that one away, too, on motels and cheap women, on fast cars and expensive alcohol, on fucking stock market exchanges, even. On the cheating, on the bitterness, on the nostalgia for days that hadn't been that great in the first place.
"Was it all worth it…?" he muttered under his breath as he lifted the bottle to his mouth. Was it? His life falling apart, his family abandoning him, being exiled to the godless land of the desert for weeks, going through days of torture, thinking that he was going to die alone...was it worth it for some petty cash?
Fuck no.
Michael set down the bottle and put his head in his hands at the realization. No, it wasn't. Nothing was. Nothing would ever be enough to justify losing his wife and kids. He got up, kneeling down in the glass shards to retrieve his wedding picture, and sat back on the couch to stare down at it, at their young, happy selves.
That was the one bright spot of the "good old days": her. Her, with the stunning blue eyes that always threatened to drown him; her, with the sharp wit and sarcasm that rivaled his own; her, the only girl that he'd ever loved. They'd been happy back then, the happiest he'd ever been in his life, but he'd fucked it all up.
I'm sorry, Amanda…
He delicately set the picture back down on the coffee table amongst the trash that he'd delayed throwing away; a diamond in the rough of crumpled beer cans and pizza boxes. He put his head in his hands, groaning at the horrible mess of his life. Well, on the bright side, at least he'd probably be dead in a couple weeks anyway…
The ringing of his phone next to him pulled him out of his routine, nightly self-pity party. "Oh, fuck off…" he muttered instinctively, grabbing it and expecting to see Dave or Steve calling him to get him into another job that would get them all killed.
His eyes widened in shock once he saw who it actually was: Amanda, who hadn't returned any of his dozens of calls and texts. Misdial, he told himself before he got excited. Had to be. It was one in the morning; she was probably asleep, anyway. With that fuckin' French asshole next to her…
He ignored it.
"You have one new message," the robotic voice on his phone told him about a minute after the ringing stopped. "Message received today at 1:15am."
"The hell…?" Michael said under his breath. Hesitantly, he picked up his phone and went to listen to it. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. Her yelling at him, telling him that she was finally done with him, saying that she'd gotten the divorce papers? It was the most likely thing to happen, he knew, but still pressed "listen" anyway. Only one way to find out…
It was loud, that much he could tell even before she started talking. A bar, maybe? "Heyyy, Michael, it's me, your wife," Amanda slurred into the phone. Oh, she was wasted, he immediately realized. "I guess...I guess I just wanted to say I...I miss you, you ass. I miss us," she said sadly before sighing. "I don't know...maybe this was a bad idea, but I...uh...I'm sorry. For everything. I...I love you. Shit...I'm really drunk," she said abruptly before ending the voicemail.
He sat there, stunned and wondering if he had drank more than he thought. He had to listen to the message at least two more times to convince himself that it was real and not some hallucination that his brain was torturing him with. "Shit…" he said to himself, leaning back against the couch and running his hands down his face.
What the hell was he supposed to do now? Ignore it and let her sober up? Let nothing change between them? Or was he gonna go over there and talk to her, at the risk of her not even being at the bar anymore (He already knew which one; they always went to the same bar) or her changing her mind and yelling at his ass?
Michael already knew the answer to that. "Screw it," he muttered under his breath before standing up and grabbing his car keys.
The second he set foot in the bar, Michael became acutely reminded of why he didn't go to these types of places anymore. Bahama Mamas West was the type of club he would have loved twenty years ago, but one he wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole now. He had a feeling that Amanda was there for the former.
He hated it. Hated the bright blue neon lights burning into his eyes, hated the shitty electronic pop music thumping in his ears, hated the girls who were young enough to be his daughter constantly bumping into him, drunkenly hitting on him and trying to unbutton his shirt.
Finally, he made it over to the bar, where he found Amanda. She was slumped over the bar, leaning over the half-empty glass of red wine that she was nursing, and had an undeniable look of sadness on her face.
The sight of her, no matter how miserable she looked, made his heart start thumping against his chest. The last time he'd seen her was almost two months ago, when he'd been a spluttering, stupid mess in the pool and she'd been screaming insults at him.
Now, she was looking absolutely stunning in a short black dress that had been meant for another guy who was nowhere to be seen; Michael probably looked like shit in comparison, with dark circles under his eyes and a little bit of soot still in his hair from earlier because he hadn't had the time or energy to shower.
He swallowed nervously, feeling even more out of his league than usual, and started walking up to her. Be calm, keep cool, he told himself.
Michael sat down in the empty barstool next to her. "This seat taken?" he'd meant to say in a cocky, smooth voice, but all that awkwardly came out was, "Uh, hey, Amanda…"
Amanda about jumped ten feet in the air from surprise when she heard his voice. She looked at him in shock and hesitation at first, and he became worried for a second that she'd throw her drink in his face or slap him or something equally as embarrassing, but all she did was shakily say, "Michael...shit, hi. I'm, like, glad to see you and all...but what are you doing here?"
"Got your message," he said. "Kinda figured you'd need some company after that. Y'know...where is your little boy toy?"
"He fucking left me here two hours ago. Told me I wasn't very 'zen' or some shit like that," she slurred angrily before letting out a self-deprecating laugh. "Ironic, huh? The leaver got left…"
He sighed. "Amanda-" he started, knowing full well where she was going with this, but she waved her hand, cutting him off.
"Forget it," she said dismissively. "I'm drunk. I don't know what I'm talking about…"
"Sure sounded like you did on the phone," he replied quietly.
"Maybe…" she muttered, lifting the wine glass to her mouth and downing the rest of the drink in one swift gulp. She turned back to face him, a forced, awkward smile on her face. "So, what have you been up to tonight? Thought you'd be asleep by now..."
"Nah, I couldn't sleep. Too busy thinking about shit," he said. A complete lie, but maybe she was drunk enough to fall for it.
She wasn't. Her blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she leaned close enough to him so that her face barely brushed against his while she no doubt inhaled the heavy smell of smoke that still hung on him. He, meanwhile, was too busy taking in her scent of alcohol and that familiar, intoxicating perfume.
With no warning, she reached up and ran a hand through his hair-making his heart stop for just a second-and when she pulled it away, telltale specks of soot were in her hand.
"Bullshit," she immediately said, snapping him out of his daze. "Nice try, Michael. I know I'm drunk, but I'm not that drunk. So, what was it tonight? A jewelry store? A bank out in the desert?" A certain bitterness hung in her tone, but there was undeniable sadness lurking behind those eyes that were hazy with drunkenness.
Michael winced at that. Of course she'd know he'd done those; he hadn't exactly been subtle about it before she'd left. "The FIB. I robbed the FIB," he sighed. He longingly glanced over at the bartender, wishing he could take the edge off, but he figured one of them ought to be at least a little bit sober.
Amanda's eyebrows shot up in shock. "Well, shit...that's certainly different. I'm, um, really glad you're okay…"
"Eh, 'okay' is relative," he shrugged before waving down the bartender.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she watched him call the bartender over. Of course he would get a drink. Maybe this whole thing had been a bad idea, but she honestly didn't know what to expect when she'd called him. Now that he was actually here, a little beaten up and rough around the edges, but looking good (Is he thinner? He looks thinner…), she had no idea what to do or say, and that tension and awkwardness was already apparent.
With her lower lip hesitantly held in between her teeth, she stared at him. He had dark circles under those gorgeous eyes and the stubble on his face was a little thicker than usual, but he still looked the same as he did the day she left, all bright blue eyes and cocky smiles. And those broad shoulders and hard muscles…
Amanda, in her drunken haze, didn't notice him trying to get her attention until he lightly rested his hand on her shoulder (and didn't notice the fact that he had no drink in front of him and was tucking his wallet into his pocket with his free hand). The feeling of that strong, familiar touch was enough to snap her out of it for a moment.
"Hey, let's get you outta here. Don't think this place is good for either of us," Michael said, smiling sadly at her.
She nodded. It was probably for the best, she lamented as she stared down at her empty glass. The place held nothing but hollow memories for her, anyway. "Yeahh, fine…" she slurred, reaching for her purse. "Just give me a minute…"
"Already took care of your tab," he said, offering her his hand, which she gratefully took after nearly falling off of the barstool. Heels and drunkenness were not a good combination.
"Really?" she asked, stumbling as she allowed him to lead her through the crowded bar. She clung tightly to his arm, gripping it as if it were a lifeline and the club was some dangerous pit that threatened to swallow her up.
"Yeah. Least I could do." He practically had to shout over the shitty, deafening music that was fueling her alcohol-induced headache.
Ugh, it feels like the world is spinning...
As they made their way through the bar, she noticed a few twenty-somethings staring at him almost predatorily. A sudden, inexplicable pang of jealousy shot through her at those familiar looks. Stop it, she told her muddled, confused mind. He hasn't been yours to be jealous about in a long time…
Still, she couldn't help herself from dumbly blurting something out. "Michael…"
"Yeah?"
By now, they had made it outside, and it was only them and the bitter air surrounding them. The sun had set well after she'd set foot in the bar, and rain had started to pour down, illuminating the nighttime Los Santos streets in a dripping haze of neon blues and purples. She couldn't help but shiver slightly from the air meeting her bare skin and from her own nervousness.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, unable to meet his gaze. When she finally managed to look up at him, he was struggling to find the right words to say and had nothing but panic and regret on his face.
"I-I'll go grab the car," Michael stammered out before hastily brushing past her, leaving her standing under the awning of the bar to regret her decisions.
"Shit," she said under her breath, watching as he all but sprinted across the road into the rain. Maybe she'd misinterpreted the whole thing; maybe he was just doing it to be nice (for what reason he had to be nice to her, she had no idea) and not because he agreed with the things she'd said on the phone. Idiot…
Her self-deprecation was-probably for the best-cut short by him pulling up next to her and silently getting out of the car to hold the door open for her. She couldn't help but smile at that, at that old-fashioned, instinctive way of his. The car, like its owner, was familiar in its cigarette and nostalgia-laden ways, and it made her relax for just a second before it soon faded to muddled confusion.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked as he started the car up. She searched his face for any ulterior motive, any anger that may have been lingering, but either she was too drunk to find it or he had improved his poker face over the last few months because there was nothing but that same sadness on his face.
"Doing what?" he said distractedly, keeping his eyes locked on the road for once instead of wandering around like usual (she had a feeling it wasn't because of his upstanding reputation as a safe driver).
"Helping me. I mean...shit...I thought you hated me after everything that's happened…" she muttered.
Michael sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair in frustration and exhaustion, sending drops of rainwater splattering against the dashboard. "I don't hate you, Amanda. I just...I've spent these last couple months thinking that you hated me and hating myself 'cause of it, and when you, uh, called me and said all that stuff…" he said, groaning as he ran a hand down his face. "I got to thinkin' about it on the way here and I started to wonder that if those things were true, then why didyou leave?"
She rested her head against the window and stared wistfully at the raindrops rolling down the glass. "I was hoping you'd chase after me."
That stopped any hope for further conversation. He shut down, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and his jaw was ticking in barely concealed emotion.
Well, that's that, she thought sadly before resigning herself to the painfully awkward silence. It was true; she'd always hoped that it'd be like his old romance movies and he'd come running after her to tell her to stay. But Michael was never the type of guy to come to her begging on his knees and she wasn't one to tell him how sorry she really was. Well, at least until tonight she hadn't been…
A couple minutes into the seemingly endless red light they were stuck at, she could barely take it anymore. Amanda reached over and turned on the radio, internally groaning at the time the bright LED numbers burned into her eyes. 2:00am. Too busy thinking about her impending hangover, she barely listened to the too-peppy DJ talking about throwback songs until the opening guitar thrums of a song she vaguely recognized from almost six years ago started.
"You used to get it in your fishnets
Now you only get it in your night dress
Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness
Landed in a very common crisis
Everything's in order in a black hole
Nothing seems as pretty as the past though
That Bloody Mary's lacking in Tabasco
Remember when you used to be a rascal?"
She quickly turned the radio back off the second the first verse ended, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. Was it even possible for a song to describe her so well? The wild nights turning into mature ones, the order and control sucking her life into a routine, the futile attempts to feel excitement again…
The short-lived attempt to entertain her with music only made her feel shittier about her life, about her doomed marriage that had burned so brightly and fizzled out like a firework, about that drunken call and the depressing car ride of memories they were in. All of this probably wouldn't change anything between them, anyway...
"Thought you liked that station," he said in a poor attempt to make small talk. He was desperate to try and distract himself from the things she'd just told him. His mind was still reeling. It had been that one word that had short circuited him, that one damn word that they still couldn't tell each other over half a decade of fighting, the one she'd told him two times already within forty-five minutes.
Sorry.
"I do. It's just…memories," Amanda sighed deeply, trailing off as she stared out the window at the rain.
She'd always liked the rain, he remembered, unlike him. He'd hated it for a while until she dragged his ass out into the rain throughout the years, kissing him out in it until he'd finally changed his mind. She found it comforting, but he had a feeling that it didn't offer much comfort right now.
It sure wasn't for him. She wanted me to come after her, Michael repeated it in his head for about the millionth time. At first, he'd thought she'd made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing more than for him to fuck off, but a few minutes into being stuck at the light (fuckin' traffic…), it had started to make sense.
The entire mess had been a cry for help from the beginning. The spending, the drinking, the cheating. How fucking dumb had he been? She'd texted him about that tennis coach so many times, begging him to play with her instead. She'd had sex with the guy where she knew she would be caught, for God's sake. Attention (well, and probably revenge…) was all she wanted, but he, like the oblivious idiot he was, ignored her…
He had been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice the traffic light finally change to green until Amanda softly said, "Uh, the light…"
"Thanks," he said, starting to drive along before realizing he had no idea where the hell he was going. "So, uhm, where does this little boyfriend of yours live, anyway?"
She immediately started panicking. Her eyes widened in nervousness and she fidgeted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. "No, please, no. I can't go back there tonight, Michael," she pleaded. "It's driving me fucking insane! If I hear the word 'namaste' ever again, I swear to God, I'll scream. Take me anywhere else, I don't care. Just anywhere where he's not."
Trouble in paradise, huh? he mused, but held his tongue. Probably wouldn't have been appreciated, and he didn't have it in him to be that much of an ass. At least not tonight he didn't. She did seem pretty desperate, so he figured he'd oblige.
"Back to the house it is then," he said.
Michael had never been more anxious in his life than he had been when they set foot in the house. He expected some half-hearted snark, some disappointment at the mess that was their house, maybe some passive-aggressive comments to convince himself that he shouldn't have been expecting anything different.
It never came. If anything, she seemed nervous as she hung off his arm on the way to the bedroom (she was too drunk and too tired to go up the stairs herself).
"Sorry 'bout the mess…" he apologized sheepishly when he opened the bedroom door. She shrugged indifferently, but he noticed the way that she stared longingly at their wedding picture-still surrounded by the glass shards of the frame-on the floor. A pang of guilt shot through him at that look and no amount of trying to shrug it off helped.
Amanda not-so-elegantly collapsed on the bed, a grateful sigh escaping her lips as she immediately tore off her uncomfortable heels and tossed them to the floor. The relief quickly faded as she bit her lip in hesitation. "Um, so, Michael…" she started.
"Yeah?" he asked, voice growing muffled as he went into the closet to change out of his clothes that were still wet from his brief, panicked sprint into the rain. He traded the button-up and slacks for a t-shirt and sweatpants-clothes that were perfect for passing out drunk on the sofa downstairs.
"I wanted to say thanks. You know, for tonight. God knows Fabien wouldn't have done it," she said, spitting out the name with a venom that she'd usually reserved for Michael. He had to admit, though: it felt good to not be on the receiving end of it for once.
"Eh, don't mention it," he said nonchalantly, quickly running a towel through his hair before starting for the door. "I'll, uh, I'll be crashing on the couch if you need me."
"Michael?" she quickly called out before he left. When he turned around to face her, she was tapping her fingers against the mattress nervously and her voice was shaky as she said, "Can you stay for a bit?"
His eyes widened in shock for a second before the advice he'd given himself earlier rang in his mind. Be cool, he told himself as he stuttered out, "Sure, of course." He winced at that response while walked over to the bed and laid down next to her. She was on his side of the bed instead of hers, but he didn't mind. For the last two months, he'd been sleeping on her side, anyway.
"So…" she drawled out, trying to break the tension and awkwardness that hung in the air.
"So…" he echoed, staring up at the ceiling.
"These past few years have been pretty crazy, huh?" she said with a bitter laugh.
He had to chuckle at that. That was the understatement of the year if he'd ever heard one. "That's one way to describe it…"
Amanda turned on her side to look at him, her head propped up with one arm, and smiled regretfully at him. "We had some good times, didn't we?"
"Yeah...yeah, we did," he said softly, looking back on those wilder days of being just a couple of dumb kids that only had eyes for each other. The days of dark, hot clubs and cheap beer and lines of coke and kisses out in the snow.
"I still remember the time when we took Trevor's truck out for a joyride and went to that lake you found for the day. God, I thought he was gonna kill you!" she giggled.
"It was the only time when that godforsaken town was above 50 degrees! And, heh, skinny dipping there with you was some of the best fun I've ever had," he chuckled.
She slapped his arm playfully, but that lightheartedness quickly turned into sadness. She looked at him with bright blue eyes that were blurry with tears. "I fucked up," she whispered.
"No, you didn't-" he started to sigh, but she cut him off before he could say anything.
"Yes, I did," she said insistently. "Jesus, just think about it, Michael. We used to be happy, and now we're not. And it's all my fault. I mean, fuck, I spent my whole life trying not to be like my mother, but look at me. I drink wayyyy too much, I'm a horrible mother, an even worse wife. I'm just like her. It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm a failure, just like she'd said I'd be. You always said we'd never be like our parents, but-"
"Hey, stop that. You're not a failure, okay?" he said softly. Part of him wanted to reach out and grab her hand, but the other part was still unsure of where they stood. Instead, he gave her a reassuring smile. "If anything, that's me. You tried your best, I know that. I-I wasn't there as much as I should've been when the kids were growing up and I put it all on you. I screwed everything up and I dragged you down with me. I'm the fuck-up. Not you."
Amanda rolled her eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. If there was one thing they both had in common, it was that they were stubborn. "We're both fuck-ups, then. I did a lot of dumb things that I regret, too, Michael. I acted like a stupid fucking child," she slurred angrily, her red, tear-filled eyes not able to meet his. "I tried to pretend I was twenty again, but it just reminded me that I missed you. I missed us."
Michael nodded, finally working up enough courage to reach over and brush the tears away from her eyes before they had a chance to roll down her cheeks. "I missed you, too," he whispered, acutely aware of the way she was inching closer to his lips with every passing second. "I, ah, I did a lot of thinking these past couple months and I realized, well, A) I'm a major ass, and-"
With no warning, she put her finger to his lips, silencing him for a moment as she said, "Are we gonna keep arguing over which one of us is the bigger idiot or are you gonna kiss me?"
He kissed her.
It was soft and slow and everything like he'd wished it be. Things weren't okay and this didn't erase what had happened, but they were together again and actually getting along for once.
Still, a feeling nagged at the back of his head, tugging at his mind. She was drunk, maybe this was a mistake (despite his body telling him it was anything but), maybe she'd regret this when she was sober…
He pulled away for just a second, gasping for breath and trying to ignore the way she tried to pull him back into the kiss. "I'm sorry," he panted out. "Are you sure-"
The only answer he got was Amanda grabbing him by the front of his shirt, her fists full of fabric as she kissed him even harder. "Please," she whispered hoarsely after he tried to pull away again. "Kiss me."
That was all he needed. The kisses started to grow stronger, wilder than they had been for years. Her lips crashed against his, soft and every type of passionate. It was, without a doubt, the best kiss he'd had in a long time.
Before he knew it, he had roughly grabbed her by the hips and pulled her into his lap. Her fingers sifted through his hair while he buried his face into her neck, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck. Soon enough, her hands traveled down the base of his neck and under the collar of his shirt, fingers drawing gentle circles against his bare skin.
Michael gasped against her skin, making him break the kisses for just a second before he moved his lips back to hers. Her lips tasted sweet and like wine against his, and just a addicting. The intoxication enveloped him, swallowing him whole as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. They kissed desperately, as if it was the last kiss they'd ever have, their whole bodies curving into each other's like two puzzle pieces finally being reunited.
Within seconds, she was tugging at his shirt and had it tossed to the floor while he wasted no time in reaching over and unzipping the back of her dress, pulling it down her body until the sheer fabric gathered in glossy waves at her waist.
Her fingers had just started to slip under the waistband of his pants when he managed to break the kiss, breathing a little heavily. "Are-are you sure you wanna do this?" he asked gently, making sure he stared deep into her eyes while he said it.
"Yes," she whispered before wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in so that she murmured against his mouth when she said, "Just shut up and kiss me."
"Shit...that was…" Amanda gasped out once they were finished. She panted, resting her head on his shoulder as she caught her breath. By now, most of the alcohol had worn off, but even her hangover couldn't overcome the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"Amazing?" he asked with a tired smile. He reached over and tucked a stray lock of wavy hair behind her ear, still trying to catch his breath himself.
She snuggled up closer to his chest, nodding. "So, I was wondering something…"
"Hm?" he grunted out, too exhausted to come up with a coherent reply.
"When we...when we were talking earlier," she started breathlessly. "I kinda cut you off before you said what part 'B' of your fucked-up realizations was."
"Oh, yeahh. Before you interrupted me by, uh, askin' me to kiss you," Michael said with a laugh. "I was gonna say that: B) my old life isn't all that I thought it'd be, so I'm done with it. I'm so close to getting out, 'Manda. Just one more job, and I'm done for good this time. And I was thinkin' that when I was done with it, maybe...maybe we could try this thing again. Start over and give this another shot. Me and you and the kids…"
She nodded, grinning up at him with a happiness he hadn't seen in a long time. After all these years, it still made his heart flutter just like it had the first time. "I'd like that, darling. I really would."
He looked at her in almost shock. He expected a little bit of that stubbornness to come out, some of the classic "playing-hard-to-get" but she had apparently dropped all of those pretenses at this point. "You're ready for this? Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"It's not gonna be easy, you know," he said hesitantly.
She smiled at him confidently, the familiar confidence practically radiating from her. "Nothing worthwhile ever is. Although, I could be a little more convinced…" she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. There it is.
"Oh, yeah?" he asked playfully, gathering her up in his arms and pulling her closer. "And how can I convince you?"
"Well, round two would be a start…"
A/N: P.S. The song that was on the radio in the car was "Fluorescent Adolescent" by the Arctic Monkeys, which reminds me a LOT of Amanda, and I thought its lyrics were too fitting to not include