Hello and welcome back to another chapter :D ! I'm going to try to be updating this fic in between the new multichapter I've started (check it out if you haven't already!) and there may or may not be some Christmas/New Year's chapters planned…

Anyway, this chapter is about a sad/angsty little encounter between Michael and Amanda in 1996 after he doesn't come home for a while after a job. Enjoy!

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Almost a month since her husband had kissed her goodbye before leaving her and their children to go rob another bank. "This'll be the one, baby, I promise," he'd murmured against her lips before getting into the truck with his partners in crime. The one where he'd finally make it big and they could run off and be happy, be normal.

But that was what he always said. Every time he ran off, he said that same sentence to her and would return anywhere from a week to a month later, wordless and covered in cuts and bruises with barely enough cash to cover a couple months' rent. They'd argue for a while, maybe have frustrated makeup sex, and then fall asleep acting like nothing happened. And then a few weeks later, the cycle would start again. So it goes.

Amanda put her head in her hands, sighing, and glanced over at the clock in between her fingers. 4:00am. Nearly morning and she hadn't gotten a minute of sleep. She couldn't remember the last time she did, to be honest. Days? A couple weeks?

Part of it was a small glimmer of hope that Michael would come back; the other part was knowing that the kids would wake her up, anyway. Jimmy, in his newest phase of his "terrible twos," seemed to be taking after his father in the sense that he never slept through an entire night. And then when he woke up, Tracey inevitably did, and then the questions would start. "Mommy, where's Daddy?" she asked her every night, clutching her teddy bear with innocent eyes wide with sadness and obliviousness. "I miss Daddy."

Every. Single. Night.

"Daddy's out working, honey," was always Amanda's reply as she tucked her little five-year-old girl back in. "He'll be back before you know it." Liar, liar, the mantra in her head always chanted. She never had the heart to tell her daughter that she had no idea if he was even alive, let alone where he was. One day, she knew she needed to, but she was going to try to protect her from that pain for as long as she could.

At first, she thought the roaring of her husband's truck and the headlights coming up the driveway was some hallucination that her sleep-deprived brain was torturing her with. But then she heard the car shut off and then heard his muffled curses as he struggled with his keys. "Fuckin' A," he finally muttered when he finally got it open.

The scent of alcohol filled the trailer the second the door opened and he stepped inside, grinning at her a little too happily. He didn't look too worse for wear this time around, aside from dark circles under his eyes and the scent of cheap alcohol that hung off him like it was a perfume. "Hellooooo, Amanda, my darlin'!" Michael drawled out loudly, making her wince.

"Shh," she said harshly, anger seeping into her voice. "The kids are asleep, not that you give a shit."

"I'm sorry, babe," he slurred, reaching out for her, but she quickly pulled away from him. "I do give a shit. Honestly."

"Really?" she asked with faux curiosity, leaning against the kitchen counter with a glare. "Because any father who did would be here with his kids and his wife, not God only knows where for a month drinking with his maniac friends. I've been here, raising our children by myself while you're out fucking around."

"I fuckin' told you where I'd be," he said, frustration starting to get into his drunken words. "Carcer City. Taking a score with T and the guys. I swear, 'Mand, I jus' got back tonight."

She rubbed her fingers at her forehead, trying to chase away the massive headache that was forming. She couldn't figure out why she was so angry, it was routine, after all, but she couldn't help herself this time. "And you chose to get drunk instead of coming home? You are un-fucking-believable, Michael."

"Whatever," he muttered before putting the duffel bag strapped to his shoulder onto the kitchen table and unzipping it, revealing the stacks of cash inside. Stacks of blood money, more like. "You're fuckin' welcome. Maybe we can actually pay the bills on time this month. Maybe this'll stop your complaining for two seconds."

"Complaining?!" she hissed, still trying to keep her voice down. "Tell me something, darling: do you think I enjoy lying for you? Saying you'll be back soon even though if I'm not sure you're even alive?"

"I'm here, ain't I?" he asked, spreading his arms out as if to prove his point. "An' you know that you don't have to lie to them."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Michael, for trying to protect their image of you. You should be grateful, honestly, because you're at least not considered the worse parent whenever you make them do something that they don't like," she said bitterly, looking towards the kids' room sadly. "I'm tired of being the bad guy who needs to make the tough decisions while dear old daddy is gone for months at a time and is the wounded hero!"

"Sorry they see the fuckin' truth. If it weren't for me, you'd still be banging guys in their cars in some alleyway for money," he said harshly. Muttering curses under his breath, he carelessly tossed his coat onto the couch along with his gun holster. He crossed over to the fridge and pulled out a beer, popping it open and taking a long pull.

Amanda watched him in disgust and anger. He always drank too much after a job, either to celebrate or to fill the fucked-up pit in his heart that she could never replace, she could never tell. The former wasn't so bad because he was usually a happy, cute kind of drunk, but she had a feeling that tonight was the latter, judging by the resentment that he seemed to hold for her and the way his fingers curled tightly around the bottle.

"You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days chasing after all of these stupid jobs, you know that, you idiot?" she spat out.

Michael took a swig from his beer, glaring at her. "I'm fine. I've been doin' this for eight years already, and I'm telling you, Amanda, that I'm finally on the verge-"

"Oh, you're always on the verge!" she said. "You tell me this every time, and what changes? Nothing. I swear to God, Michael, your obsession with this is gonna fuck all of us over…"

"Obsession?" he asked in disbelief, slamming his beer down on the counter with a resounding thud. "I'm obsessed?"

"You are missing our kids' childhood because you're always robbing some bank or store on the other side of the state!" she yelled, too angry to care about keeping her voice down anymore. "Why can't you just be happy with what you have?"

"I don't know!" Michael shouted back, running his hands through his hair in frustration, before his broad shoulders slumped tiredly. "I don't know…"

She tried to blink back the tears of frustration forming in her eyes. "Can... can you just stay for a while this time? We...the kids miss you, Michael…" she said, voice shaking a little.

He rolled his eyes at that. "You know that's not how this thing works," he said dismissively. "I'll go whenever I goddamn wanna."

"Well, maybe that's how it should work! At least then I'd get a say on what happens in this relationship!" She shoved him away from her, hoping-praying-that he would feel something, that he wouldn't just stand there indifferently like always.

He barely even moved and looked down at her with more annoyance than anger. "I think you get enough already," he said, voice muffled against his beer bottle.

She stared at the alcohol in his hand in hatred. She'd always hated it. Always hated how the drink made him act, always hated how he downed bottle after bottle, always hated the slurred words he said in front of the kids.

Before she even knew it, she had the bottle in her hand and was smashing it against the floor. Broken glass and beer splattered at their feet, spilling all over the tile floor. She shut her eyes, letting out a deep breath, and braced herself for what was to come.

"What the fuck, Amanda?!" he immediately yelled, fists clenched at his side. His face turned red, not just from the drunkenness, and his jaw started to tick in that way it did when he was really pissed off.

"I think you've had plenty to drink tonight," she said, venom dripping from her voice, but her hands were still shaking, betraying her nervousness and fear.

"You," he spat out. He stepped closer to her, glass shards crunching beneath his shoes, and didn't stop until he had her backed up against the wall. He towered over her, leaving her shaking beneath him. His clenched hands twitched at his side, aching for something to punch. "Aren't fucking in charge of me. I go out and get money to provide for us, and this is the thanks I get?!"

The man standing above her may have looked like her husband, but he was not him. He was just a drunken impostor holding him captive inside of his mind. As she stood cowering against the wall, she could finally see the dark figure that had plagued Michael's childhood, the one who'd abused him until he was seventeen, the one man that Michael would never ever want to be compared to: his father. Michael would never lay a hand on her, she knew that, but what she was seeing scared her.

"Michael, please," she said shakily, feeling new tears spring at the edges of her eyes. "You are a lot of things, but you are not your father."

As if he was snapping out of a trance, he stepped back, a look of hurt and betrayal crossing his face. All of the anger seemed to fade from him, replaced by regret and a newfound soberness. Fear formed in his eyes, and it was fear of himself more than anything. "I'm sorry…" he said quietly, stepping further back. "I'm so sorry…"

Like clockwork, Jimmy's crying interrupted them before they could say anything else. Michael wordlessly put his head down and started for the kids' bedroom, but she interrupted him before he could get there.

"I got it," Amanda sighed tiredly. "Just go. Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

He did, shutting their bedroom gently behind him and leaving her alone with her thoughts. The second she heard that door shut, she sunk down the wall, put her face in her hands, and let the silent tears run down her red cheeks.

She couldn't stay there for more than a minute, though, when her son's crying became too loud to ignore. Trying to not lament the state of her pathetic life, she uneasily stood up (avoiding the glass shards) and walked into the kids' room where she found her toddler crying in his crib.

"Hey there, honey," she whispered, picking her son up and rocking him in her arms with a weak smile. "Sorry we woke you up…"

Jimmy, all bright red curls and dimples, smiled and giggled up at her, his crying soon forgotten. For a moment, that smile made the all the sleepless nights worth it and made her forget about what just happened with Michael. "You're lucky you're cute, you know that?" she asked him. "And you don't ask any hard questions…"

Luckily, her son fell back asleep quickly (now that all the screaming was over with, of course). She had just taken a deep, relieved breath and had started for the door when she heard her daughter's voice.

"Mommy?"

Fuck.

Amanda put on a painfully forced smile and turned to face her daughter, who was sitting up in her bed and looking at her through tired eyes. "Yeah, sweetie?" she asked in the most cheerful voice she could muster.

Tracey clutched her teddy bear to her chest and was shifting nervously in between her blankets when she asked, "Is Daddy back yet? I heard you two yelling really loudly…"

Of course you did, Amanda thought with a wince. Her and Michael hadn't exactly been subtle about it and the breaking glass probably didn't help matters. "Daddy and I just had a little disagreement, honey," she said. "You can see him in the morning-"

"But I wanna see him now," Tracey protested with a glare that eerily reminded her of Michael.

Amanda sighed, somewhere between irritation and sadness. Sometimes she could be too much like her father. "Tracey," she started slowly. "Daddy's really tired from working. You wouldn't wanna wake him up, would you?"

"No…" Tracey muttered before her small shoulders slumped in defeat. She laid back down on the bed, the faintest hint of a pout still on her face. "Sorry, Mommy…"

"It's okay," Amanda said soothingly, brushing stray locks of hair away from her daughter's face and tucking her back in with a light kiss to the forehead before starting for the door. "Good night, Trace. I love you…"

"I love you, Mommy," Tracey murmured tiredly just before Amanda shut the door behind her.

The second that Amanda stepped back into the living room, she was reminded of her argument with her husband, which she'd briefly forgotten about in the midst of dealing with the kids. She shut her eyes briefly, trying to keep her emotions at bay.

They were on borrowed time, she'd known that from the second she'd seen the positive pregnancy test and the ring he'd nervously given her. One of these days she'd finally get the dreaded call from the hospital or-god forbid-the police. The ticking time bomb that they were was destined to go off one way or another.

"How are we going to do this?" she said under her breath as she got out the broom and started to sweep up the broken glass. She didn't know how long they could keep on like this, with him always gone and her in a constant state of worry. Either one of them was bound to go insane, and she had started to get the feeling that it was going to be sooner rather than later.

A few minutes later, she had every single shard of the Pisswasser bottle swept up. The place still reeked of shitty beer, but she was too tired to care. Whatever. She'd fix it tomorrow. It wasn't as if the kids knew what alcohol was. Yet, at least.

Her heart was still thudding in her chest as her hand hesitated over the doorknob to their bedroom. With any luck, Michael was already passed out drunk and wouldn't even remember what happened in the morning. It was what was normal for them, after all.

Amanda had silently been praying that that was the case as she shakily opened the door, only to be met with the sight of her husband sitting up the bed with his hands dug nervously into the sheets. "Amanda-" he immediately started before she waved her hand, cutting him off.

"Don't," she said, exhausted. "Let's just talk about it in the morning."

"Please, 'Mand?" he said softly. His blue eyes glinted in the darkness of the room, filled with something between tipsiness and regret. "You can yell at me all you want. Call me a pathetic asshole, a fuckin' idiot, I don't care. I jus' wanna talk. I missed you…"

"You aren't acting like it," she muttered as she got into the bed, closest to the edge of her side as she could get.

"I know...I'm sorry," he slurred, turning on his side to face her. "I get drunk and I act out, that's me. I wish it wasn't...but it is. I'm sorry I took it out on you…"

"That's what you always say," she said simply.

He shifted restlessly between the sheets before he moved closer to her, his body inches away from hers. "Yeah, yeah, I sound like a broken fuckin' record...but it's true," he muttered. "I...I just wanna provide for you. For the kids."

"I know that, Michael," she said, voice still hoarse from shouting. "I just don't like who you turn into when you come back."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, the broken record continuing its loop. He stayed silent for a moment before he whispered, "I don't wanna turn into my father…."

Her heart jumped into her throat the second he said that, and all of her lingering anger was soon forgotten. His voice sounded small and scared, just like the kid he was when his father made his life a living hell. Michael always pretended that his childhood didn't affect him, but it did. The look in his eyes when she'd mentioned him and the fear in his voice gave her all the proof she needed.

Maybe it's why he drinks, she thought. Maybe it was why he always preferred a bottle of whiskey to sleeping. She'd been witness to enough of his liquor-induced breakdowns and nightmares when he was running on only one or two hours of sleep to figure out what caused them. Sometimes he told her what they were about: he dreamt that she got shot or the kids did or that Trevor was finally murdering him. Other times, he didn't, and that was when she knew he was imagining a man looming over him with a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Whenever he woke up screaming, she tried to comfort him about it. She'd hold him, make out with him, fuck him, whatever she thought he needed, and eventually he'd fall back asleep, leaving her to pick up the pieces of trying to understand his mind. She never fully could.

It had been a few months ago when she first wondered to herself if he had PTSD. It was in a book she'd been reading (that was what housewives did, right? Read?) and the more she read, the more it made sense. The insomnia and nightmares had been her first obvious clue, but each new symptom she read made her heart break a little more. The hostility, the emotional detachment, the self-destructive behavior…

Maybe it had started when he shot his first person, maybe it'd been when he robbed his first bank at age 20, maybe it'd been when he landed in prison only a couple months after high school. Maybe it had been when he reached the age where he realized he shouldn't have been just his father's punching bag.

It wasn't until Michael finally said something that she realized how long they'd been silent for. "I'm scared, 'Mand…" he whispered, voice shaking. "Maybe I'm just like him…"

Amanda turned on her side to face him, mentally noting the pure, unfiltered fear in his expression. She took her face in his hands, fingers stroking across his stubbled jawline and the tiny scars that took residency there. "Stop that," she demanded. "You're not just your father's son, Michael. You...you're better than he'll ever be-"

"Am I though?" he asked, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. "I'm a worthless fuckin' drunk asshole. I'm just like him-"

An abrupt kiss to his lips cut off the rest of his sentence. His tongue tasted of cheap relief against hers, but she didn't care. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of his t-shirt as she pulled him flush against her body and desperately tried to pour all of her love into a single kiss.

"Michael Townley," she started breathlessly when she pulled away. "Please believe me when I say that you will never be like your father. You're more than that to me, okay? You always will be."

"Thanks, sweetheart…" he mumbled, words still slurring into one another. A semblance of a smile started to tug at the corner of his mouth. "I love you…"

"I love you, too," she said, but the words felt bittersweet on her tongue. "And Michael?"

"Yeah?"

She snuggled up closer to his chest, placing her hand against his heart so she could feel it thumping beneath his shirt. Things weren't okay, not by a long shot, but at least he was alive and home. "I'm sorry about earlier…"

He shook his head, black strands of hair falling forwards onto his forehead. "Don't...don't you be sorry for anythin' right now. I started it by being a loud drunk idiot. Hell, I deserved it, anyway."

"I just wanted you to stay," she whispered. "Just for a little while."

"I will," he said, earning a shocked look from her. "Honestly. I'll stay for a month this time, babe, I swear. Spend some time with you and the kids. Take your mind off things for a bit…"

"I'd like that, darling…" she murmured, feeling the tiredness start to take hold of her. "I really would…"

"Then I'll stay," he said, wrapping his strong arms that she'd so desperately missed around her. "As long as you need me to."

For the first time in almost a month, Amanda was drifting off to sleep with a smile on her face. "Good...I've missed you, babe. I love you…" she managed to say just before her eyes shut.

He buried his face into the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo and letting himself relax for the first time in nearly a month. "Love you, too, Mandy," he mumbled into her hair. "I love you, too…"