Closing the loft door behind him Michael pauses for a second taking in a deep breath. His facial muscles tighten as his chest burns. He slowly breathes out, imagining breathing out the pain with each breath.
Last night's rain had washed away the evidence of yesterday. The warm sun beams down upon him and he feels soothed and refreshed by the warm rays. He slides his sunglasses into place and descends the steps. His face is blank but his mind is far from it. A feeling of guilt creeps up on him as he realizes he's angry. He had awakened from his short nap angry, irrationally so. Maybe more frustrated than angry. He felt like he had to get out, so he got dressed, told her goodbye and now here he is feeling a bit out of his element and needs some time to himself before engaging in any further conversation with Fiona.
He strides up to his Charger and his lips part in mute shock before he snatches his sunglasses off to get a better look at the interior of his car. He had forgotten how much of a bloody mess he had left behind. He throws back his head and groans in frustration as he sees the blood stains have completely dried and set in. He taps his hand against the shiny black roof of the car thinking.
The padlock unclasps with ease as he opens the gate to his makeshift tool shed. His fingers nimbly rifle through a unique collection of tools before finding a dirty looking bottle containing a concoction he's used in the past. He snatches a clean rag, kicks the gate closed as he walks out and opens the passenger door and climbs in.
He soaks the cloth and dabs at the stains, knowing from previous experience they would be hell to get out. Cleaning the car leads his mind back to a weary time. Imagines of his childhood play through his mind. His hand unintentionally clenches against the dashboard.
Finished with his task, he leaves the stains to soak. He tosses the soiled rag and goes to wipe his hands in a clean towel. Resigned to the fact that he's not going to be driving anywhere in his car today he tries the handle on Fiona's car. It's unlocked and he slides in with a grin on his face as he finds her car keys are still dangling in the ignition. She must have been pretty furious with Sam to leave them in her haste.
He adjusts the seat, sliding it back to make room for his long legs and tilts the rearview mirror so he can see clearly out the back window. He glances in the mirror and sees a mountain of luggage. He ponders how one person could own so much clothing, much less pack it all in one afternoon. He realizes what an idiot he's been and how close he had come to losing her, how close she came to leaving him as he carries the suitcases up the steps, and quickly quietly and leaving it in his loft.
He steals a quick glance and sees Fiona is sleeping peacefully. He watches her for a minute before closing and locking the door. He walks the steps back down to her car a bit slower, conscious of the fact that his energy is being drained by his body needing the extra energy to heal itself. That coupled with the emotional toll on him leaves him feeling fatigued beyond what was to be expected after the exercise he just completed.
He plops down into the car and is about to crank it but thinks better of it and starts going through each potential hiding spot in the car knowing Fiona's fixation with weapons. His search proves him right and he stores the illegal guns elsewhere before turning the key and getting nothing. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. As he calls Sam he lays his head against the headrest and wonders if he's letting himself get too distracted if he forgets simple things like spark plugs.
"Hey Mike," Sam answers.
"Hey Sam. Where did you put Fi's spark plugs?"
There's a pregnant pause before Sam replies, "Crap Mike. They're still in my pocket."
"That's okay. I think I may have some lying around here. Somewhere," Michael says opening the car door and looking through a different tool drawer this time.
"Hey Sam, is my mom still with you?" He asks, placing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, freeing his hands to open the box he was looking for and shakes out a few spark plugs.
"No, we split ways a while ago." Sam says and Michael listens.
"Why?" Sam asks curious. Michael doesn't answer. Coming to his own conclusions Sam tells him, "You should go see her Mike."
Michael parks the car beside the garage and bursts soundlessly through the back door gliding through the kitchen. He nearly makes it to the dining table before she calls out his name.
"Michael!" His mom yells cheerfully. His back stiffens as he halts feeling like a teenager sneaking in after curfew. Even after all these years she can make him feel twelve years old again.
He turns his head slowly, sliding a smile onto his face as he did so. His face softens as he sees her on the couch a box sitting beside her, surrounded by photographs. She reaches over and flicks her cigarette over the ash tray and beams at him, holding out a picture to him with her other hand. He takes it but looks to her first.
"You were eighteen months old and adorable." She says softly and he finally looks down at the picture in his hand. A blue eyed baby sitting in a clothes basket stared back at him with a toothy grin and black curly hair.
Madeline takes a drag and puffs out a tiny cloud of smoke smiling. "You had the prettiest little curls. I cried like a baby the day Frank made me cut them off. He said no son of mine is going to look like a girl." She says stubbing out the end of her cigarette before standing.
She sees the effect her story has on her son but she hasn't finished telling it yet. She snatches him by the arm, stopping him from leaving and continues, telling him, "What he didn't tell me then was that when he was little he was teased for his curly hair. He was just trying to protect you." Michael doesn't look at her but she can tell he got the message.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asks her.
"Why are you here?" His mother answers his question with a question.
"You're going to be a father. Sacrifices are going to have to be made to protect the ones that you love." Madeline lets the thinly veiled warning sink into her son. She pats his arm and lets him go.
He walks out the back door but catches his hand on it and lingers for a moment calling out, "Ma!"
"Yes, Michael?" She answers patiently.
"Where do I shop for a baby?" He asks softly.
"Where do people normally shop for anything Michael?" His mother asks with a taste of condescend.
"The mall?" He asks but already knowing the answer to his question but still half way hoping she'd have a different answer for him.
"Of course," she exclaims, lighting up a fresh cigarette.
"Of course," Michael sighs and closes the door.
"Thanks Ma!" He shouts through the door as an afterthought on his way to the car.
"You're welcome Michael!" Madeline shouts back laughing to herself as she digs through more of Michael's baby pictures.