↳ 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 - 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙮

♧

word count; 1939
warnings; none

On your way out of the bathroom you flick off the light, smiling to yourself as you pass through the hallway into your bedroom. Michael runs his hands over his tired face and follows you with twinkling eyes. You choose not to engage since you rather enjoy being the centre of his attention.

"I was thinking we could go away for a little while. Nothing too serious, maybe just a weekend away to visit my mother. I don't want her thinking we've forgotten her. I'm sure she'd love to spend some time with the kids."

"I'll arrange something."

You peck his cheek and perch on your side of the bed, carefully placing your rings on the bedside table underneath the soft light shared by the lamp. The mattress dips under his shifting weight. Delicate fingers brush against your shoulder, sweeping your hair to one side to free a path for his lips to explore.

You melt into his magnetic touch until a bang rattles the entire house. You're the first to bolt out of the room, your husband springing to his feet to follow you into the children's bedroom. Your three year old boy sits with an unknowing grin, innocently round orbs peering up at you.

Michael halts in the doorway to scan the interior. You're rocking your son side to side and murmuring softly to him, your chin atop his head that refuses to lift from the crook of your neck. Michael struggles to speak when you shove his gun into his hands, ignoring him entirely to check on the pouting girl reaching out for you.

"Mommy." Her bottom lip quivers.

"It's okay. You're both okay." You kiss their heads and sit in the bed with her, cradling them both tightly.

Michael can't move from the doorway. His feet are glued to the floorboards, bearing a striking resemblance to stubborn roots tangled beneath mounds of soil. That's exactly what he isー stubborn.

No matter what people tell him it always has to be his way. You want to blame Tommy for rubbing off on him with his headstrong manner, but it would be unfair to do so. This is just Michael being Michael.

He swallows, watching you tuck them in again and lull them back to sleep. You flick the night light back on should they wake again later in the night. One last glance to confirm their heads are down and their eyes are closed for good, you pass your husband a scowl. If looks could kill he'd surely be deceased.

He almost loses his balance when you push past his broad figure, disappearing from his line of sight which lingers on the bullet lodged in the wall to his left. His head dips as he quietly leaves. The door is left cracked open in case your daughter needs the bathroom during the night.

You continue to pace back and forth beside the bed, hands moulding to the curve of your hips. Michael closes the door behind him and collapses into the chair in the corner. Creases spread through the expanse of his forehead, stretching between furrowed brows despite his attempts to smooth them.

"Care to explain how our three year old child got his hands on that?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know." You smile incredulously. "Fuck sake, Michaelー are you kidding me? A gun. Our three year old son had your gun. Do you know what could have happened?"