Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes Michael is just so, so tired of being the good one.

He’s tired of the responsibilities, of the way his family always turns to him when anything goes wrong. Seven hopeful, upturned faces, trusting in him completely to take control and set everything right. Saint Michael the archangel, defend us in battle - both he and his namesake are defenders of weak, helpless sinners. The thing that makes Michael feel so guilty is that they really believe he can save them, too. Just like George Micheal asking for him to kill monsters under the bed when he was little.

And the killer thing is that deep down in some guilty, haven’t-been-to-confession-since-Tracey-died way, Michael knows he’s not that good, not the saint people make him out to be. Old friends praise him. They say it’s so nice of him to take on the company and its problems, just like elderly women used to stop him on the street when he was driving around George-Micheal in the toddler bike seat and and say it was so nice to see an involved father. Their smiles never reached their eyes when he told them his wife was dead.

He’s not that good because he complains about it, he bitches and moans about it even if he doesn’t show it. He neglects going to see them and cringes inwardly and the thought of more problems for him to solve being brought up at the next visit. He let his father spend July 2nd alone in prison because he felt too angry and tired to go.

He is reflecting on all of this as he lays squarely in the middle of the too-big California King in the master bedroom of the model home. It makes him feel so small, so alone, and is also a painful reminder of his family’s exorbitant spending. Don’t most model homes have fake beds, or at least cheap full-sizes? 

There he goes again, finding reasons to be angry at his family when he has plenty of faults himself.

I’m only good because I have to be.

it’s a terrible feeling. 

He just wants someone else to be in charge, just for a few moments, just long enough to catch his breath and lick his wounds. Let him be taken care of, just for a second, and then he can get back into it without begrudging them so much.

Who could it be, though? Even if it’s just for a week, a day, an hour. 

There isn’t anyone else outside of the family. He hasn’t had time for anyone else in years. Mentally he clicks through a slideshow of family members. The kids are too young; he won’t put that on them; Buster he somehow includes as one of the kids. Dad is too untrustworthy even if he could somehow be tracked down, Mom too enthralled with Uncle Oscar at the moment, Tobias too flighty, Lindsay would try for a few minutes and give up. What about Gob? Hell, he’s the oldest.  Would it kill him to act like it now and then?

He wishes that it were that simple, that he could just call the other siblings to swoop in and save him, like one of Gob’s dumb “rescue” illusions.

The thoughts of how mean he’s being, how cold he’s gotten, how bad he is, swarm him and he guiltily tries to think of something nice and redeemable about the family. Almost unbidden, he remembers some times his siblings did step in, and he focuses himself to think about the good and not the bad. 

Chapter Text

It’s nineteen-eighty-something at the beach house and Mom and Dad are screaming at each other downstairs.

Michael can hear the words “secretary”,  “brother” , “debt” and a new one, “cocktail waitress”, all being screamed at top volume. A glass shatters, and he doesn’t have to be in the exact room to know that it’s been hurled at someone’s head.

”Gob, what’s a cocktail waitress?”

The children are all in the enormous old bedroom they share when they’re at the cottage. Lindsay, Michael and Buster sitting on the edge of one queen bed and Gob sprawled out, like a starfish,on the other. 

Gob raises his head a little but doesn’t fully sit up. “It’s nothing, Mikey. Just Dad’s flavor of the month.”

Their parents are yelling so loudly now that full sentences can be heard, not just snippets. George Sr. is screaming.

”You’re a selfish, selfish woman, Lucille!”

Buster untangles his fingers from the afghan blanket on the bed and tries to run for the door. “Mother is NOT selfish!!”

Michael and Lindsay each grab an arm and drag him back to the bed before he can make it downstairs. He kicks and windmills his feet. “I want to help Mother!!”

”They’re just yelling at each other again, Buster, nothing else bad is going to happen,” Lindsay says reassuringly. It’s true that their parents’ fights seldom turn physical but the yelling and breaking things take an emotional toll, as do the passionate, noisy make-up sessions.

“At least I’m not screwing someone half my age,” Lucille screams and Lindsay, Michael and Gob all exchange a miserable glance. 

It’s pouring rain, so they can’t go to the beach, and it’s not like Mom would let Buster go without her, anyway. Gob can’t retreat to smoke on the roof like he normally does, and Lindsay can’t get her trashy teen soap operas on TV that she loves. There’s no signal, they tried for several minutes to get anything on that would drown out the noise.

There’s another, louder, glass shatter and Michael jumps. He’s remembering the time his father slipped on a martini Lucille flung at the wall during a fight. The glass shards went into George Sr.‘s palm. Both he and mom were a little drunk. According to Gob, who drove them with just his learner’s permit, Lucille screamed and cried for a doctor to save him while the bored urgent care workers gave George Senior two tiny stitches and sent him on his way. Michael was still scrubbing the bloody finger marks on the wall when they got home, mollified and ready to go out for a family dinner.

He looks around, embarrassed, to see if anyone has noticed his startle and Gob meets his eyes, then sits up after a split-second. 

”I’m going to do an illusion for you guys,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the shouting. 
Lindsay rolls her eyes but they all turn to him expectantly, happy to have something else to focus on.

He does his four-aces-go-to-the-museum card trick and then his connected rings. He makes a Jolly Rancher come out of Buster’s ear and when Lindsay pouts a little one comes out of her ear, too. Michael gets to tap the card deck with the plastic wand to make the aces spring forth. 

After he’s out of tricks, or at least, out of supplies, Gob points to Lindsay.

”Your turn to entertain us. It’s a variety show, just like on the cruise ship. Michael, Buster, you’re next, so think of something.”

Lindsay blushes- for all her attention-seeking she never knows what to do when the spotlight is finally on her. It takes her a second to think but then the yelling starts up again so she hurries to the front of the room. Gob has gone to all this effort to distract them, she doesn't want it to go to waste. She smiles at him quickly to show her appreciation.

“Ok, I’m going to sing for you. I’m going to sing, um, “ she shuffles through the cassette tapes she brought on vacation and the older pile of records and ancient record player left by previous vacationers.

She finds one of Uncle Oscar’s tapes from his past stay and pops it in hurriedly. It’s marked “for Lucille from O” but no one wants to figure that one out.

“Jack and Diane” starts playing and she sings as best she can.

It’s not her usual bubble gum pop choice, which is maybe why it actually fits her voice and sounds pretty good. Lindsay’s always singing, until Mom or the maid yells at her to stop, anyway. 

“Oh yeah, life goes onnnnn” Lindsay finishes the chorus that she’s sang over and over since forgetting the second half of the song and points her imaginary microphone at Michael. “Age order, Michael’s next.”

"Mom says you're only older by a few minutes,” he grumbles, but he’s been thinking of an idea while she sang. He tells them a story about four kids who find a cave on the beach, and fight off Commie smugglers to get antique shipwreck gold. He mixes in a little bit of the plots of Indiana Jones, Treasure Island, and Red Dawn but if the other kids notice they don’t say anything. It's like the three oldest are in cahoots, playing along for Buster. Michael likes this, the few times they all get along. So he makes sure that the oldest brother character is the hero, and that the sister character gets to eat a huge box of chocolates as a reward.

When he’s done Buster claps, eyes wide. "The little boy who read the treasure map for his siblings was my favorite."

Michael grins at him. "Great, buddy. Your turn now."

”My talent will be, umm, ummm…” as Buster is trying to think their parents call up the stairs. 

“Kids! Change out of your play clothes, we’re all going to dinner.”

Lucille hums as she comes upstairs to dress for dinner, they can tell the fight is over. 

Buster grins suddenly. “My talent will be helping mother get ready so quickly that she’s still in a good mood when we get in the car.”

They all laugh at that. An uneasy peace settles on them, but it’s calm for now. Lindsay grabs her Caboodle of makeup and runs to be first in the kids’ bathroom, Buster dashes off to help Mother, and Michael looks at Gob, gelling his hair down in the mirror, and is so, so grateful. He doesn’t say thank you because he doesn’t want to be teased, but he lets Gob wear his new shirt since he knows he’s got a crush on one of the hostesses at Steak and Ale.

Chapter Text

It's been three months since Tracey died but it might as well be three minutes. Michael sometimes looks down at his chest and wonders how there isn't a visible hole in it, a  gaping walnut crack, blood running too fast to congeal.  

Three months in, the casseroles have stopped arriving from well-meaning coworkers. The little old ladies from the church he and Tracey were married at stopped coming by to check on George-Michael, and Tobias and Lindsay are back in Boston. This means that Tobias has stopped shoving psychology pamphlets about depressed men through the gap under the front door.

I've got to buy a door-sweep and plug that gap, Michael thinks. It's such a little thing. He could buy it at any hardware store, he's helped the construction guys install them at homes during countless summer jobs. But right now it seems to add up on the list of a million tiny things he needs to get up and do. 

He needs to work out, he needs to make dinner (which means he needs to get groceries), he needs to check on George Michael after his nap, he needs to get a gift for his niece Maeby's birthday, then mail it to Boston. He needs to get a presentation ready for the Bluth Company Shareholders' Meeting, and he needs to take a shower.  He needs to mow the lawn. He needs to go see the finally-installed headstone at Tracey's grave, and he needs to order flowers for it. Who knew it took three months to get a headstone made?

He gets up from his chair at the kitchen table and is surprised at how dizzy he feels. Well, he's had nothing to eat or drink for two days except a pot of black coffee and beer, so maybe it's to be expected. At least he made lunch for George-Michael, but it seemed as if that tiny exertion took all the energy out of him. He grabs the counter to steady himself and gets another beer off the counter island while he's there. He forgot to put the most recent six pack back in the fridge after lunch and they're too-warm and almost stale but he opens it anyway and sinks back down to the table. He's shocked at how quick he finishes the pack. He's never drank this much before, except that one time he and Lindsay went on Spring Break with Gob in high school. He doesn't drink a lot, not even in college. He's the responsible one. 

"Dad?"

He hears George-Michael calling him, rattling the child-safe doorknob on the inside of his bedroom door, but he pretends he doesn't hear him for a second while he tries to compose himself. What time is it? Fuck, it's seven thirty. George-Michael has been napping for four hours, which means he took his usual one hour nap and then sat alone in his room quietly until he finally needed something. He's such a good kid. 

He needs groceries, or to at least go get George Michael food but maybe he shouldn't drive after drinking all day. He'll just get Chinese takeout delivered. But he can't find his wallet, and he looks in the pile of dirty jeans by the hamper that reminds him how much he needs to do laundry. George-Michael is still rattling the door. 
"Dad? Daddddy? Dinnertime now."

He'll just have to ask someone to bring a pizza or something by.

Embarrassed to even think of asking, he flicks through the little address book they keep by the phone. Tracey's friends, mainly, or coworkers he doesn't really know. What about family? Lindsay's with her family in Boston, Buster never drives, Mom is probably more drunk than he is and Dad is getting ready for the Shareholders' Meeting - or at least, he hopes he is. 

"Hey Gob, it's me." He hopes his voice doesn't sound so thick and slurred as it does to him. He's not sure if it's the drinking or having not talked to anyone since working a half-day on Friday.

"Of course it's you, dumbass," Gob laughs. "I guess you're calling about me performing for the shareholders? Franklin and I have been working on a great little routine."

"No, I uh, actually...I uh, I need-"

"Gah, just spit it out. I have to go somewhere with the Hot Cops later, it's Saturday night."

In a way Michael almost feels relieved that Gob won't be able to do him a favor. "I just was calling because, uh, I forgot to get groceries and was going to see if you could bring us something. Uh, I guess you can't though."

"Can't drive now, Mikey?" 

This is humiliating but his head is hurting too much to think of a good lie. "Gobie, I'm drunk," he says flatly, and hears Gob turn his music down a little in the background.. "I'm drunk and I can't find my fucking wallet and I don't have any food for my kid." God, he must really be out of his head. He hasn't called his brother Gobie since he was George-Michael's age.

He waits for Gob to make some kind of joke or wisecrack but he just says "I'll be there in a little bit, Mikey," and hangs up.

Michael gets up to let George-Michael out of his room and puts PBS Kids on. He doesn't want to drink too much in front of George Michael so he grabs a glass of water, the first one all weekend, and makes his way to the couch. The embarrassment of having to ask for help has made him too anxious to sit still. So he folds some of the laundry he needed to do while George-Michael watches Arthur on TV and giggles at DW's antics. 

It's getting late but finally there's a knock on the door. It's Gob on the Segway, wearing his Hot Cops uniform. Maybe he's already had a gig today.

"Hey, Mikey, nephew. Didn't I make great timing? I went hella fast and didn't get pulled over, probably 'cause they thought I was a cop or something."

The Segway has grocery bags hanging on the handlebars and Michael has to laugh at the thought of a cop in a short-set version of a police uniform delivering groceries on a Segway emblazoned with "GOB".

"Thank you, Gob, I really, really appreciate this. I owe you."

"Of course you do, we'll sort that out later." He winks and tosses one of the bags to Michael; it's candy beans, popcorn flavor. Michael's favorite. 

The other bags have equally unhealthy snacks. Goldfish, juice boxes, Lunchables, pretzel sticks, fruit gummies. Hard Lemonades, too-Gob's favorite. "I just got some snacks we used to eat. I don't know what kids like, anyway. Well, Busty likes Goldfish and juice."

Michael would ordinarily have a speech prepared about nutritious eating but the genuine kindness from Gob is almost too much. He's embarrassed to feel hot tears come to the corners of his eyes and blinks as fast as he can to get them away. 

"Stop squinting and come eat, Mikey," Gob says heartily, dumping the snacks onto the counter. His gaze finds the bottles and packaging from the beer and the empty fridge, still open. He doesn't say anything, though.

Maybe it's nothing to him - he's a bachelor living alone, right? The house really doesn't look that bad; Michael never lets things get too far. I've just never been this... depressed before? Am I fucking depressed, like Tobias' shitty pamphlets predicted? No. No, I'm just behind on some chores and overwhelmed with the presentation. Was I so out of it I left the fridge open and the trash on the counter?

If Gob notices anything wrong, Michael prays he won't acknowledge it. He doesn't trust himself to come up with a good enough excuse for the mess.

"Got a big party tonight," Gob is saying. "Good tippers, too. You shoulda seen the last one, Michael. It was so wild they had to go underground til the Panhellenic and Interfraternity Council voted to let them back into Greek Life. Real life Girls With Low Self Esteem."

Michael opens the snack packages for George-Michael in a daze.  "I hope we didn't make you late. I'll drive over and pay you back tomorrow. Are you still staying at the dock?"

"I never know where I'll be waking up," Gob grins, hopping from foot to foot and pulling on his fake Hot Cops gun belt. "Chicks love a guy in uniform." Michael looks him in the eyes just then, and can't tell if Gob is pleased or mildly disconcerted from this transient lifestyle.  Even in his drunken, fuzzy state he feels a pang.

"You could, uh, crash here tonight if you need to," Michael says hurriedly. He tells himself it's because family is the most important thing, but it’s also because he's a little afraid to be alone until Monday. Besides, the tiny house he and Tracey bought during college is only a few blocks from campus and Sorority/Fraternity Row. Gob can just walk back over when he’s done dancing or whatever it is he does. Michael tries to never think about it.

He means after Gob's evening of -work- of course, but Gob just shrugs. "Ok, so I'll tell the boys I can't make it tonight. They can do the routine without me. What are we watching, Arthur? Shit, Buster loves that rabbit named after him. I like that snooty little gal who's dad owns all the Rolls Royces. Lupe's kids always have it on." If he's picked up on Michael's desperation, he doesn't show it.

Just then one of the frat mixers outside is starting up their loud music and Gob winces a little. "Sheesh, they lost their rivalry game tonight so they would have been - in a real - a real p-p- pissy mood. T-t-they can get a little r-ro-rou-rough. Tips wouldn't have been good, anyway. Glad I'm not out there in it."

He gets himself a Hard Lemonade and George-Michael a juice box and sits down between him and Michael. "T-t-turn it up, Mikey."

Chapter Text

Michael wakes up in a hospital bed,groggy from his third operation in as many days.

 At least, he thinks it was the third. Whatever they gave him while they were setting the leg knocked him out pretty hard. The bacterial infection from the earlier surgeries has left him weak, and he forgot to take the antibiotics when he rushed out of the hospital to save the company.

He takes in his surroundings as quickly as he can. Well, now his leg is in a cast, he’s on an IV drip, and his face hurts from where the car knocked him down. He imagines it’s all swollen and purple. Great way to look good for the investors!

Lindsay is sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a Cosmopolitan magazine.

“Lindsay, oh my God, George Michael must be so upset.”

He tries wildly to untangle some of the tubes and wires on him, reaching for a phone.

“Hey, he’s ok,” she says placatingly. “Maeby and him are eating dinner at the house, I ordered them a pizza. I told him you wouldn’t want him to worry and that I would bring him up here first thing tomorrow morning before school.”

She flashes a quick smile. “Mom thought the pizza was just for me and got sooo mad.”

Michael settles down a little and stops trying to untangle the wires. “Oh, ok. Um. Thanks. And yeah, thanks for waiting on me to wake up.”

  “Of course, I didn’t want you to be all alone. You’re in a new hospital - mom had the ambulance take you somewhere else since she didn’t trust Dr. Wordsmith. Besides, you always came to see me when I was in the hospital.”

Michael is confused until he remembers that his mother made them call Lindsay’s rehab stay for disordered eating a “hospital visit”.  They’d turned seventeen that June. He’d blocked out how depressing that whole summer was. How he’d looked at the visitor log once and seen that he was the only family member who had visited in two weeks. Maybe that was why Lindsay married a psychologist the very next year. 

Catching his pitying look, Lindsay hurries to talk through the moment. She hands Michael his hospital tumbler full of apple juice. “And yeah, everyone else is busy. Mom’s with Gob in his surgery - some kind of scratch with a magic trick sword? She didn’t want to go with him but was worried he’d talk about the company secrets under anesthesia.  And Buster is with Uncle Oscar. Tobias is trying to save the company and just digging the hole worse. He’s such an idiot sometimes.”

Maybe it’s the meds but Michael says frankly (and not for the first time)

“I just don’t get why you two stay together. Or got together, for that matter. Look, Lindsay, he’s a nice enough guy but-“

“I don’t know! Michael, you’re one to talk about relationships, first real one is in college and then she dies. Which is sad and all but you never date again-“

“Sad and all? I was grieving-“

“Honestly, if you would dress better-“

They stop and look at each other and Michael laughs shortly. “I don’t know why we’re fighting. Mom and Dad aren’t here to stir the pot.”

She shrugs and picks her magazine back up. “You’ve got at least a few more days here. Figured you’d want company but I can go read in the waiting room for all you care. You forgot to take your "linda" medicine, anyway."

“It's clindamycin, not “Linda medicine”. And you could just go home, then,” Micheal says, secretly touched Lindsay is holding vigil for him. He's pretty damn surprised she's even made an effort to learn the medicine names. “Or do you want to teach Buster how to drive so he can run me down, too?”

“Screw you, Michael!” Lindsay starts to storm out but Michael feels guilty.

“Hey , Linds, wait. You were just trying to help George-Michael feel empowered by driving. I shouldn’t have said that. I do that sometimes, speak without thinking. I’m sorry. You don’t have to go home. It was very nice of you to be here, really.”

She sits back down again and they don’t say anything for a few minutes. His abs and chest hurt so badly when he tries to draw a deep breath, and his leg feels like a thousand little pins are poking him. He winces and tries not to complain but tries to scoot his leg to be more comfortable. Movement was a mistake- he can’t help but gasp out  “Fucking hell!” The pain  is so sudden that he can’t see for a second and his whole body feels white-hot.

Lindsay jumps up and moves a pillow so his leg is leaning on it and pushes the call light for his pain medicine.

When no one comes Lindsay goes out to find a doctor and ask what the delay on pain meds is. Michael can hear her advocating for him, saying how he’s in pain and they’re off-schedule. He’s really happy to not be here alone -despite his tough speech earlier about getting back to business. It’s not like he could have walked out there and found the doctor himself with his leg and side like this.

Michael would rather have Lindsay here than just about any one else - even if they’re fighting. He starts to say that when she returns and the blessed IV pain meds start  but Lindsay is scrunching up her face and eyes in such a funny way that he has to ask “Are you trying to make yourself cry again? You don’t have to. I said I was sorry. I’m not mad at you.”

She heaves an exasperated sigh. “No, Michael, you idiot. I’m trying to pray for you but I can’t remember all the words to the nice prayers so I’m having to think up some of my own.”

Michael can’t help but laugh at the combination of the mean words and praying. “That’s very nice of you, Linds. I kind of forgot that you and I were the only ones who kept with the faith for a little while.”

Lucille had all the children baptized and confirmed to appease George Sr.’s parents, and cursory appearances were made at Christmas and Easter masses so they looked good to the public. However, no faith was actually practiced or discussed, save when Gob cracked his classic “ a Catholic girl gets pregnant, she stays pregnant” joke.

And yet, Michael had found himself at a  college ministry on campus one Sunday second semester of freshman year. He’d felt a little lost at college, and longed for some kind of direction to steer him. As a kid he’d liked how organized and peaceful confirmation and VBS  felt outside of his loud, chaotic home. And the part about how you just had to be still and let an actual, competent Father take over and help you? You didn’t have to bear everything alone? Sign him up! Plus, it hadn’t hurt that a really pretty girl named Tracey had handed him a Campus Ministry flyer and invited him. Michael had really become sincere about it and they’d both started going to an actual church, too. He and Tracey had sort of grown into their faith together.

He hasn’t been back to church since she died.

Lindsay having her own faith practice was kind of startling and the fact that she wanted to pray for him was actually really sweet.

Lindsay must have noticed Michael staring at her because she flushes like she’s said something embarrassing. “I know it’s sort of dumb but I just like feeling that Someone’s loving me and wanting to help me. I don’t really go or try to be too good or anything but sometimes I say the prayers we learned at confirmation class. And I really do mean them.”

Michael’s smile widens. They had been confirmed together. (Lindsay had been so, so jealous he shared his name with a saint and she didn’t) And she did sometimes watch  Father Ben’s Homily Hour- though he had always thought it was due to the priest’s appearance and less about religious fervor. (Lucille called him father-what-a-waste and bemoaned that he could never be married.)

“It’s not dumb at all. You know I used to go back before Tracey, uh, got sick. “

He worries he’s being too sappy but it’s so damn nice to talk about something other than the business or fight over silly things. So he rushes on. “You ought to talk to Maeby about it, I think she’s interested. She thought a cross was a “t” the other day.”

He laughs but Lindsay’s face darkens.

“Tobias says it’s psychologically harmful for the parent to talk about their interests to the child. I guess it is. I don’t really know how to talk to her about - anything. I don’t want to talk to her like Mom talks to me.”

A worker brings Michael his dinner on a tray and Lindsay starts cutting it up so it’s easier for him to reach with his bruised side and arm. He watches her and says

“You’re not really like Mom, except maybe with your spending habits. But if you want - I can maybe give you some tips about how I talk to George-Michael?”

 “Oh, Michael, would you? . I mean, you seem like a really nice dad. I just was trying to teach George-Michael to drive since you were so busy and hadn’t been able to visit with him like usual. And Maeby didn’t want to hang out with me. Thanks so much for offering .”

“No problem Linds. Thanks for being here.”

Michael smiles and feels like a good brother. And Lindsay smiles back, feeling like a good sister.

They’ll deal with their respective parenting issues later. This deep talk and rare moment of sibling bonding was hard enough.

Michael’s starting to get sleepy from the newest pain meds and Lindsay takes the tray back and starts to pack up her stuff.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning, with the kids” she promises.

Michael watches her leave and run out to the stair car from the window. For the first time, he notices the sign in front of the hospital- St Joseph’s.

Patron saint of families, he thinks. Huh.