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Feb. 17th, 2013 10:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luvs_yogurtIt's been a hell of a recovery, but as the hours tick on Michael Westen knows he's one step closer to Miami. One step closer to going back into God knows what.
He didn't die in the explosion, so there's that going for him, but everything he's known in the year that's passed since his life was taken away from him has changed - he was burned for a reason far deeper than he could have imagined and a woman at the end of a telephone could tell him why if he plays her game... whatever that game is.
Part of him wonders if he should have just blown his brains out when he had the chance - what it would have been like if she hadn't called his bluff... if he'd even been bluffing at all. Far more than that, though, he's a live wire - mind buzzing over what's going to happen when he finally does go back home, thoughts lingering with Emma and William and Sam... the people he cares about and trusts.
"I need something to keep me busy," he murmurs to himself, one hand rubbing over the irritating bandage on the back of his head as he inhabits the seat at the end of the bar he hasn't seen in a while. "Whiskey, please."
He doesn't need the whiskey, but it feels right to be sitting there with debris cuts on his face and arms - bruised and sore from the explosion and his time in the infirmary - drinking until things things begin to make sense again. Or until someone needs him to do the only thing he knows how.
"And a yogurt. Blueberry."
[ooc: Active tagging another three hours or so, then slow times forever and always. Looking for something to keep him busy, if you could use a spy in your life.]
He didn't die in the explosion, so there's that going for him, but everything he's known in the year that's passed since his life was taken away from him has changed - he was burned for a reason far deeper than he could have imagined and a woman at the end of a telephone could tell him why if he plays her game... whatever that game is.
Part of him wonders if he should have just blown his brains out when he had the chance - what it would have been like if she hadn't called his bluff... if he'd even been bluffing at all. Far more than that, though, he's a live wire - mind buzzing over what's going to happen when he finally does go back home, thoughts lingering with Emma and William and Sam... the people he cares about and trusts.
"I need something to keep me busy," he murmurs to himself, one hand rubbing over the irritating bandage on the back of his head as he inhabits the seat at the end of the bar he hasn't seen in a while. "Whiskey, please."
He doesn't need the whiskey, but it feels right to be sitting there with debris cuts on his face and arms - bruised and sore from the explosion and his time in the infirmary - drinking until things things begin to make sense again. Or until someone needs him to do the only thing he knows how.
"And a yogurt. Blueberry."
[ooc: Active tagging another three hours or so, then slow times forever and always. Looking for something to keep him busy, if you could use a spy in your life.]
