#absinclair

he hasn’t gone for a run in... god knows how long. he can’t even remember. it must have been DC, when he’d had too much of the bureaucracy on the hill and had put in his earphones and stepped out into the cool night air and jogged through darkened streets until his legs burned. he’s feeling the same burn now, though he’s only a short time into the run -- he’s out of practice, and he knows it. but it feels good, back to how things used to be before the oxy, before sid and carlito, before sarin gas and ari adamian.

he’s a few miles down the beach when he needs to stop -- he can’t push himself too hard, he knows, and so he sinks down on a relatively flat rock to take a drink from his water bottle. his head bobs to the music in his ears, and mike shuts his eyes, lifting his face to the sun.

he’ll get back to the run in a minute -- for now, he just wants to be alive.

       “We should definitely do that again...”  Okay, maybe he wasn’t all that awake right now, but Jonathan knew exactly what he wanted -- and it wasn’t just one night.  He only hoped that Abby would would want the same thing.

“...d’you think he’ll be home in time for dinner?” 

it’s pretty obvious who alex is talking about. mom’s in the kitchen, food nearly done -- it’s making the whole house smell amazing, and his stomach growls just thinking about it -- but dad’s not home yet. another late night at work. once, alex went nearly a week without seeing his dad, with the weird hours that he’d been keeping at the bureau. 

mom knows he hates it; it’s the source of most arguments between he and his father. it’s disheartening, asking your father to do something and hearing ‘i can’t, i need to work’. it’s fine once or twice, but every time? it’s infuriating.

things have been going surprisingly well since their reunion in dc. they don’t live together yet, but abby spends several nights a week at mike’s small apartment in the city. she says it’s because it makes the commute nearly nonexistent, but mike secretly thinks she just likes waking up with his arms wrapped around her. they’ve even talked about finding a place together once their leases are both up, somewhere large enough for the two of them and maybe even a dog.

she usually gets home before he does. it’s just how she is – she likes to leave relatively on time, gets all of her work done in the eight hours she has a day. mike, though, tends to stay at work longer, focusing on open ended cases that aren’t as open and shut, coming home when abby’s just finished cooking dinner (or sometimes even after, having to reheat a plate from the fridge). 

this time, though, when abby gets home, mike’s on the couch. the television is on, a western playing on low volume. the look on mike’s face is strange - a mix between confusion and sadness.

when abby approaches him, because why wouldn’t she? something is clearly off, for him to be home this early. and the look on his face – she finds out why almost immediately.

as soon as he hears her footsteps, he looks up, sees her, and speaks, voice nearly deadpan with just a hint of emotion. “…bello is dead. murdered in prison by someone from caza. i’m surprised it took this long.”

he’d told her about jeremiah bello, about him and the other casualties of graceland, as soon as he’d ascertained that she didn’t absolutely hate him for lying to her about being a bureau agent. it felt good to get it all off his chest, to tell somebody who hadn’t been right there with him in the thick of it, covered in blood and lies up to their elbows. 

so she understands that bello is different from the rest for mike. he’d been mike’s first real case, and was someone that mike had always thought was just a man of circumstance. a murderer, a drug dealer yes, but… still a man that mike couldn’t help but hold a niggling sense of respect for. he knows it makes no sense, knows he should hate the man with everything he has, but… he can’t.

and so here, in the tiny one bedroom dc apartment, abby shifts to wrap her arms around mike. he falls into it as though all of the energy has gone out of him, going boneless and pliable in her arms. he exhales slowly, tension seeping out of him, eyes shutting as he relaxes, sinking into her embrace.

@absinclair / ask kara →

   “what’s not to love? the sun, the salty air from the sea, the food…there’s goats! and there’s history in every single inch of geography — not only stories i’ve studied my whole life, but the ones we’ll never know about people we’ll never hear about. you can feel it just walking down the street, and even if just for a second: you’re a part of it all.” 

His father absolutely should not have given him a hoverboard for Christmas. For one, Marcus is one of the most accident prone people he knows. Secondly, he’s a Vine-loving memelord. So naturally, he has to pay homage to Quensadilla’s iconic Vine as he rolls out to the bar from the kitchen, ladle in hand.