like everybody i know
Title: Brutal Love [24]
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/Mike
Summary: “You, Michael Pritchard, need a fucking bath, did you know that?”
Previous parts: located here
It ended up only being six days in the hospital for one Mike Dirnt, and the way Billie Joe saw it, Mike was goddamn lucky that was the case because he had been about fifteen minutes away from stuffing Mike's mouth with a sock to keep him and his bitching quiet. And it had nothing to do with him being unsympathetic or insensitive to his husband's plight; it was merely the fact that Mike turned into a whining whore when he was restless, and with Mike's body out of commission, Billie had few tactics in which to distract him with.
So even though Mike had to entrust about half of his weight to his significantly lighter counterpart, as he helped him hobble over the threshold of their home, he couldn't find much to complain about. For one, he was pretty much complained out, and for another, it was just so fucking good to be home.
“Okay. Okay here.” Billie grunted as he deposited what he could of Mike into the living room's only recliner, leaving the other half of him to simply fall against the cushions. “Just wait here, give me a second, okay?”
But Billie Joe didn't wait for an answer, so Mike could only watch, bemused, the retreating form of his husband bound up the stairs. The bassist sighed, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. Though he had fought tooth and nail to get released from what he considered medical prison, Mike was still feeling very much unlike his regular self, and more like a version of himself that had been dragged along the bottom of the ocean. Still, though, he was confident that the path to recovery was best found in the comfort of familiar, beloved surroundings.
Mike also realized his debilitated form would spark some questions from his six year old, and while the last thing he wanted to do was have to answer them, with the press conference approaching, Mike knew Olivia needed to hear it from her parents, rather than a magazine or rumors at school.
Little more than two minutes later, what looked like a massive ball of fabric with legs was walking down the stairs, and it wasn't until Billie had turned the corner that Mike realized his husband had a load of blankets in his arms. He looked on, eyebrows raised in mild interest, as Billie proceeded to tuck sheets into the couch cushions, fluff about three pillows into the corner of the furniture, and then lay out their spare comforter over his masterpiece. Billie Joe smiled at Mike, hands on his hips, apparently satisfied with himself.
“Since you can't get up to bed, the bed came to you.”
“I love you,” Mike replied, smiling when Billie's own deepened, and leaned onto the smaller man as he was, once again, aided in moving such a short distance as the one from the armchair to the sofa. The bassist slid onto the makeshift cloud with care, slowly and deliberately stretching his lanky frame across the length of it, sighing when Billie threw the thick blanket over him. “You're a saint, you know,” Mike said, catching tattooed fingers in his own to kiss them firmly.
“You'd do the same for me.” Billie Joe bent to kiss Mike's forehead, running his palms first over his greasy hair and then his stubbly cheeks. “You, Michael Pritchard, need a fucking bath, did you know that?”
Mike smirked faintly, nipping at Billie's wrist playfully. “I can't shower thanks to the stitches, so it looks like someone is going to have to give me a sponge bath.”
“Not sure if you wanna go down that road, sweetie, seeing as you can't do anything interesting for seven more weeks.”
“Hey, hey, hey, the doctor said it might not have to be that long! Maybe only four more weeks.” He added a pout, for full guilt-tripping affect, completely unserious since Billie had no power over when their next fuck would be, and as it was, Mike knew that if it was up to Billie Joe, they'd be upstairs in bed already as it was. For a couple who enjoyed a healthy sex life of at least five days of activity a week-sometimes more, sometimes less, but usually more-they had already abstained for a whopping nine days. Mike was pretty sure it was the longest period of time they'd been without sex since Olivia was born. He was choosing not to think about it.
And anyway. . . Mike probably wouldn't have wanted to have sex at this point, even if Dr. Pierce had okayed it. The idea of it was far too daunting, both mentally and physically.
Billie, for his part, kissed the protruding lower lip and rose to a full stand. “A watched clock never changes, Mikey. Or something like that.” He sighed, scratching the back of his own dirty head. “Will you be okay if I go take a quick shower myself, before Myla brings Livy home from school? Then I'll scrounge up something to eat.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” the bassist murmured, one of his hands reaching out to curl around Billie's soft hip, his thumb inching underneath his t-shirt to touch the skin he found there. Whether or not they could have sex didn't matter; Mike would always feel deep appreciation for his husband's body. “And take your time. I'll probably fall asleep anyway.”
“Do you need any of meds before you go?”
Mike grimaced as he thought it over, briefly. The source of his pain, (ie, the incision across his torso) was radiating steadily, warmly, and while he knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, he shook his head for the time being. He had a high pain tolerance-you'd only have to look at his canvas of tattoos to realize that-and the morphine made him nauseous. “I'm good for now.”
Billie Joe sighed, a knowing and weary flicker in his eyes, and wordlessly, he went to retrieve his duffel bag from the stairs, where he had left it. From one of its pockets, Billie pulled out the paper bag that held the lone bottle of narcotics, and placed the orange-tinted plastic on the coffee table, within Mike's reach. The singer knew how much his best friend hated taking medications of any kind. But he also knew Mike wasn't completely unreasonable. With one last kiss, Billie said, “I'll be back, babe.”
He listened to Billie Joe patter up the stairs, could hear him milling about in the bedroom, no doubt tossing the contents of his overnight bag into the laundry basket. A part of Mike wanted to call him back, to tell him to take a fucking nap. Since Mike had been admitted for his surgery almost a week ago, Billie had kept to his promise and had only left his side to change his clothes, grab food, and occasionally shower, and he had insisted on sleeping in what was likely to be the most uncomfortable chair in the conceivable universe. Mike felt a little guilty too, because although he had encouraged his lover to go to the hotel room to sleep, it had been half-hearted; the clingy coward in Mike hadn't really wanted Billie to leave him.
The truth of it was, though, that until he was back up to at least sixty or seventy percent functionality, Mike would have to depend on Billie Joe for all of the things he normally did for himself, and quite happily. But more than anything, Billie would have to be the one to take care of Livy, and the idea that Mike would have to give up some of that precious responsibility was maybe the hardest thing of all.
Biting his lip, the bassist reached for the little bottle on the table. He ran his thumb over his prescribed name, pressed the bottle to his forehead, and sighed. Despite years and years of resisting medical intervention, whenever possible, Mike had to resign himself to the fact that medical intervention was going to become his life now. And he wasn't sure what he lamented most; the futility of his denying it for so many years, or having to include his family in it.
The frustration, festering and boiling fast, was almost driving him to fling the maraca of morphine into the wall, when there came a knock on the front door. Mike paused, sat up, frowning; Billie hadn't mentioned anyone coming over, and before he could check his phone for text messages for any guesses as to who it could be, the door was creaking open, and a voice was calling out, “Boys? Boys, it's Mom!”
He felt himself visibly sag with relief, though Mike wasn't sure what he was so worried about, necessarily; anyone that had made it to the front door would have had to have the security code to get past the gate, and precious few people had that information. “In here, Ollie,” Mike managed, wincing at the flush of pain the effort caused, and gripped the pill bottle tighter. It was perhaps a blessing he hadn't thrown it as he had wanted.
Ollie, arms laden with glass dishes and a tote bag hanging from the crook of her elbow, smiled gently at her son-in-law, shuffling into the room. “Hey there, handsome. Looks like a nice setup you have here.”
“I have your crazy beautiful son to thank for that,” Mike winked, scooting himself up a bit so as to look a little more engaged than his brain actually felt. “Speaking of which, he didn't mention you were coming over.”
“Well, he didn't know. He told me last night that you were coming home today, so I decided to come and check on you two,” she said quite matter-of-factly, as she marched into the kitchen to put away what looked like enough food to feed Green Day's road crew for a good five days or so. When she returned, Ollie immediately went to Mike's side to wrap her arms around him for a good hug and kiss, before leaning back to get a proper look at him. “How do you feel, darling? I'm not going to lie to you, I've seen you look better.”
Mike smiled wryly and heaved a noncommittal shrug. “Not gonna lie to you, I've felt better. But I also feel a lot better than I did a couple of days ago, so there's progress.” He sighed, in a way that was almost wistful. “Bill's been taking real good care of me.”
“He learned from the best,” she said warmly, standing up with her hands on her hips, the sleeves of her pale blue button-up pushed up to her elbows. And because Ollie had known Mike for so very long, she felt comfortable in asking, “How is he doing, dear? Sometimes I don't know who to worry about more.”
He chuckled; it was a completely humorless sound. “Well, you know. . . he's okay. We both are. As okay as we can be. I think we're both glad to be back home, glad to see Olivia today.” Mike bit his lip for a moment, and for the same reason Ollie had asked him a tough question, he said, “He's up to at least four Xanax a day, and that's just from what I can see. Every time I try to say something to him about it, I can't because. . . I mean, he's taking them because of me, so. . .”
“Oh, Mike,” she sighed, perching on the edge of the coffee table and taking both of his hands, a look on her face so perfectly motherly in all of its tenderness, it kind of made Mike want to cry. “You know it's not your fault, don't you, dear? Because it isn't, and you know that Billie Joe knows that too.” One of Ollie's hands reached out, to brush away a rebellious strand of greasy hair from Mike's face. “I'll approach him on it. I won't say you said anything, of course, but I'll mention it to him. Okay?”
Mike nodded, unconsciously leaning into her touch. “Thanks, Oll,” he whispered, a ghost of a grateful smile on his lips.
Billie hadn't heard his mother come in the house; the sound of the water hitting the bathroom tiles filled his head like a gushing river, a steady, staccato beat. The singer stood under the spray, appreciating the almost brutal way the scalding liquid hit his skin, as he worked on scrubbing every pore of his body with a fresh bar of soap. He felt like he had to clean himself three times over, just to get rid of the hospital and the way it haunted him, with its off smell and pesky memories. If Billie could live the rest of his life without having to set foot in another one, that would do him just fine, because the only good thing that had ever come out of a hospital was Billie Joe's daughter.
Yet, Billie knew that particular longing of his was one that would never come to pass. As Mike had to, Billie also had to accept that hospitals, doctors, medicines, were going to be the new normal in their lives, and as all of these concepts rattled through his brain like marbles, Billie Joe rubbed furiously at his eyes, glad for the shower that was hiding his tears.
It wasn't an easy thing, growing older, no matter how positively Billie had always tried to embrace it, but the main comfort had been that he'd get to grow old with his best friend. When Livy was long gone, off to college and changing the world, and Green Day finally pulled up their white flag of surrender, it would be Billie and Mike, spending weeks at a time by the beach sipping wine, traveling and really experiencing all of the places they'd loved to tour, riding motorcycles until they couldn't feel their legs, and probably having movie marathons with Tre, because it didn't matter how many times they'd seen them-all three of them would still get the urge to watch all of the Star Wars films, in a row, together, eating pizza and drinking awful beer. Billie Joe had come to depend on that kind of a future, in a strange and very real way, and reality had gone right ahead and ripped that security right out from under him, without even asking first.
But there was nothing he could do about it except to move forward, be there for Mike, be there for Livy. That was his job, and it wasn't something he took lightly, that fact proven by his sticking by Mike's bedside so diligently for the past week.
Billie sighed, a tired sound, as he toweled away the condensation in the bathroom mirror. The man in the reflection had faint circles under green eyes that were decidedly bloodshot, the crows feet in the corners of those eyes looking deeper than before, and his lips were scabbed, from his incessant need to chew on them continuously. Yet his cheeks and chin had only a slight prickle of stubble, despite his not having shaved in three days or so, and Billie rubbed his palm over his face with a curious expression. He tried to think of a possible explanation for the phenomenon; Billie Joe was notorious for five o' clock shadow, his facial hair always growing far more quickly than either of his bandmates (something Mike liked to tease him about on a regular basis). However, he couldn't quite think of any particular reason for it, and Billie decided not to worry too much about it. After all, shaving wasn't necessarily the most fun thing in the world to do, and not having to do it was not grounds for any kind of complaint whatsoever.
So all in all, the amount of time it took the singer to get cleaned up and feel a little less grotty-physically speaking, anyway-took little more than twenty minutes. Billie changed into a pair of loose-fitting black cargos and one of Mike's band t-shirts, and padded back down the stairs, hair still damp from the shower. “All right, hon,” he said, heading into the living room, “what do you think you can-oh.” Billie Joe stopped short, a quizzical smile forming at the sight of his mother. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, Billie,” she responded warmly. Ollie was standing by Mike's side, handing him what looked like a bowl of soup and a sleeve of crackers.
“What're you doing here?” The singer asked, approaching her for a quick hug. “Did I miss a phone call from you or something? I haven't checked my cell since this morning. . .”
“She brought food,” Mike piped in helpfully, lifting his bowl for emphasis.
“Yes, I brought a veggie soup and a chicken noodle for Mike, and a couple of casseroles for you to throw in the oven as needed. I also made some cupcakes. They're chocolate, Olivia's favorite.”
Billie shook his head in amused disbelief, wrapping his arm around Ollie's middle for another hug, this time expressly thankful. “You didn't have to do all that, Mom,” he said softly. “What were you, up half the night cooking and baking?”
“Well, honey, you know I like to make myself useful,” she said lightly, deliberately avoiding his question, grinning at the suspiciously blissful look that passed over Mike's face after one spoonful of her veggie soup. “Hit the spot, Mike?”
“Are you kidding? This is like a little piece of heaven after that godawful crap they tried to feed me at the hospital and call it food.” The bassist's eyes flickered to Billie Joe, at once both playful and guilty, and Mike said, “No offense, love, but we really need to be thankful here, because let's face it, I'm the real cook in this relationships, and I'm not sure we'd all survive off your signature French toast and grilled cheese.”
A fake glare firmly in place, Billie reached out and swatted his husband across the head gently, before ducking in to a steal saltine. “I'm gonna remember that, Dirnt,” he said, mouth full of cracker, “and Livy loves my grilled cheeses. You're just too damn picky for your own good.”
“And that's damn right,” he countered, smirking now. “I am very picky when it comes to three things: food, my basses, and who I spend the rest of my life with. So you see, my pickiness in turn actually says a lot about you, sweetheart.”
“Whatever you say, Mike.” But Billie was smiling, because somewhere in that jibe laid a true compliment. And when it came down to it, he felt pretty much the same way. “Now hush and eat your soup, you're supposed to be resting. You're expending way too much energy on snarky comments.”
Mike swallowed a hasty gulp of breath, opening his mouth to no doubt issue another catty remark, when Ollie laughed, interrupting, “Sometimes you two make me feel like absolutely nothing has changed since you both were in high school, making fun of each other and yet defending each other to the bare bone. I should have known it then. . . It is such a male thing to do, teasing someone you secretly like.”
The cheshire-like grin that split Billie Joe's lips was one he knew only Mike could understand-because there was absolutely no way Ollie could know about their first time together. . . probably-and he perched on the arm of the couch by Mike's head, hand automatically dropping to stroke his hair affectionately. “Yeah,” Billie murmured, for his mom's benefit, the sparkle in his eyes reflected in baby blues that gazed up at him with a thing that could only be called love, “yeah, that must have been it. . .”
Ollie was opening her mouth to say something else, likely to be on a different topic as she had long grown accustomed to the private little moments Billie and her son-in-law shared, but Ollie was interrupted by the front door opening, again, and the sound of little feet flying frantically across their wooden floors. All three adults looked towards the entrance to the living room leading in from the foyer, as Olivia seemed to materialize before them, her familiar eyes as wide as they could be.
“You're home,” the little girl crowed, and did not hesitate to bolt forward, in attempts to leap into both of her parents' arms at once.
Luckily, her mother was able to catch her before she landed on Mike and not only spilled his soup, but ripped his stitches, and Billie Joe laughed, cradling her close and kissing her flushed cheeks. “Yes, we're home and so are you! Missed you, Livybug!”
“I missed you too, Mommy, I haven't seen you in ages.” Olivia squeezed her arms around Billie's neck extra tight, her face buried into his clean hair. Then she leaned back, enough to hold her arms out for her father. “Daddy!”
Mike's smile was a mixture of both relief, at the sight of her, and also frustration, because he couldn't scoop her up in his arms the way he was used to. Billie cast him with a look of understanding, his own smile sympathetic, and gave Olivia another swift kiss before murmuring, “Okay, sweetie-girl, I'm gonna give you to your daddy, but you need to be extra careful with him, okay, Liv?”
Her brow puckered innocently, sharing her expression of confusion with all adults in the room, made four now by Myla's appearance, and asked the poignant question, “Why?”
Before Billie Joe could offer an answer simple enough to alleviate her superficial worries, Mike gave a brief shake of his head, and gestured for him to put their daughter into his still strong arms. When he had, with all of the care he'd used when Olivia had been a mere three days old, Mike settled her into the available space between him and the back of the couch-the side of himself that was not mangled with a painful scar. “Listen, angel, I gotta tell you something.”
As Billie, Myla, and Ollie looked on with breath that was efficiently baited, Mike plunged on, smoothing his daughter's hair and adoring her innocent eyes, “I know Mommy told you we were away for the band, but that wasn't the truth. We didn't want to lie to you, but we wanted to wait for the right time to tell you what's really going on. And the truth is that I'm sick, Livybug. I'm sick, and I had to go to the doctor's for a few days for them to do something to make me better. I'm still not back to my usual self yet, and I won't be able to give you piggyback rides or anything like that for awhile, not until the doctor says it's okay again.”
Olivia looked disappointed at the news, though that was to be expected, but she nodded, slowly. “Okay, but. . . they made you all better, right? You're gonna be okay, right?”
“Well. . . babe, the truth is that I'm gonna be sick for awhile. This-it isn't like a tummy ache or a cold. I'm gonna have to go to the doctors a lot, they're going to give me lots of medicine, and I might not be able to do things like I used to all the time.” Mike could see the oncoming look of despair playing out on his daughter's face, and though his chest was constricting like he was able to cry, Mike touched her cheek and smiled softly, for her benefit. “But you don't have to worry, Livy. The doctors are going to take real good care of me, and I've got you, and your mom, and your aunt to take care of me too, and the very last thing you need to do is worry because everything is under control.” He kissed her forehead and held her close to his good side, sighing into her dark hair. “All you need to do is worry about being the coolest six year old in the world, got it? Everything's gonna be just fine.”
It was clear that Olivia didn't know what to make of the situation, by the way she bit her lip and curled into her daddy's chest. But eventually Olivia nodded, a smile of contentment on her face, because it was good enough to trust her daddy. “Okay,” she agreed. “I got it.”
Billie's throat felt choked, and he met Mike's eyes for a mutual look of loss. When his husband's hand reached out, Billie Joe took it, slowly sitting down on the edge of the coffee table, and stretched his other hand to rub soothing circles on Olivia's back. His heart was full, fit to burst, with emotions both positive and negative, but he swallowed them all down, along with that pesky reoccurring lump in his throat, and attempted a smile that was expressly for Mike's reassurance.
And each member of the Armstrong-Pritchard family sat in the weighted silence, allowing the moment to pass, untouched, because there really wasn't anything else to do.
Author: Molly
Pairing: Billie/Mike
Summary: “You, Michael Pritchard, need a fucking bath, did you know that?”
Previous parts: located here
It ended up only being six days in the hospital for one Mike Dirnt, and the way Billie Joe saw it, Mike was goddamn lucky that was the case because he had been about fifteen minutes away from stuffing Mike's mouth with a sock to keep him and his bitching quiet. And it had nothing to do with him being unsympathetic or insensitive to his husband's plight; it was merely the fact that Mike turned into a whining whore when he was restless, and with Mike's body out of commission, Billie had few tactics in which to distract him with.
So even though Mike had to entrust about half of his weight to his significantly lighter counterpart, as he helped him hobble over the threshold of their home, he couldn't find much to complain about. For one, he was pretty much complained out, and for another, it was just so fucking good to be home.
“Okay. Okay here.” Billie grunted as he deposited what he could of Mike into the living room's only recliner, leaving the other half of him to simply fall against the cushions. “Just wait here, give me a second, okay?”
But Billie Joe didn't wait for an answer, so Mike could only watch, bemused, the retreating form of his husband bound up the stairs. The bassist sighed, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. Though he had fought tooth and nail to get released from what he considered medical prison, Mike was still feeling very much unlike his regular self, and more like a version of himself that had been dragged along the bottom of the ocean. Still, though, he was confident that the path to recovery was best found in the comfort of familiar, beloved surroundings.
Mike also realized his debilitated form would spark some questions from his six year old, and while the last thing he wanted to do was have to answer them, with the press conference approaching, Mike knew Olivia needed to hear it from her parents, rather than a magazine or rumors at school.
Little more than two minutes later, what looked like a massive ball of fabric with legs was walking down the stairs, and it wasn't until Billie had turned the corner that Mike realized his husband had a load of blankets in his arms. He looked on, eyebrows raised in mild interest, as Billie proceeded to tuck sheets into the couch cushions, fluff about three pillows into the corner of the furniture, and then lay out their spare comforter over his masterpiece. Billie Joe smiled at Mike, hands on his hips, apparently satisfied with himself.
“Since you can't get up to bed, the bed came to you.”
“I love you,” Mike replied, smiling when Billie's own deepened, and leaned onto the smaller man as he was, once again, aided in moving such a short distance as the one from the armchair to the sofa. The bassist slid onto the makeshift cloud with care, slowly and deliberately stretching his lanky frame across the length of it, sighing when Billie threw the thick blanket over him. “You're a saint, you know,” Mike said, catching tattooed fingers in his own to kiss them firmly.
“You'd do the same for me.” Billie Joe bent to kiss Mike's forehead, running his palms first over his greasy hair and then his stubbly cheeks. “You, Michael Pritchard, need a fucking bath, did you know that?”
Mike smirked faintly, nipping at Billie's wrist playfully. “I can't shower thanks to the stitches, so it looks like someone is going to have to give me a sponge bath.”
“Not sure if you wanna go down that road, sweetie, seeing as you can't do anything interesting for seven more weeks.”
“Hey, hey, hey, the doctor said it might not have to be that long! Maybe only four more weeks.” He added a pout, for full guilt-tripping affect, completely unserious since Billie had no power over when their next fuck would be, and as it was, Mike knew that if it was up to Billie Joe, they'd be upstairs in bed already as it was. For a couple who enjoyed a healthy sex life of at least five days of activity a week-sometimes more, sometimes less, but usually more-they had already abstained for a whopping nine days. Mike was pretty sure it was the longest period of time they'd been without sex since Olivia was born. He was choosing not to think about it.
And anyway. . . Mike probably wouldn't have wanted to have sex at this point, even if Dr. Pierce had okayed it. The idea of it was far too daunting, both mentally and physically.
Billie, for his part, kissed the protruding lower lip and rose to a full stand. “A watched clock never changes, Mikey. Or something like that.” He sighed, scratching the back of his own dirty head. “Will you be okay if I go take a quick shower myself, before Myla brings Livy home from school? Then I'll scrounge up something to eat.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” the bassist murmured, one of his hands reaching out to curl around Billie's soft hip, his thumb inching underneath his t-shirt to touch the skin he found there. Whether or not they could have sex didn't matter; Mike would always feel deep appreciation for his husband's body. “And take your time. I'll probably fall asleep anyway.”
“Do you need any of meds before you go?”
Mike grimaced as he thought it over, briefly. The source of his pain, (ie, the incision across his torso) was radiating steadily, warmly, and while he knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, he shook his head for the time being. He had a high pain tolerance-you'd only have to look at his canvas of tattoos to realize that-and the morphine made him nauseous. “I'm good for now.”
Billie Joe sighed, a knowing and weary flicker in his eyes, and wordlessly, he went to retrieve his duffel bag from the stairs, where he had left it. From one of its pockets, Billie pulled out the paper bag that held the lone bottle of narcotics, and placed the orange-tinted plastic on the coffee table, within Mike's reach. The singer knew how much his best friend hated taking medications of any kind. But he also knew Mike wasn't completely unreasonable. With one last kiss, Billie said, “I'll be back, babe.”
He listened to Billie Joe patter up the stairs, could hear him milling about in the bedroom, no doubt tossing the contents of his overnight bag into the laundry basket. A part of Mike wanted to call him back, to tell him to take a fucking nap. Since Mike had been admitted for his surgery almost a week ago, Billie had kept to his promise and had only left his side to change his clothes, grab food, and occasionally shower, and he had insisted on sleeping in what was likely to be the most uncomfortable chair in the conceivable universe. Mike felt a little guilty too, because although he had encouraged his lover to go to the hotel room to sleep, it had been half-hearted; the clingy coward in Mike hadn't really wanted Billie to leave him.
The truth of it was, though, that until he was back up to at least sixty or seventy percent functionality, Mike would have to depend on Billie Joe for all of the things he normally did for himself, and quite happily. But more than anything, Billie would have to be the one to take care of Livy, and the idea that Mike would have to give up some of that precious responsibility was maybe the hardest thing of all.
Biting his lip, the bassist reached for the little bottle on the table. He ran his thumb over his prescribed name, pressed the bottle to his forehead, and sighed. Despite years and years of resisting medical intervention, whenever possible, Mike had to resign himself to the fact that medical intervention was going to become his life now. And he wasn't sure what he lamented most; the futility of his denying it for so many years, or having to include his family in it.
The frustration, festering and boiling fast, was almost driving him to fling the maraca of morphine into the wall, when there came a knock on the front door. Mike paused, sat up, frowning; Billie hadn't mentioned anyone coming over, and before he could check his phone for text messages for any guesses as to who it could be, the door was creaking open, and a voice was calling out, “Boys? Boys, it's Mom!”
He felt himself visibly sag with relief, though Mike wasn't sure what he was so worried about, necessarily; anyone that had made it to the front door would have had to have the security code to get past the gate, and precious few people had that information. “In here, Ollie,” Mike managed, wincing at the flush of pain the effort caused, and gripped the pill bottle tighter. It was perhaps a blessing he hadn't thrown it as he had wanted.
Ollie, arms laden with glass dishes and a tote bag hanging from the crook of her elbow, smiled gently at her son-in-law, shuffling into the room. “Hey there, handsome. Looks like a nice setup you have here.”
“I have your crazy beautiful son to thank for that,” Mike winked, scooting himself up a bit so as to look a little more engaged than his brain actually felt. “Speaking of which, he didn't mention you were coming over.”
“Well, he didn't know. He told me last night that you were coming home today, so I decided to come and check on you two,” she said quite matter-of-factly, as she marched into the kitchen to put away what looked like enough food to feed Green Day's road crew for a good five days or so. When she returned, Ollie immediately went to Mike's side to wrap her arms around him for a good hug and kiss, before leaning back to get a proper look at him. “How do you feel, darling? I'm not going to lie to you, I've seen you look better.”
Mike smiled wryly and heaved a noncommittal shrug. “Not gonna lie to you, I've felt better. But I also feel a lot better than I did a couple of days ago, so there's progress.” He sighed, in a way that was almost wistful. “Bill's been taking real good care of me.”
“He learned from the best,” she said warmly, standing up with her hands on her hips, the sleeves of her pale blue button-up pushed up to her elbows. And because Ollie had known Mike for so very long, she felt comfortable in asking, “How is he doing, dear? Sometimes I don't know who to worry about more.”
He chuckled; it was a completely humorless sound. “Well, you know. . . he's okay. We both are. As okay as we can be. I think we're both glad to be back home, glad to see Olivia today.” Mike bit his lip for a moment, and for the same reason Ollie had asked him a tough question, he said, “He's up to at least four Xanax a day, and that's just from what I can see. Every time I try to say something to him about it, I can't because. . . I mean, he's taking them because of me, so. . .”
“Oh, Mike,” she sighed, perching on the edge of the coffee table and taking both of his hands, a look on her face so perfectly motherly in all of its tenderness, it kind of made Mike want to cry. “You know it's not your fault, don't you, dear? Because it isn't, and you know that Billie Joe knows that too.” One of Ollie's hands reached out, to brush away a rebellious strand of greasy hair from Mike's face. “I'll approach him on it. I won't say you said anything, of course, but I'll mention it to him. Okay?”
Mike nodded, unconsciously leaning into her touch. “Thanks, Oll,” he whispered, a ghost of a grateful smile on his lips.
Billie hadn't heard his mother come in the house; the sound of the water hitting the bathroom tiles filled his head like a gushing river, a steady, staccato beat. The singer stood under the spray, appreciating the almost brutal way the scalding liquid hit his skin, as he worked on scrubbing every pore of his body with a fresh bar of soap. He felt like he had to clean himself three times over, just to get rid of the hospital and the way it haunted him, with its off smell and pesky memories. If Billie could live the rest of his life without having to set foot in another one, that would do him just fine, because the only good thing that had ever come out of a hospital was Billie Joe's daughter.
Yet, Billie knew that particular longing of his was one that would never come to pass. As Mike had to, Billie also had to accept that hospitals, doctors, medicines, were going to be the new normal in their lives, and as all of these concepts rattled through his brain like marbles, Billie Joe rubbed furiously at his eyes, glad for the shower that was hiding his tears.
It wasn't an easy thing, growing older, no matter how positively Billie had always tried to embrace it, but the main comfort had been that he'd get to grow old with his best friend. When Livy was long gone, off to college and changing the world, and Green Day finally pulled up their white flag of surrender, it would be Billie and Mike, spending weeks at a time by the beach sipping wine, traveling and really experiencing all of the places they'd loved to tour, riding motorcycles until they couldn't feel their legs, and probably having movie marathons with Tre, because it didn't matter how many times they'd seen them-all three of them would still get the urge to watch all of the Star Wars films, in a row, together, eating pizza and drinking awful beer. Billie Joe had come to depend on that kind of a future, in a strange and very real way, and reality had gone right ahead and ripped that security right out from under him, without even asking first.
But there was nothing he could do about it except to move forward, be there for Mike, be there for Livy. That was his job, and it wasn't something he took lightly, that fact proven by his sticking by Mike's bedside so diligently for the past week.
Billie sighed, a tired sound, as he toweled away the condensation in the bathroom mirror. The man in the reflection had faint circles under green eyes that were decidedly bloodshot, the crows feet in the corners of those eyes looking deeper than before, and his lips were scabbed, from his incessant need to chew on them continuously. Yet his cheeks and chin had only a slight prickle of stubble, despite his not having shaved in three days or so, and Billie rubbed his palm over his face with a curious expression. He tried to think of a possible explanation for the phenomenon; Billie Joe was notorious for five o' clock shadow, his facial hair always growing far more quickly than either of his bandmates (something Mike liked to tease him about on a regular basis). However, he couldn't quite think of any particular reason for it, and Billie decided not to worry too much about it. After all, shaving wasn't necessarily the most fun thing in the world to do, and not having to do it was not grounds for any kind of complaint whatsoever.
So all in all, the amount of time it took the singer to get cleaned up and feel a little less grotty-physically speaking, anyway-took little more than twenty minutes. Billie changed into a pair of loose-fitting black cargos and one of Mike's band t-shirts, and padded back down the stairs, hair still damp from the shower. “All right, hon,” he said, heading into the living room, “what do you think you can-oh.” Billie Joe stopped short, a quizzical smile forming at the sight of his mother. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hello, Billie,” she responded warmly. Ollie was standing by Mike's side, handing him what looked like a bowl of soup and a sleeve of crackers.
“What're you doing here?” The singer asked, approaching her for a quick hug. “Did I miss a phone call from you or something? I haven't checked my cell since this morning. . .”
“She brought food,” Mike piped in helpfully, lifting his bowl for emphasis.
“Yes, I brought a veggie soup and a chicken noodle for Mike, and a couple of casseroles for you to throw in the oven as needed. I also made some cupcakes. They're chocolate, Olivia's favorite.”
Billie shook his head in amused disbelief, wrapping his arm around Ollie's middle for another hug, this time expressly thankful. “You didn't have to do all that, Mom,” he said softly. “What were you, up half the night cooking and baking?”
“Well, honey, you know I like to make myself useful,” she said lightly, deliberately avoiding his question, grinning at the suspiciously blissful look that passed over Mike's face after one spoonful of her veggie soup. “Hit the spot, Mike?”
“Are you kidding? This is like a little piece of heaven after that godawful crap they tried to feed me at the hospital and call it food.” The bassist's eyes flickered to Billie Joe, at once both playful and guilty, and Mike said, “No offense, love, but we really need to be thankful here, because let's face it, I'm the real cook in this relationships, and I'm not sure we'd all survive off your signature French toast and grilled cheese.”
A fake glare firmly in place, Billie reached out and swatted his husband across the head gently, before ducking in to a steal saltine. “I'm gonna remember that, Dirnt,” he said, mouth full of cracker, “and Livy loves my grilled cheeses. You're just too damn picky for your own good.”
“And that's damn right,” he countered, smirking now. “I am very picky when it comes to three things: food, my basses, and who I spend the rest of my life with. So you see, my pickiness in turn actually says a lot about you, sweetheart.”
“Whatever you say, Mike.” But Billie was smiling, because somewhere in that jibe laid a true compliment. And when it came down to it, he felt pretty much the same way. “Now hush and eat your soup, you're supposed to be resting. You're expending way too much energy on snarky comments.”
Mike swallowed a hasty gulp of breath, opening his mouth to no doubt issue another catty remark, when Ollie laughed, interrupting, “Sometimes you two make me feel like absolutely nothing has changed since you both were in high school, making fun of each other and yet defending each other to the bare bone. I should have known it then. . . It is such a male thing to do, teasing someone you secretly like.”
The cheshire-like grin that split Billie Joe's lips was one he knew only Mike could understand-because there was absolutely no way Ollie could know about their first time together. . . probably-and he perched on the arm of the couch by Mike's head, hand automatically dropping to stroke his hair affectionately. “Yeah,” Billie murmured, for his mom's benefit, the sparkle in his eyes reflected in baby blues that gazed up at him with a thing that could only be called love, “yeah, that must have been it. . .”
Ollie was opening her mouth to say something else, likely to be on a different topic as she had long grown accustomed to the private little moments Billie and her son-in-law shared, but Ollie was interrupted by the front door opening, again, and the sound of little feet flying frantically across their wooden floors. All three adults looked towards the entrance to the living room leading in from the foyer, as Olivia seemed to materialize before them, her familiar eyes as wide as they could be.
“You're home,” the little girl crowed, and did not hesitate to bolt forward, in attempts to leap into both of her parents' arms at once.
Luckily, her mother was able to catch her before she landed on Mike and not only spilled his soup, but ripped his stitches, and Billie Joe laughed, cradling her close and kissing her flushed cheeks. “Yes, we're home and so are you! Missed you, Livybug!”
“I missed you too, Mommy, I haven't seen you in ages.” Olivia squeezed her arms around Billie's neck extra tight, her face buried into his clean hair. Then she leaned back, enough to hold her arms out for her father. “Daddy!”
Mike's smile was a mixture of both relief, at the sight of her, and also frustration, because he couldn't scoop her up in his arms the way he was used to. Billie cast him with a look of understanding, his own smile sympathetic, and gave Olivia another swift kiss before murmuring, “Okay, sweetie-girl, I'm gonna give you to your daddy, but you need to be extra careful with him, okay, Liv?”
Her brow puckered innocently, sharing her expression of confusion with all adults in the room, made four now by Myla's appearance, and asked the poignant question, “Why?”
Before Billie Joe could offer an answer simple enough to alleviate her superficial worries, Mike gave a brief shake of his head, and gestured for him to put their daughter into his still strong arms. When he had, with all of the care he'd used when Olivia had been a mere three days old, Mike settled her into the available space between him and the back of the couch-the side of himself that was not mangled with a painful scar. “Listen, angel, I gotta tell you something.”
As Billie, Myla, and Ollie looked on with breath that was efficiently baited, Mike plunged on, smoothing his daughter's hair and adoring her innocent eyes, “I know Mommy told you we were away for the band, but that wasn't the truth. We didn't want to lie to you, but we wanted to wait for the right time to tell you what's really going on. And the truth is that I'm sick, Livybug. I'm sick, and I had to go to the doctor's for a few days for them to do something to make me better. I'm still not back to my usual self yet, and I won't be able to give you piggyback rides or anything like that for awhile, not until the doctor says it's okay again.”
Olivia looked disappointed at the news, though that was to be expected, but she nodded, slowly. “Okay, but. . . they made you all better, right? You're gonna be okay, right?”
“Well. . . babe, the truth is that I'm gonna be sick for awhile. This-it isn't like a tummy ache or a cold. I'm gonna have to go to the doctors a lot, they're going to give me lots of medicine, and I might not be able to do things like I used to all the time.” Mike could see the oncoming look of despair playing out on his daughter's face, and though his chest was constricting like he was able to cry, Mike touched her cheek and smiled softly, for her benefit. “But you don't have to worry, Livy. The doctors are going to take real good care of me, and I've got you, and your mom, and your aunt to take care of me too, and the very last thing you need to do is worry because everything is under control.” He kissed her forehead and held her close to his good side, sighing into her dark hair. “All you need to do is worry about being the coolest six year old in the world, got it? Everything's gonna be just fine.”
It was clear that Olivia didn't know what to make of the situation, by the way she bit her lip and curled into her daddy's chest. But eventually Olivia nodded, a smile of contentment on her face, because it was good enough to trust her daddy. “Okay,” she agreed. “I got it.”
Billie's throat felt choked, and he met Mike's eyes for a mutual look of loss. When his husband's hand reached out, Billie Joe took it, slowly sitting down on the edge of the coffee table, and stretched his other hand to rub soothing circles on Olivia's back. His heart was full, fit to burst, with emotions both positive and negative, but he swallowed them all down, along with that pesky reoccurring lump in his throat, and attempted a smile that was expressly for Mike's reassurance.
And each member of the Armstrong-Pritchard family sat in the weighted silence, allowing the moment to pass, untouched, because there really wasn't anything else to do.