Disclaimers: Not mine, etc.
Author's Note: Thank you to Linda for letting me play and for Karen for her betaing.
I'm not quite sure why I wrote this. I remember getting an image of a bruised, seated Michael and Chris standing behind him ... cupping his face. The story followed from there.
The others watched as Chris slowly ended the call on his cell.
"Somethin' wrong, cowboy?" Vin asked quietly.
"Don't know," Chris answered just as softly. "Mike's been in a fight at school."
"He okay?" Nathan asked, ready to run for his supplies.
"Yeah, sounds like he's fine ... just in a heap of trouble." Chris' face was grim.
The students instinctively moved away from the black angel walking through their midst. They didn't even move that fast for cops. But something about this man demanded their attention and obedience.
Ellie spotted him first, throwing herself into his arms. "Uncle Chris!"
"Elena, what the hell happened?" Chris held her, opening his arms up to Samantha, Penny and Annette as well. Kyle stood close to his father, letting the girls be comforted by his strong father, but he smiled tentatively. His father's eyes reassuring his youngest son.
"It was horrible," Sam murmured.
Penny glanced at Peter before tilting her head back. "Johnny Beckman went ballistic on Mike's car ... ."
"Then Mike went ballistic on Beckman," Peter finished for his sister.
Chris studied each of their faces. "Why the tears? You've seen Mike in fights before." Since he could walk, Michael had had his fair share of trouble. Mostly, getting in fights to protect the younger of his crew. None of this was new.
Tommy glanced uneasily at Joshua. "Never like this, Uncle Chris."
"He was in a berserker rage." Joshua cleared his throat when the pale green eyes focused on him. "Half of the football team had to literally peel Mike off Beckman. The other half were on the ground ... where he put them."
"I've never seen Mike like that, Dad." Kyle shuddered in memory. "It was like he was possessed, or something."
Chris nodded. He understood.
Chris entered the principal's office to the shrill screech of Mrs. Beckman.
"Principal Hortan."
Michael shot to his feet.
Principal Hortan stood, her hand extended. "Agent Larabee, thank you for coming." The distinguished older woman kept her tone even and respectful.
Chris nodded, but his eyes were on his son. Michael's nose was still slightly bleeding and he was favoring his ribs a little. Green eyes narrowed ... was that a black eye forming? "What happened?"
"Your jackass of a son beat the living hell out of my innocent baby, that's what happened!" The shrill voice rose again. "He —"
Chris glanced at Mrs. Beckman. "I didn't ask you."
She sputtered to a stop.
"Mr. Larabee, your son did —"
"Didn't ask you either, Peterson." Chris glared the irritating assistant principal into silence, then ignored the others in the room, turning instead to Michael. "What happened?"
Mike drew in a shuddering breath, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Went out to get a book from the car. Found Beckman taking a blackjack to the hood. There was already a hole in the soft top." He paused, meeting his father's eyes dead on. "I pulled him off the hood. Right hook, left hook. Right upper cut, left cross. Knee to stomach, knee to nose. I was about to slam his head into the bumper of the car next to mine, but the football team stopped me." He recited the list as if simply listing next week's grocery list. There was no emotion in his voice.
"You beast! Look at what you did to my son!" Mrs. Beckman jerked her son forward. He was, indeed, in bad shape. But not so bad as he couldn't stare fearfully at the two Larabee men.
Chris glared at Beckman. "Why did you go after Mike's car?"
"That is not the issue here!" Mrs. Beckman screeched. "Your son —"
"My son has already admitted to beatin' the hell out of your kid. Now I want to know why." Chris turned to the teenager once more. "Well?"
Beckman glared at Mike. "Him. He's perfect. All the girls want him. Walks around with his crew, no worries in the world. Then one day he shows up in a black 1965 convertible T-bird. He's got everything, including the car I want. Why the hell not?" He shrugged, still sending wary glances at his adversary. "Knew people were scared of him, now I know why."
"You don't know the half of it," Michael hissed. "Six months, six months, my dad and I worked on that car. And in six minutes you ruined it! I should have gutted you! I should have —"
"Michael."
The younger Larabee continued to glare at his prey. His father's voice and presence the only reason he didn't take the bastard down.
"Sit down, Michael, before you fall down."
Michael complied, gingerly seating himself.
"Why did you take him down so hard?" Chris didn't think he had raised a materialistic son. He didn't think he and Mary had raised a violent child, but then why did Mike take his anger out on the Beckman kid so thoroughly?
Michael studied his feet, clenching his fists in his lap.
Chris gently cupped his son's face from behind, tipping it back. "Why, Michael?" The others in the room faded away until only father and son were left.
"Because," Michael whispered. "Because we worked on it for six months." Michael's voice grew even quieter. "You were undercover for so long, then you brought the car home. And we spent all that time together. Every time I looked at the car ... ."
Chris sighed, gently caressing his son's face, his thumb stroking the soft skin of Michael's cheek. From his son's words, he understood. "You hurt?"
Mike smiled ruefully, leaning into his father's hand. "Yeah." He winced as he took a deep breath. "Bastards got in some lucky punches."
"Bastards?" Chris raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," the smile was still in full force. "The football team."
Chris chuckled. "Need to talk to Vin and Julia about upping your self-defense classes."
Mike grunted. "They'll kill us for sure."
Mary sighed, dabbing the peroxide on Mike's split lip. "Darlin', you can't keep solving your problems with your fists." Mike grunted at the sting. "Well, I figure since I don't have Dad's glare yet, I'd use what I have available."
Finis
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