Work Text:
i.
Michael Jones believed in God when he was 9 when his mother left for a bottle of vodka and a new husband. His father stood behind him, clutching the new baby and holding himself together with strings of sanity and Michael believed in God because there would be no more nights where he locked himself in the closet because she wouldn’t stop touching.
In church every Sunday he poured his heart to God pleading that they would have enough money for a N64 and the new Mario game like all the other kids and that they could eat that night and that his dad could have time to pick him up from school because he was working so much and always with the baby or his two older brothers. Underneath his carefully arranged tie, Michael Jones felt fragile. His father's sunken cheeks were pale underneath the pretense of happiness. But Michael believed because his father told him to, and they went to church every Sunday and Wednesday and went to Sunday School and bible camp in the summer. He sat there praying as hard as he could because he believed in God so fucking much he couldn’t stop. Michael Jones believed in God so much that he swore up and down he saw angles in everyone and Jesus on the corner. When the kids at school shoved him and pushed him, he still believed in God.
ii.
Michael Jones believed in God when he walked away. His father stayed in his office for days and the baby brother, now 8, wouldn’t talk and sat in front of the crackling TV for hours, and his older brother spent all their money on vodka and the other brother slept all day and smoked all night and Michael had dark bruises painted over his ribs. Michael watched as his father lost job after job and he lost his mind. So, Michael sunk his claws into his own arms and fought everyone at school so no one could notice the cut on his chin wasn’t from the football player with the bad attitude.
There was nothing left for him there at 16 so he tipped stolen vials of chemicals together and watched the closet he hid in burn as well as the office and the beds and the attic and his brothers and the alcohol caught, and fucking burned. He watched the weed burn up into a column of smoke that dispersed into the clouds and the night sky like a dragon. And when the sirens started to roar, he left his brother in the road, watching the flames lick the sky, and he ran.
All he had was a pack of matches and a bottle of aspirin in his back pocket and he ran. To Los Santos of all places, a dirty underground place.
A bad place.
A place without God.
A place where Satan goes to sleep and whisper in the girl’s ears. But Michael believed in God because he was finally his own man, and no one told him to obey anyone and fire and explosions warmed his face rather than breath stinking of alcohol and the red chapped skin from the aftershock.
iii.
Michael Jones believed in God standing in front of his crew. A motley collection of men and women, all odd and strange and varying degrees of insane.
The leader, the legendary Geoff Ramsey, who knew nothing of subtlety, who scrawled across a blackened corpse of a building that the city better get under cover because he had a crew. Geoff Ramsey who contacted Michael after he had been working alternating between a dirty underground fighting ring, burning bodies and offing anyone if he got paid well. Geoff Ramsey who told Michael that he wanted an explosive expert, someone who could burn fast and bright and deadly. Geoff Ramsey in a pristine suit, a bowtie, scuffed shoes and carrying a flask in his back pocket, who saw Michael for more than just a young kid who liked fire, but the expert he was, bare bruised knuckles and compilation of chemical reactions all in one.
Jack Pattillo, Ramsey’s left-hand man since forever. The women who wore the bright terrible Hawaiian shirts and didn’t give a flying shit. The women who showed more mercy but that only made her the more deadly, the women who got her revenge slowly and painfully. The women who starred Michael down at their first meeting and didn’t blink at the boy who had only known rage and invited him into their lives. The first women Michael learned wasn’t out to hurt him, but with her own loud brashness took him under her wing and taught him how to fly a cargo bob. Who taught him to see peace in his crimes.
An odd scrawny figure who carried an anything but subtle neon pink sniper rifle slung over his back. Ray Narvaez Jr. who never missed a shot, ever. Ray who carried around a DS in his pocket sometimes instead of extra ammo or another weapon because yolo. The drug lord who was just innocent enough not to be a threat, but he drove his deals and he drove them hard. Ray Narvaez Jr. who worked with Michael sometimes before the crew, christened as team better friends immediately and got their work done together, hard and sharp and vicious. Explosions and bullets raining down from the sky.
The man who was just a myth, a legend. Mothers of Los Santos told their kids to go to sleep or the Vagabond will get them. HIs skull mask showed no feeling, and it took years for it to ever come off in the presence of the crew. One of the only people Michael was truly afraid of, not because he was stronger or more deadly than Michael, but because he was Michael. They both fought sharp and controlled and deadly. They both worked as Mercenaries, they both showed no mercy. While the Vagabond burned cold, Michael burned hot.
Finally, the golden boy of Los Santos. A razor-sharp knife alongside his wit, Geoff’s boy, the crew’s boy. He was just clumsy enough to be unthreatening but when you put a weapon in his hands, he turns into a weapon of mass destruction. A man of slippery underground deals and he’s fucking dangerous don’t underplay his worth, because the next morning you’ll wake up to your reputation ruined, your crew gone, and a trap.
Michael believed in God because damn it, this was his family.
iv.
Michael Jones believed in God and the thumping of his heart against gunshots. When blood splattered his face and his nails were ragged and his eyes glittered maniacally. He believed in God when the city screamed, when the other gangs bowed to him, a poor kid from Jersey. Terrified of the mighty Mogar. He was a fighter, a soldier for a king and queen, a prince, a jester and a lord of chaos.
When the sky was painted in explosions and flames, the air filled with gunshots, Michael Jones was alive. Michael Jones fell in love with his crew and his life and blood painting bricks after Ray pops their brains and the way his knuckles flowered bruises after decking a guy before he could shoot Jack.
He believed in God when he had a purpose, when he was needed.
Michel believed in God despite the screaming and chaos because he was alive and throbbing blood painted the walls and the air and his soul.
And God gave him love in a heist and a crew and stupid stunts and diving out of helicopters with ak47s strapped to his back and explosions pouring from his hands. When the chemicals mixed and splattered against the walls, Michael Jones believed in God
v.
The warehouse was damp, so incredibly damp. Moisture practically clung to the wall, the impenetrable smell of mold clouded his nose, mixing with the thick smell of blood and gunpowder. The whole crew was close, Jack and Geoff by the copter ready to lift them out, Ray in a tree to snipe and Ryan keeping everyone distracted. But this job, this job needed little explosions and fiery quickness and hands that could break but also create. Flames, explosions, both.
Michael shouldered his way through the doors, gas mask pressed over his mouth, a deadly mixture of colorful chemicals in his hands.
Rage bubbled over his stomach, into his throat, spreading to his hands, his feet, everywhere.
They had Gavin, and they would all burn.
He heard the rock music first, obviously. It blared well above comfort level, it burned into his eardrums.
He followed the sound and finally, he saw Gavin, tied up and slumped over.
Michael pulled Gavin, out tears streaming and no heartbeat.
He pressed the gas mask over Gavin’s mouth and nose and hoped. Prayed.
Michael believed in God when he felt the weak heartbeat and the barely there breaths. Michael believed in God when him and Gavin fell into the copter gasping and sweating, tears running down their faces.
And Michael believed in God when Gavin pressed their lips together and breathed in the scent of sweat and blood and the sweet smoke.
Michael Jones believed in God as his heart hammered into his ribcage and Gavin twined their hands together and pulled him close.
Michael Jones believed in God because Gavin Free exists.
Michael Jones believed in God because Gavin Free loves him.
vi.
The screams were fresh in his ears as he drove, his foot mashed on the gas as he sped.
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The speedometer ticked up, the sirens screamed behind him and Michael swerved, off the main road onto a little dirt track, barely visible.
Michael Jones stopped believing in God when the coms cut out and all the cries were drowned out in gunfire and smoke.
Michael Jones stopped believing in God when the sirens melted away, when his heartbeat slowed down. When the car ran out of gas and sputtered to a stop, Michael stopped believing in God.
The bodies of his friends were left on the curb and in the streets, scattered and broken and blown up. Michael misjudged the bombs, the explosions burned hotter and faster and the car engine blew into millions of pieces. He saw Jack and Ryan, bodies thrown through the windshield and smashed into the side of the building. Jacks Hawaiian shirt blooming new flowers with crimson blood. Ryan’s mask still pulled over his face, but his body slumped in an un-Ryan like pose, loose and broken. Ray was on the roof, the harsh spotlight from the helicopter revealing his location. The lights glinted off his bring pink snipe. No out this time.
Michael met his eyes from the ground, saw the fear as the bullets ripped through him, pulling apart his purple jacket at the seams. Michael stopped believing in God while the scream was ripped from his chest, unable to make it out his mouth. When Geoff screamed at him on the coms to go, go, please go. His voice cut out mid scream, and the footsteps and bullets interrupted. Michael clung to a thread of God when he pulled Gavin into his getaway car and hit the gas, ripped out of the alley, past the bodies of Ryan and Jack, past the building where Ray’s body was laying on the roof.
Gavin was shooting out the window at the cops, screaming at Michael to go faster, get them away from here. Michael’s heart pounded, feeling like it was about to fly out his mouth. His hands gripping the wheel, swerving and avoiding cars, and Gavin’s silver tongue was no good here. There was no convincing the bullets to miss, there was no begging with God to bring the crew back. The golden boy was no use here, there was no trick left, but was still Michael’s. And the bullet shattered the window, and he saw Gavin slump. And the last bit of God left Michael’s heart when Gavin’s sunglasses slipped down his nose and there he sat, on the edge of that dirt road.
He fell out of the car, moved to the passenger’s side and pulled Gavin out, his body falling into Michael’s arms. Michael Jones stopped believing in God when the only religion he believed felt cold in his arms and Michael stayed there, sprawled out on the ground with his god in his arms. And religion ceased, the angels fell from the heavens and there was nothing.
Michael Jones stopped believing in God when he took the last thing Michael had left, and when the dust settled, when the cops were home, after the prints were ran and the news reports told the city of the death of their own personal devils, Michael Jones took himself to the police station. He raised his arms when told. He thought of his love and prayed to the God he didn’t believe in that please let Gavin be there.
And when the cold needle was slid into his arm, and the liquid ran from the tube into his veins, there was no bright light, only darkness and the last neuron firing in his brain was thoughts of those green eyes.