Title: In Training (1/1)
Author: Morgan R.
Email: [email protected]
Rating: PG
Summary: Maria POV, angst
Spoilers: Destiny-esque
Feedback: That would be wonderful!
Disclaimer: WB et al own everything and everyone
Note: What if Michael had followed his destiny?
****
Well, now I get it.
All this time I've been torturing myself, wondering why Michael was so distant, why Michael was so callous, why Michael was so afraid of emotional intimacy. Every explanation and apology was insufficient, because even the most painful of upbringings could never have caused such certainty of solitude.
But it all makes sense now.
I was practice.
See, he couldn't get Isabel right away. She was perfect and pristine and unbelievably beautiful, and he was much too raw to ever deserve such a goddess. So he needed a rehearsal girlfriend. A cheap imitation, if you will. Blonde hair, yes, but not so much gold as brass, and in much smaller qualities. Shorter, less intelligent, and irrevocably of this earth. Earthy. Flawed and abandoned and oh-
Human.
What an ideal situation, don't you think? She could sit on her throne, kindly surveying her world, and he would put in some practice time with her talkative copy.
You understand, don't you? I was like his set of training wheels, and she's the bicycle. No, Michael, you don't want to damage your lovely bike. Put on the wheels, and you can learn how to ride. You can lean on the wheels, they will hold you up, teach you the way of things.
Little cheap wheels turning in the gravel, small and common and shielding shiny chrome-
But no one cares about training wheels. A day comes when they are unscrewed, thrown away, and forgotten. They are miniature fragments of what every boy really wants.
Scratched from pavement and covered in filth, they can lie in a dented heap and watch as he joyfully glides along, flying with his perfect bicycle, trained at last and never looking back.
(Perhaps I have bored you with my metaphor? Does this surprise either of us?)
He does have a certain sort of regret, I know. With those inconsequential wheels, he never had to make an effort. They supported him and he never had to try.
But don't you know how embarrassing it is? To let people know that you can't balance yourself?
Take them off, Michael. You're a big boy. Surely you can ride your own bike. We've been saving it for you- aren't you a little old for those silly wheels?
Of course he is.
He's even higher than he used to be. He isn't sullen and childlike anymore. He's proud and noble and more brilliant every day. They shine together, functioning as a unit, each complementing the other in an unbelievable sort of fulfillment.
I suppose there should be some sort of satisfaction in knowing that I helped. That each and every one of my tear stained pillows was somehow for Isabel's benefit. When I bit my cheeks to keep from screaming in his stony face, every copper drop on my tongue was a present for her, my superior, the exalted she.
She's the princess, and I'm- who knows. Tavern wench?
No father. No money. No decorum and no pedigree.
But-
I helped.
You can tell I'm made of some cheap, flimsy metal, because these scratches run...so...deep...
****
finis