Chapter Text
Alex scrambled into his car, stopping only to double check he’d fully loaded the extra magazine for his pistol, all thought of plans and missions forgotten. All that mattered was Michael going up against his father. Alone.
Fear gnawed at his insides, writhing around in his gut like an angrily awakened monster. He had lost so much to Jesse Manes, so much of his life – so much of himself. He couldn’t lose anything else. What would be left would no longer be recognizable as Alex Manes. He’d become something else entirely. A monster maybe, like his father.
Keeping half an eye on the speedometer and half an eye on the road and terrain as it flew by for the odd cop out late to catch speeders like him, he sped down the road, stopping at lights only long enough to check for safety and taking turns on autopilot. When he turned down his street – his father hadn’t yet taken that away from him – he switched off the headlights, approaching slowly and quietly.
He parked the car a block or two down the road, in front of a neighbor’s house. It was nondescript enough that he could safely leave it without fearing his father’s retribution.
Michael’s truck sat across the street. It stoked the fear smoldering in Alex’s heart, spurred him to move faster.
Pistol drawn, safety off, he walked toward the house. Light shone out of only one window. Allowing only a few seconds for surveillance, he didn’t see any movement through it, or any other window.
The house, for all intents and purposes, was quiet. Deceptively empty.
A trap that Alex didn’t buy into.
He took the steps up to the front door as gently as his prosthetic allowed, aware that it landed harder than his natural leg.
The door’s hinges had creaked all throughout his childhood. He tested the knob and, finding it unlocked, twisted it open, letting the door slowly drift away. He applied enough pressure to provide a large enough gap for him to sneak through and shut it quietly behind him.
Despite every instinct to the contrary, Alex moved through the rooms quickly, clearing them with a swift sweep of his gun. No one jumped out from behind doors or around corners to stop him.
His father was nowhere to be found.
Neither was Michael.
Michael had no way to know about the bunker, but if his father had somehow got him down there…
Alex hoped they were upstairs.
He searched through the bedrooms, assaulted not by his father or his goons but by memories. Too many awful things had been done and said in these rooms – they remembered. And they cried out, as he had.
He saved his father’s office for last.
The computer was still on, a lock screen illuminating the room. As much as Alex wanted to crack in and dig, he had other, far more important things to find. But the drive tucked in the back of the bottom drawer? That, Alex had no issue taking. Something whispered to him that it might be important.
He tucked the drive in his back pocket, turned to leave, when white hot pain shot up his arm, set his hand on fire. He clutched it to his chest as he fought the urge to empty his stomach. Panicked, he checked his hand over and found it whole and uninjured. He had a few seconds to just stare at it, utterly confused, before another bout of pain wracked him. Crumpling to the ground, he bit back a shout.
What the fuck was going on?
Shaking, adrenaline coursing through his veins, he got his feet back underneath him. Something was wrong. Aside from his hand throbbing, he couldn’t quite say why he knew that. He fled downstairs, silence no longer mattering.
A pained cry echoed through the house, stopping Alex cold.
He knew that voice.
Michael.
Despite his prosthetic and leg protesting every movement from landing on it very wrong, he scrambled toward the source of the sound, the shed behind his father’s house. He pressed against the wall next to the shed’s door, drawing his pistol and ensuring the safety was off. Quieting his breathing, he focused on any sounds coming from inside.
Nothing, except Michael’s broken sobs.
He opened the door wide, using the cover of the wall to clear the room, always cautious of doors and corners. His CO had pounded that line into his head – doors and corners will always get you. Satisfied the room was empty, except for Michael crumpled on the floor, Alex stepped inside.
“Michael,” Alex whispered, holstering his gun.
Michael exhaled raggedly.
As Alex approached, he saw the damage his father had done. Michael’s left hand was mutilated beyond recognition. From the pain Alex felt – and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had felt Michael’s pain, his father had to have broken every bone, left Michael’s hand a bleeding pulp. Michael cradled it close, like he couldn’t feel it or move it. Blood oozed onto the floor.
Alex walked to Michael’s left, carefully avoided the vomit where Michael hadn’t been so lucky. Crouching down, he said again, louder, “Michael.”
Michael’s eyes fluttered open, red rimmed and puffy. He glanced around before finding Alex. His brow furrowed and, though his mouth moved, no sound came out.
“Come on, we gotta get you out of here.” Alex gripped Michael’s good hand and pulled him up until he was sitting on the edge of the bench.
Michael leaned into Alex, his head lolling onto Alex’s shoulder, sweat-drenched curls cool against Alex’s neck.
Colors sprang along where skin met skin.
For a brief instant, Michael relaxed into Alex’s hold, his breathing evening out. But tucked against Alex as he was, Alex felt the sudden change, the muscles tensing in his shoulders.
Alex…
Michael’s voice in his mind dragged him out of the shed back to the desert, to a night when their positions were reversed.
…behind you…
“I should have known they would get to you,” Jesse Manes said, stepping out of the shadows.
Fear was always the first emotion Alex felt in the presence of his father, and this was no different – but Alex didn’t fear for himself now. No, his fear was all for Michael.
Over three overseas tours, he had learned how to cope with fear, how to compartmentalize it to keep functioning, keep pushing forward. Never did the Air Force teach him that such unfathomable fear for another was so debilitating and motivating all at once. That he would gladly lay down his life if it would get Michael away from his father.
If he could create a distraction, just for a moment, he could draw his gun, do…something, and get Michael to safety.
“It can’t even save itself now,” Jesse taunted. He held up a hammer, gleaming silver and blood. “How pathetic is that? Such an abomination and a bit of silver brings it to heel.”
Alex saw red.
First Sanders, now Michael. Instead of following some rule of engagement, his father delighted in torture. Instead of killing Michael outright, he crippled him first.
He had no idea what magic Michael could wield, but if he needed both hands…
A powerful force slammed Jesse against the wall. The entire shed shook at the impact, dust raining from the ceiling.
Alex looked at Michael, found the same shock and confusion on his face. Except Michael’s eyes had shifted from their warm, honeyed brown to formless, shapeless black.
The void.
If ever he needed a reminder, or proof even, of what Michael was.
Alex inhaled the beautiful scent of rain, strong enough to be overpowering, yet it settled in all of his raw and broken places and he was home.
It served as the distraction Alex needed to sling Michael’s arm over his shoulder and redraw his gun.
Jesse staggered to his feet, his face twisted in an inhuman snarl. His gaze raked across where Michael was draped against Alex, at the rainbow that sparked where they touched. “Sanders is dead,” he spat. “But you know that, don’t you, boy?”
The words weaseled around his carefully constructed defenses, crushed his hopes. Everything that made him Alex, he pushed aside until nothing but the soldier remained. He exhaled raggedly and drew in a determined inhale. On the top of that inhale, he fired.
Jesse’s body crumpled to the ground.
For a second, neither he nor Michael moved. Shock ran cold through his veins. He’d killed his father – his own father.
He’d done that.
For Sanders.
For Michael.
Michael swayed into him with a sharp, pained breath.
The whole of Alex’s attention shifted completely and utterly. Michael became his entire focus.
Alex guided Michael out of the shed, checking over his shoulder that his shot had actually landed, and his father stayed down. Michael’s truck sat down the road, a beacon of hope. Closer than his own car, and more recognizable if they left it, it’d do. At the very least, Alex could use it to get Michael far, far away from this place.
The doors were unlocked – did Michael just trust everyone would leave the trunk alone or was he aware there was nothing of value in that old beat-up hunk of metal? With his free hand, Alex yanked the passenger door open and coaxed Michael up onto the seat. He shrugged out of his jacket and gently tucked it over Michael’s shoulders.
Michael shook under his hands, his breath coming in short staccato bursts. Sweat drenched curls stuck to his forehead. He stared ahead with wide, unseeing eyes. He held his hand curled up into his chest, blood dripping steadily from the multitude of injuries.
Alex inhaled deeply to steady his nerves. Michael’s reaction viscerally sucker punched the air out of him, dragging him back to his own trauma. He beat the memories back, hyper-fixating on what was in front of him. A panic attack wouldn’t help if Michael was going into shock.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” he said, surprised when his voice didn’t waver.
The words settled over Michael and, if anything, he shook more. Though weakened, he tried to move, tried to pull away.
Alex couldn’t pretend to understand his reaction, but he understood he’d messed up. “Ok,” he murmured. “Ok, no doctors.” He ran a hand through Michael’s hair, pushing the damp curls back. “But we can’t stay here.”
As if in agreement, sirens wailed in the distance, louder and louder as they approached. Alex bit back a curse. He must have triggered a silent alarm. “Give me the keys.”
Michael finally – finally – met his gaze. To Alex, he appeared like some wild thing, a wounded creature ready to bolt at any opportunity. In this state, there was no trust between them, nothing for Alex to latch on to as an anchor. In Michael’s eyes, which had returned to their normal color, he could be as dangerous as his father.
“You’re going into shock, Guerin,” Alex explained, keeping his voice soft and low. “You can’t drive.” He kept everything else bottled inside that was threatening to overwhelm him – his own guilt at Michael’s injury, the inexplicable surge of protectiveness he felt toward him. He reached back to that night in the desert – it felt so long ago now, tugging on the thread to that memory. Meeting Michael’s panicked gaze, he asked, “Do you want me to help?”
The fight faded from Michael’s body and he sank back into the seat, eyes falling shut. He nodded weakly.
Alex shut the passenger door and hobbled around to the driver’s side. In all of the excitement, he’d forgotten how badly his leg was hurt. Michael wasn’t the only one who needed medical care.
Michael handed the keys over once Alex situated himself.
Before anything else, Alex cranked the car and left his father’s house behind them. He chanced a glance over at Michael after he turned onto the main road. “Should I call Isobel?” he asked.
Another nod.
Alex ignored how his heart clawed up into his throat. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he dug his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed.
Isobel answered on the first ring. “Alex? What’s wrong? What happened?” Her voice came through clipped, holding the worry at bay.
“Michael’s hurt,” he said, not bothering to soften the blow. “And he’s going into shock.”
“Don’t take him to the hospital,” she finally grit out. “If you value anything – ”
Michael stirred briefly at Isobel’s tone, peering out over Alex’s jacket.
Alex met his gaze, understanding passing between them. “I’m not,” he assured her. “But that’s why I’m calling you. He needs more attention than I can provide.”
Isobel sucked in a breath. “Is your house or mine closer to you?”
“Mine.”
“I’ll meet you there.” She hung up without another word.
Alex groaned in frustration, tension and emotions running high.
“She’s a handful,” Michael muttered, smiling wobbly.
Alex couldn’t stop the laugh that Michael’s comment startled out of him.
Michael chuckled before settling back against the seat, eyes falling closed.
Alex refused to give in to his fear, but Michael’s silence urged him to drive just a little faster.
Isobel was waiting as Alex pulled the truck into his driveway. He tossed her his house keys as he limped around to the passenger seat to help Michael out.
Michael leaning heavily on his weaker side, Alex staggered to the door. “Help me get him inside.”
If she noticed the colors along their skin, she didn’t say anything. She shouldered most of Michael’s weight, letting Alex lead them to his bedroom. They worked to get Michael settled on the bed, propping him against the pile of pillows and resting his broken hand on clean towels.
With no words passing between them, they tossed Alex’s bloodstained jacket aside and worked to get Michael into something more comfortable and less covered in vomit. Isobel grabbed a large bowl from the kitchen and filled it with warm water. Together, she and Alex took turns wiping Michael’s brow and gingerly wiping the dried blood from his hand.
Michael flinched, but didn’t wake up.
Isobel laid the cloth aside and, pressing a kiss to Michael’s forehead, walked back to the kitchen.
Alex squeezed Michael’s good hand and followed her. He leaned on the counter, carefully counted his breaths.
In.
And out.
“He needs medical attention,” he said, low enough that only Isobel would hear him.
“We are not taking him to a hospital, Alex,” she snapped. “I thought I made that clear.”
He sighed. “Crystal. But he needs something. He’ll lose the hand otherwise. Or, God forbid, he’ll die.”
Isobel gasped, more a surprised intake of breath.
Alex gripped her shoulder, let himself draw on her for support if only momentarily.
Isobel took a shuddering breath. “What are you suggesting?”
“Do you remember Kyle Valenti?”
She blinked, her brow furrowed in thought. “The homophobic asshole who punched you at prom?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Isobel shook her head. “You don’t have anyone else? He was horrible.”
Alex chuckled, exhaustion pervading every one of his actions. “Nah, he’s a lot better now. Unless you count not having seen Star Wars an unforgiveable sin.”
Isobel didn’t smile but some of the tension bled away. “Do you trust him?”
Alex met her gaze and answered truthfully. He understood the question Isobel was asking him underneath her words. “With my life.”
She closed her eyes, wrestling with some inner conflict. “Call him. Help my brother.”
The phone call to Kyle was quick. Kyle only asked the questions necessary to gather the supplies he needed and said he’d be there soon.
With nothing to distract him, Alex returned to the bedroom. Strange, he mused, that he hadn’t yet used the bed, one that Liz and Maria clearly spent decent money on, and now it was Michael’s hospital bed.
Isobel stood in the doorway. “Was the weapon silver?”
Alex tore his gaze away from Michael’s still form. “I didn’t get a close look. It might have been.” He watched the strange interplay of emotions flicker across her face. “Why?”
“It’s the only explanation, why he’s not healing.” She walked over to stand next to Alex.
Alex wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drew her close. He had no words to comfort her, not when he had no way to comfort himself.
Isobel’s body shook, but she didn’t cry.
They maintained their silent vigil until Kyle’s car crunched along the gravel drive.
Alex ushered Kyle inside.
Kyle leaned close. “What the hell have you gotten involved in, Alex?”
“Something huge,” Alex replied. “I’ll fill you in as best I can.”
Kyle nodded. “Where’s my patient then?”
Alex led him past Isobel’s judgmental gaze into his bedroom, where Michael still lay propped against the mountain of pillows.
A sheen of sweat still covered his face, his curls plastered to his skin, which was shades paler than it should be.
“What happened?” Kyle asked.
In short, clipped sentences, Alex told him. He pointedly ignored how Kyle’s eyes widened and jaw dropped as he spoke.
“Jesus,” Kyle muttered. He looked at Alex appraisingly. “How are you holding up?”
Such a simple question. And a dangerous one. If Alex answered with anything resembling the truth, he’d never recover. Better to lie and bottle it up. “I’m fine.”
Kyle hummed disapprovingly but set up his equipment and tools on the end table. “Are you squeamish?”
Alex barked a harsh laugh. “I left my leg in Afghanistan, so no.”
“Then sit down before you fall down.”
Alex didn’t need to be told twice. He collapsed onto the mattress by Michael’s feet.
Kyle worked quickly and efficiently. Though he didn’t have years of experience yet under his belt, he had the patience and focus of a skilled surgeon. He didn’t have a sterile field to work with, but he made the best of the conditions at hand. He injected local anesthetic along the nerves of Michael’s left arm and started palpating along the shattered edges of bone.
Michael’s eyes flew open, a pained scream on his lips.
Kyle stopped immediately, keeping his hands above the wrist, manipulating Michael’s hand to see all angles.
Michael tensed, his hand clenching involuntarily.
Kyle sat back in frustration. “I can’t do anything, Guerin, if you keep yanking your hand away when I touch it.”
Michael shook his head. “Hurts.”
“I’ve given you the max dose of local possible and I can’t think about giving you general. Intubation is out of the question,” Kyle replied, not unkindly. “I gotta set the bones and stitch you up.”
Michael tucked his hand against him, petulantly pouting like a small child. Alex felt the absurd urge to laugh.
Kyle inhaled, a full-on surgeon’s lecture hanging in the air.
Laying a hand on his shoulder, Alex cut him off before he could get started with a shake of his head.
Kyle glanced up and, seeing Alex’s determination, rose with a groan. “Call me when you’re ready.”
Alex took Kyle’s vacated spot in the chair, careful to support his weight on his arms as he lowered down. He let his prosthetic stretch out beside him. “’Sup, bro,” he joked gently.
Michael struggled to smile. It wavered, fading to a grimace as he sucked in a pained breath.
Alex bit back the sudden spike of hatred toward his father. He fought to hold back tears. No matter how false Michael’s brashness had been, how much it had served as his shield, he didn’t deserve to have it brought so low so violently. “I know how bad this sucks,” he murmured into his lap. He wasn’t strong enough to look at Michael just now. “Hurts like a bitch on the front end, and it’ll hurt like a bitch on the back end.”
Michael’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m not sure I’m following, Private,” he said, his voice weak. Even as he said the words, he sank further into the pile of pillows, his eyes fluttering shut.
Alex tapped his prosthetic, a dull metallic thud, more to get Michael’s attention than anything else.
It worked.
Michael’s eyes flew open, and his gaze settled on Alex’s outstretched leg, before flitting back up to meet Alex’s.
In that moment, Alex realized he had never really talked about his injury, not outside of PT or the required psych evals. Not to his friends, certainly not to his father. A pointless violation without worth. Except maybe…“You fight it,” he said, almost to himself, “because you can’t believe something like this can ever happen to you. That maybe, if you refuse to engage and you keep refusing, eventually you’re gonna wake up and find this was all a really fucked up dream.”
“Did you?”
Alex glanced up, met Michael’s tear-filled eyes. “Did I what?”
“Wake up.”
Alex shook his head. “Not yet.” The admission hurt to make, and hurt Michael to hear.
Tears carved jagged lines down Michael’s face.
Without thinking, Alex reached out and wiped them away. His hand strayed out as he tucked an errant curl behind Michael’s ear. Where the urge to be so inexplicably tender came from, Alex had no idea, but Michael visibly relaxed. Alex counted it as a win.
“Reality is a right bitch,” he said. “But you’ve got people that care about you, that’ll help you through it.”
Michael sniffed, a shadow of the bravado his father had shattered.
Alex smiled, something fragile and sad. “Isobel has been wearing holes in my kitchen floor since she got here. She cares.”
“And you?” Michael whispered, his gaze far too open and vulnerable.
It shattered Alex’s heart.
Alex blinked at his own tears, looked down and away. “I would’ve thought that’d be obvious.”
Michael reached over with his good hand, tucked a finger under Alex’s chin, and raised his head so he couldn’t look away. His soft smile, doped up and not all the way there, cut far deeper than any of Jesse’s harsh words or violent fists. “Not what I was asking, Private.”
“Jesus, fuck.” Alex refused to acknowledge how his heart fluttered at Michael’s words. “You’re a menace,” he said, with no bite and far too much fondness.
Though Michael tried to reply, whatever reserve of strength he’d drawn on ran dry. He sank back, breathing hard.
Kyle approached when their conversation had faded. “You ready to try again?”
Alex didn’t look away. “I’ll stay,” he whispered, “if you want me to.”
The naked gratitude on Michael’s face stole Alex’s breath from his body. “Please.”
“Okay.” Alex grimaced at putting weight on his leg as he walked to Kyle.
“It’s fucking cruel to do this without anesthesia,” Kyle muttered.
Alex replied quietly, “Give him more.”
“Absolutely not,” Kyle said. “The human body isn’t designed to take that much. I could kill him.”
Alex met Michael’s gaze across the room and, seeing him nod imperceptibly, he uttered three words to shatter Kyle’s world. “He’s not human.”
“Look, I understand you’re exhausted after everything that’s happened – ”
“Alex’s not telling you wrong,” Isobel said from the living room, startling them both. She nodded her acknowledgment at Alex. “We’re not human.”
Kyle gaped at her, then Alex, Michael, and back. Pointing at Alex, he said, “I expect a damn good explanation after this.” He sat back in the chair and gloved up.
Alex took the opposite side of the bed, propping up against some of the pillows. He settled Michael against his thigh, letting his hand run through his curls.
Kyle watched as the colors spun and danced from Alex’s hands to Michael’s skin and back. He exhaled, squaring his shoulders. “Well, that’s new.” He injected more local anesthetic into Michael’s arm before manipulating the broken bones again and Michael whimpered in pain, his muscles tensing beneath Alex’s hand.
On instinct, Alex reached out and thought, Breathe, Michael.
Michael’s eyes snapped open, shocked and searching. What? How can you – ?
Alex clasped his hand and squeezed tightly. A night in the desert, when our positions were reversed. Remember?
Confusion gave way to dawning realization. Oh. Michael smiled, a fragile little thing. That explains a lot.
Yeah, Alex agreed, it kind of does.
Kyle continued his work, oblivious to the conversation they were having.
Michael tried to glance over, another spasm of pain wracking his body, but Alex pulled him back.
Don’t look, he thought. Just look at me.
A sense of calm descended over Michael, over them both. Okay.
The rest of the world fell away as Alex held Michael there – body, mind, and soul.