Chapter Text
"Michael, come to bed. It's late."
"'m fine," comes the predictably stubborn response.
"I know you are, but that's beside the point," Alex resorts to flirting as it usually does the trick.
True to form, Michael finally looks up from the complicated biochemistry notes Liz had given him earlier right before she'd dragged her own exhausted genius brain home to cuddle with Rosa, who was still taking in all the changes to her resuscitated world.
He takes a swig of acetone and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, brown eyes bleary, a yawn escaping before he replies cheekily, "Is it? I kinda like being the point."
Alex sighs good-naturedly and tries again to coax his boyfriend over to the cot he'd set up in the opposite corner of the bunker. He'd given up trying to get Michael to go upstairs to the Airstream two nights ago.
"As do I, but there can't be any pointing going on when I'm over here and you're all the way over there, now can there?"
The fact that Alex can see the wheels in Michael's head turning that sentence over and over trying to sus out the meaning should be telling Michael that he's too tired to be of any more use to Max's cause tonight. He'd given up trying to tell Michael that directly three nights ago. Now he just relies on flirtatious confusion and cuddle invites to get the beleaguered alien to turn his brain down to half-power and sleep for a few hours at night.
"Come on, Cowboy," he pats the space next to him on the cot in an inviting manner, "I'll give you a back rub before we go to sleep."
Those appear to be tonight's magic words because Michael's eyebrows, tired of frowning in concentration and frustration all day, jump for joy. That crazy hot mess he calls his curls bounces every which way as he sighs wearily, gets up from the stool where he's been camped out the last several hours, and sleepily shuffles his way over to the cot, rubbing his eyes as he goes.
"'m still pointy, though," he mumble-argues. He somehow manages to get stuck in his undershirt and Alex guides him down to the twin-sized camping mattress as he pulls it over his head.
"Mr. Pointy, that's you," Alex coos with a kiss to his now-bared shoulder. That earns him a sleepy but satisfied hmmm from Michael.
Alex helps him get his pants off and Michael is still dexterous enough to remove his socks without falling off the cot. Alex rewards him with a kiss on the lips when Michael rights himself, clad in just his black boxer shorts.
"Mmmm, fruity," Alex smiles at the taste Michael's kiss leaves in his mouth. "You should just drink acetone from now on. It smells so much better on your breath than that rot-gut you drink at the Pony."
Michael has gone from being stubbornly awake and "productive" to being five seconds away from sleeping like a log and taking up even more space on the cot than usual. Alex doesn't mind that part so much, though; he loves being cocooned between Michael and the wall.
"Gonna tell Ma—"
"No, on your stomach. Yeah, there ya go."
"M'kay. Gonna tell Maria you called her whiskey rot-gut," Michael giggles into the pillow, eyes already closed. "She's gonna be so mad at you."
Alex's breath still catches in his throat a little bit whenever Michael says Maria's name. It has been a whirlwind of a week. Alex practically has whiplash from all the extreme emotions he's gone through in the past seven days. He'd waited all morning for Michael to come back to the Airstream so they could talk, and he could have filled a waste-paper basket three times over with crumpled-up iterations of the speech he'd composed in his head. Plus every single worst-case scenario he could devise as to how Michael might react, but even then he was ill-prepared for the news that Michael brought home when he finally returned to him. In more ways than one, it turns out.
"Doubtful. She's probably going to thank me for saving all her whiskey for actual paying customers. And for giving her bouncer something else to do besides kicking your sweet alien ass to the curb every other night for picking fights to get out of paying for said whiskey."
Michael had been a disconsolate wreck, sobbing into Alex's leather jacket from the moment he tumbled from the truck and into his arms after he'd screeched to a halt on the dirt floor of the junkyard. Alex had finally managed to pull two words out of him that made his heart weep for Michael and tears run down his own face. Max. Dead. A couple of hours and a fitful nap from sheer exhaustion later, Alex was propped up against the tiny headboard in the caravan, with Michael pressed up against his side, his head lying on his chest as Alex ran his fingers softly through Michael's curls, the rhythmic motion soothing both of their frazzled nerves.
"Ooh burn! Damn, you play for keeps, don't you?"
Michael had whispered into the confessional of Alex's warm embrace that he had kissed Maria that morning and only held on tighter when Alex had tensed in his arms. He'd quickly gone on to explain that when the psychic call from Isobel came, it was just a wordless scream of pain that nearly knocked him from his chair. Michael'd known in that moment that Max was gone, and he'd been about to grab Maria so they could make a run for the arroyo where he could sense Isobel's presence, but he'd drawn up short when he saw her staring at his healed hand with a look of incomprehension on her face.
"Damn right I do. But you do run hot, Guerin, so I know you can take it." Alex smirks at the pretty blush working its way down Michael's cheek onto the back of his neck as he trails his fingers down the expanse of golden skin before him like little sprites gliding across a frozen pond in a wintry forest.
Alex had promptly pried Michael's left hand from its death grip around his waist to see for himself and gasped audibly at the sight of the righted tendons and un-gnarled knuckles, skin smooth as silk. Their fingers intertwined and gripped. Hard. Max was all Michael had said before he released the air in his lungs in a whoosh and buried his face in Alex's neck to whisper raggedly into his ear that he'd panicked and run. Left her standing there in the bar, shell-shocked but safe. Safe in her ignorance. He'd realized in that moment that he couldn't tell her what was going on. Couldn't confide in her that way. He didn't want to drag her down into their warzone. He'd thought he wanted someone safe, someone with whom he could pretend to be human, like Isobel had done with Noah all those years. Pfft. Look how well that'd turned out.
"'s right. I want everything you got. No more hiding. Cuz I'm y..." Michael trails off as he falls asleep midsentence.
Alex had spent the next couple of days hiding away from the world with Michael in the Airstream. Just the two of them. Getting to know each other all over again for the first time. Michael had told him about Rosa and how they'd put Max in his own pod in the cave to keep him safe while they tried to figure out how to bring him back. There was never talk of if. Only how. On the third day, they'd come down to the bunker, called Liz, and set to work. Isobel was keeping a vigil for Max at the cave as he had done for her. Kyle went and checked on her regularly, sticking around to keep her company when he wasn't on call. The telepathic connection between Max and Isobel seemed to have shifted and for right now, Michael was content with keeping Isobel company long-distance while he worked on bringing their brother back.
Alex leans down to press a tender kiss to Michael's cheek. "You are mine. Yes." He knows this now. He's always known it. But he's finally in a place in his life to do something about it.
The more time they spend down here, together, amongst all of the pieces of Michael's home that are left on Earth; the more Alex watches Michael wear himself out trying to find a way to bring Max back; the easier it is for Alex to be hopeful that this time, they're going to make it.
He sets about removing his prosthetic, placing it carefully underneath the cot within easy reach, grimacing a bit at the way the top part rubs into his stump from too many hours on his feet, well, foot. He grabs the ointment for his leg from a nearby shelf – he'd stashed it when it became apparent that he'd be camping out down here for the foreseeable future to keep Michael company – and applies it to the chafed skin around the edges. The back rub can wait until morning. Alex wants Michael to get all the sleep he can manage. He curls his body around the heat source asleep in front of him and wishes sweet dreams for them both.
~*~
"Are you... kissing my... moles?"
"Good morning to you, too. Way to pick the sexiest word ever, Michael, good job, I'm all a-quiver," Alex deadpans from his strategic position splayed across Michael's gorgeous back, reveling in the warmth his alien boyfriend radiates. "And how do you know I'm kissing your beauty marks anyway? They're on your back. Or can you turn your head 360 degrees like an owl?"
"Even chaos forms patterns given enough time and space."
"My, aren't we deep and scientifically poetic this morning."
"Hey, I'm a deep guy. It's about time you admitted you love me for more than just my curls."
Alex sighs happily into the dip of Michael's shoulder blades before placing a kiss there, too. "Okay, fine," he faux-whines, drawing out the vowel sound in the word 'fine'. "I guess I love the little grey cells underneath the curls, too. But that's where I draw the line."
Michael laughs, the movement shaking Alex a bit as his perch bounces up and down momentarily.
"Oh! Speaking of drawing lines..." Alex reaches out blindly with one hand over to the nearest horizontal surface. He knows he saw a fine-point pen lying near the edge last night.... got it!
"Are you drawing on me now, Private?" comes the amused question from below.
Michael slept so soundly last night he barely shifted, so he was still lying on his stomach when Alex woke up. He'd been gazing at his back as sunlight slowly sank into the bunker when he slowly became aware of the array of little beauty marks dotting the landscape of Michael's skin. His ribs looked like mountains that breathed as they rose and fell to the rhythm of his heart. The planes of his shoulder blades looked like the plains of the desert foothills outside the caravan. The beauty marks looked like little stars reflected in the calm waters of the long lake of his spine opposite a night sky. Alex had been captivated by the canvas before him and before long he'd been pressing little kisses from star to star, traversing them like The Little Prince does.
"I'm plotting the stars."
"Oh? And what do they tell you, O Wise Seafarer?"
Alex sticks his tongue out in concentration as he finishes connecting the last pair of dots on Michael's back.
He sits back to get a better look and freezes at the sight before him.
"No, no that can't be right..." Alex's brow furrows.
He levers himself off the cot, too impatient to put his prosthetic back on, and leans on the tables to help him maneuver the room until he reaches the one that holds the paper he wants.
"Alex? What is it?" Michael asks, rising up to rest on his elbows, trying to see what Alex is up to.
He clenches the paper in his teeth and propels himself back to the cot. Alex unceremoniously pushes Michael back down onto the cot and straddles his back, using his pillow to support his right thigh. Michael starts to say something saucy about such heavy-handed treatment but Alex just shushes him, all playfulness wiped from his face for the moment.
Alex has only drawn straight lines, like he would to complete a connect-the-dots coloring sheet, but if he uses this piece of paper as a reference, shades in the right places, and draws encompassing circles here over Michael's heart, here over the base of his spine, and here over his right shoulder blade, it looks just like...
"Michael..." Alex isn't sure what to think, so he just hands Michael the paper as he grasps around a nearby table for his phone. He finds it still in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls it out to take a photo of Michael's back so he can see what Alex sees.
"What the ever-loving fuck?"
Alex just looks down at Michael, a worried glint in his eyes, a thumbnail caught between his teeth out of nervous habit.
"You drew on my back with a Sharpie?!"
Alex just kind of deflates in that moment. Michael's coping mechanism in times of stress couldn't be more welcome and he just wants to hug all the air out of him. He drapes himself over his lover's back and barely manages to say with a straight face, "It'll wash off, but that's beside the point."
Yeah, they'll be fine.