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“Hey,” Michael calls, low and rough, reaching his foot across the space between them to nudge Allen's own. Allen turns, his wide, searching eyes landing on Michael, and Michael is struck by how truly frightened Allen looks, fear rolling off him in waves, visible in the set of his shoulders and the wildness of his eyes.
“Hey, it'll be alright,” Michael tells him, tries to convey its truthfulness in his tone, his look. He should've just told Allen the plan, only – only Michael hadn't expected him to show up at the bar, hadn't counted on Allen's unwavering friendship. Hadn't really realized how steadfast he was. “Trust me,” Michael stresses, and Allen nods just a little, holds his gaze intense and wide-eyed, and Michael wishes he could offer more comfort, but he can't say anything until the car stops.
The light they pass under illuminates Allen's face for a moment, and Michael can see the bruise blooming high on his cheek, already purple and blue. His hands twitch with the urge to reach out, to soothe, to run his thumb on the edges of it, make sure it's nothing more than what it looks like. Now isn't the place, and it's certainly not the time, but Michael's still surprised at the strength of protect that surges through him, a need to care for so strong it nearly takes over him.
Allen's barely blinked in the minute or so it's been, and even when he jerks and looks around when the car turns sudden and sharp, his eyes come back to Michael. Michael realizes that this is Allen's trust, completely and entirely placed in him, and he vows to himself to keep it.
The driver throws Michael the handcuff keys over his shoulder, then, and Michael undoes his quickly but takes the little extra time he can with Allen, sliding to his knees in the space between their seats, careful not to bruise his wrists. Allen reaches for him immediately, curling his fingers around the side of Michael's hand the best he can while Michael undoes the lock, and when the metal falls away Michael shifts his hand, flipping it over to press his palm to Allen's, letting their fingers twine together as he squeezes Allen's hand.
Allen's grip is tight as Michael lets his other hand drift, coming to rest just under the bruise on Allen's cheek.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Allen leans his head into Michael's hand for a heartbeat, eyes fluttering shut for a breath, and he gives Michael a small nod.
“I'm – I'm physically alright,” Allen tells him, voice hoarse. “No concussion. But – Michael, what's going on, what's…”
“It's okay,” Michael tells him, firm and sure. “I got you. We'll be fine.”
“I don't –” Allen starts, but the car rattles to a stop, then, and the driver jumps out, unlatches the back for them.
Michael hands him back the keys. “How long do we have?” he asks.
“Shift changes in twenty minutes,” the private tells him. “It's just over there.” He points to the hanger across the way.
Allen wraps a hand around Michael's arm, grip tight like it was on the truck.
“What's going on here?”
Michael looks at him. “We're doing a bit of reconnaissance. I spent some time talking to Private Wakefield here, and something doesn't sit right with him either.”
“Are you – are you insane?” Allen says, low and sharp. “We're gonna get arrested!”
Michael slides an arm around Allen's waist, hand at the small of his back, and turns his body towards Allen.
“Relax,” Michael tells him. “Trust me, okay?” His gaze catches on the bruise yet again, and he curls his free hand into a light fist to keep from reaching out. “You don't have to stay. Wakefield can take you back out.”
Allen's shaking his head before Michael finishes the offer, hand tightening even further on Michael's arm. He hadn't expected such grip strength from him.
“Absolutely not,” Allen says, “I'm not letting you do this again.” He pauses, eyes lingering on Michael's face, no doubt reading the resolve there. “Not by yourself, at least.”
“You'd better get going,” Wakefield says, looking wary, though whether it's for interrupting or the situation, Michael doesn't know. “There's a jeep just out the back with keys in it for you.”
Michael offers him a salute. “I appreciate your help, soldier,” he says. “Now get outta here before you get in trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” the private says, returning the gesture. “Good luck.”
“Come on,” Michael says to Allen as Wakefield drives away. He unwinds his arm from Allen's waist, and it takes a moment, but Allen lets go of his arm.
“Why does this matter so much to you?” Allen asks him when they start walking.
“You ever see what 21,000 people look like after they've been starved? Just left in ditches, like trash?” There’s a fine tremor traveling down Michael’s spine, shaking his hands. He keeps his voice low, but he can’t keep the anger out of it. It’s not Allen he’s angry with – it’s the war, the Nazis, the whole situation they’re in right now. “I was with the first troops that liberated Buchenwald, and I won’t ever forget what I saw.”
“Michael…” Allen starts, but says nothing else, and when Michael looks over, Allen's watching him, face in shadow but eyes sharp and trained on him.
“It's over,” Michael tells him. “I'm fine.” He takes a breath. He’s telling the truth, mostly – he’s over it about as much as one could ever be over the things he saw.
They've arrived at the hanger, and Michael peers through the window while Allen stews beside him.
“No, that's not something that's just over,” Allen says, tone a little righteous, a little angry. “Michael, I – I wish there was something I could say or do, but I –”
“Hey,” Michael says, turning to him, bringing his hand to the space between Allen's shoulder blades, letting it linger. “I got the help I needed. I'm okay.”
The look between them, then, is heavy with something Michael can't name, something on Allen's face Michael's only just started to see.
“I refuse to stand by and watch the same things come together again. You wanna kill a mass amount of people and keep it a secret? You hide it in plain sight,” Michael tells him. “You heard what the private said – people disappearing, no explanation.”
Allen’s face is hard. “That’s how it starts,” he says, and Michael pulls his lips into a thin line.
“That’s how it starts,” he agrees, turning back to the door. It's unlocked, and opens silently. “Come on. We got a lot to do.”
They walk down a few hallways, and it's dark, the facility shut down for the day. Michael can feel how tense Allen is next to him, and he lets their hands brush together every three steps.
The fifth hallway has a glass case along the wall, filled with little models of rockets and planes and machines Michael has no names for.
“Think we're going the right way?” Michael says, voice quiet, and he looks to Allen to see his shrug.
At the end of the hall, Michael takes a right, Allen close on him. They pass a few doors – Michael squinting to make out the words on the labels in the dark – before they find one that looks different from the rest, windows frosted a yellow-orange.
Michael peers unsuccessfully through the panes, but he'd expected this much. He looks up and down the hall, though they should be alone – and his gaze catches on Allen, who's standing stock still and hunched just a little, silent and curled in on himself, eyes as wide as they were in the truck, searching everywhere. Michael waits for Allen to look at him, catches his attention.
“Allen,” he says, low, soft. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. Are you alright?”
Allen looks at him, attention focusing. Michael's gaze flicks to the bruise on his cheekbone, and back to his eyes.
“Michael,” Allen starts, taking a deep breath, and it shakes a little. “I am terrified.”
His blunt honesty shocks Michael, unexpected and visceral. Michael's never seen his emotions so on display like this. He flounders for a moment, lost without the steady sureness of his partner, but it's his turn to be the grounded one.
“We'll be okay, babe.”
“You can't know that,” Allen says, shaking his head, and, just like on the truck, Michael suddenly, strongly aches to reach for him, to offer what comfort he can –
And, he realizes, he can , and so he reaches for Allen, pulls his hand from by his side, slides their palms together from the base up, using his fingers to uncurl the fist Allen's hand is in, and he slots their fingers together, one between the other.
“We'll be okay,” Michael repeats, shaking their clasped hands just a little, and Allen looks between that and Michael's face before he seems to relax, if barely, though his grip on Michael's hand is nearly crushing.
Michael punches through the glass of the window with his elbow, and he feels Allen jump through their still entwined hands. “Relax, dear,” Michael whispers to him, reaching through the hole to the doorknob and pulling it open. “No one’s here.”
Allen looks up and down the hallway, and cautiously follows Michael through the door. “I hope you’re right,” he mutters, and Michael grins.
“I’m always right,” he says, and checks around the corner of the hallway they come upon. He hears Allen huff a laugh behind him.
“Oh, right, sure you are,” he says, but his grip on Michael’s hand relaxes just a little. At least until they round the corner and find the four suits hanging off the rack in the center of the room. Allen stays behind his left shoulder as they approach slowly.
“Ever see anything like this before?” Michael asks him, and he catches Allen’s head shake from the corner of his eye. Michael reaches his free hand out.
“Please don’t –” Allen starts as Michael’s hand comes to rest on the shoulder of one of the suits. “Touch it,” he finishes anyway, and Michael half-turns to give him a sheepish smile.
There’s a sudden, loud noise then, like a crash or start-up sound, and Allen jumps so hard he crashes into Michael.
“Babe,” Michael laughs, and Allen jabs his finger into his chest.
“Don’t,” he says. Michael grabs the hand pointed at him, bringing it up to press a kiss onto Allen’s palm.
"Sorry, darling," Michael says, offering up a little smile, looking across at Allen. He's distracted, again, by the bruise, and he lets go of Allen's hand to reach for his face instead. He ghosts his fingers along the edges of the bruise, a dark purple-blue along Allen's cheekbone, just shy enough of his eye to prevent a black eye. There's a split in the middle, less than an inch long and no longer bleeding. The pad of Michael's finger hovers over it closely enough to make Allen shiver.
The same generator sound from before crashes into the silence of the room, echoing off the walls. Allen jumps again, this time into Michael's chest, and Michael's arms come up around his waist on reflex, palms wide on Allen's back.
"I don't – I don't think this is the place," Allen says. "For…that." He tilts his head back to look at Michael.
"You're right," he agrees, though he's reluctant to let Allen go. "We should probably go find out what's making all that noise."
"Yeah," Allen says, but he doesn't seem to be a rush to leave Michael's embrace either. "You go first," Allen mumbles. Michael presses a kiss to his temple before he steps away, arms falling back to his sides.
"Why, you still worried we're gonna get caught?" Michael asks him. Allen shrugs, but reaches out to slide his fingers back between Michael's.
"You first," Allen prompts, and Michael squeezes their hands.
"Yeah, yeah," he huffs and starts off for the faint blue-green glow around the corner, Allen's body warm but tense against his left side, Allen's hand tight around his own.