Chapter Text
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In short, Michael Jones was a failure, a disappointment; to his family, his legacy, to himself.
---
“You need to present already,” his brother grumbled, climbing off Michael who whimpered beneath him, “you’re no fun like this.”
At fifteen years old, with a twenty year old Alpha brother, Michael was used to it. They had always been scrappy siblings, from the moment Michael was born it seemed all his older brother wanted to do was tackle him and battle, only waiting until Michael was old enough to take a hit due to his mother's disapproval.
Neither she nor their father put a stop to the fights, even when they ended with bumps, bruises, and broken bones - mainly, if not solely, on Michael’s part.
“It’s classic Alpha behaviour,” the patriarch declared proudly after Michael ended up in the hospital at eight years old with a concussion and shattered wrist. It was no surprise that there were no consequences. Michael’s family owned that town.
Classic Alpha the thoughts that kept Michael going year after year through all the injuries and battles, as the fights got worse and - instead of fighting back just as strong - Michael found himself relenting time after time. He began wondering why he wasn’t quite as forthcoming when these scraps were initiated.
It’s just because he’s older.
It kept him hopeful even though his attitude remained the same as he too, grew.
As descendants of the first Alpha’s to grace the United States, Michael’s family had been known as consistently early presenters for generations, and Michael’s brother was no different. At fifteen he woke up one day with glowing red eyes which burned into Michael’s conscious, and a strength ten times that which he had before.
Ten year old Michael held his breath, realizing he possibly only had five years left for things to change.
But fifteen came and went in a flurry of school and questions.
Sixteen consisted of the same type of stuff. He watched the calendar flick over month after month, waiting late at night for the telltale signs of change.
Nothing.
For his eighteenth birthday his parents got him a blood test.
“We need to make sure,” was his Mother’s only reasoning when he woke up to a needle already embedded in the crook of his elbow.
Need to make sure that I’m yours? he thought idly, purposely avoiding shifting his eyes down to the pulling feeling of blood leaving his veins, or make sure I’m not defective.
It was probably a combination of both. He wasted the whole day like that, not allowed to leave the house until the test results came back; he waited on the front porch, sharing horror stories with his best friend Lindsay. She leaned close to the front gates, pressing her face between the bars because the matriarch of the household refused to unlock the entrance for anyone but the courier.
Even when he arrived, she was still not allowed in.
His results were there, clear as day, positive. He had the gene, it just wasn’t working right now, and that did nothing to placate Michael’s mother.
---
“Maybe you’re not gonna present,” Lindsay commented on his nineteenth birthday, chewing a mouthful of steak with her strong, Alpha fangs.
She’d presented a couple of weeks before, screaming down the phone to her best friend who immediately slammed the phone down because why did she get to be so lucky?
“Or maybe I’m a late bloomer like you,” he teased, gnawing through the tough, takeout burger with teeth still blunt as the day they first grew in.
Lindsay coughed and pulled back, mocking offense, “I’ll have you know I was the earliest presenter in my family for three generations,” she said, puffing out her chest.
Michael scoffed, “And yet you’re ragging on me?”
“I’m only just eighteen,” she corrected, “even my family had presented by your age.”
For the first time, Michael found himself wondering if maybe she was right, he wasn’t going to present, maybe the wolf genes had met their maker inside his body.
What a fucking disappointment he would be.
As he dropped his head to the table with a groan, he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“I’m kidding,” he heard Lindsay assure overhead, “your family are the Alphas, you’re definitely gonna present.”
He turned his head to the side and met her eyes, “And if I don’t?” he asked quietly.
She sighed and took his hand, thumb stroking soothing patterns on the soft skin.
“You will.”
---
He didn’t.
His mother cornered him in the hallway in one of the upper wings of the house. Away from prying eyes and any windows.
Not long twenty one years old, his body as natural as the day he was born, Michael was pretty surprised that it had taken her that long to confront the issue.
“You need to get your shit together,” she said forcefully, slamming the palm of her hand against the wall to Michael’s right, effectively stopping him from carrying on into the main body of the house. He blinked slowly, his eyes flicking to the side - anywhere but her face - as he gulped.
He frowned, trying to keep his voice steady, “Excuse me?” he said, noting with concern the flash of red that darted across her eyes.
She snarled and stepped close to him, her youthful skin showing unseen crinkles at the close proximity, “Do you know what this is doing to our reputation? You and your...deficit genes?”she hissed, although it didn’t seem to Michael that this was a question she wished him to answer.
His mother was a formidable woman at the best of times, straight cut and vicious she was an opponent not to be messed with; but now, with her upper lip curled and eyes darkening, she was downright terrifying.
“We are the top dogs here, the Alpha’s and you know that. What do you suppose they’re all thinking now, huh? Out there in our streets, all of those worms, how are they going to react to a member of the leading family being human.”
Michael shook his head weakly, “Th-the test said-”he cursed his shaky voice as the woman cut him off with a sneer.
“I don’t give a shit what the test said, you’re nearly twenty fucking one and we haven’t seen a peep out of you.”
Her hand left the wall and circled his arm tightly “You’re a disgrace,” In the overhead light, Michael could see her nail beds darkening as her claws began to shift, neat manicure turning into more solid rusty looking claws.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” she snarled, the grip getting tighter with every passing second, “either you present as the Alpha your bloodline requires, or you get the fuck away from here- away from us.”
Michael’s eyebrows knitted together, frowning, her claws had begun to pierce the soft flesh of his arm, slicing wide crescents that dribbled blood, “What do you mean? You want me to leave?”
Their eyes met in a cold stare.
“Leave, die, I don’t care. But I’m not allowing a human to taint this family’s future,” she pushed him back to emphasize, her inhuman strength causing him to stagger and stumble back. Unable to catch himself, he dropped to the ground, the impact sending a shockwave like a rocket up Michael’s spine.
He lifted his back off the ground with legs out in front of him, his mother looming over him.
“Your ancestors would be ashamed.”
As she stalked away, Michael let his body relax, barely even noting the brisk pain as his head hit the wall behind.
---
"They aren't deep, I don't think they'll scar.”
Michael’s advanced healing wouldn’t kick in until his genes did, and he was grateful that Lindsay had a shred of knowledge about wound care. After sitting on the cold stone floor for an embarrassing amount of time he’d found the strength to lift his shaking body and escaped the house through the back door.
Lindsay lived barely ten minutes away on foot, in a house much smaller than Michael’s own stately manor. Since her Mom’s accident it had only been Lindsay and her Dad living in the space, it always smelled like wood chips and damp leaves, yet more homely than Michael experienced in his own house.
Pulling his arm back, fingers softly touching the pad of gauze that Lindsay taped over the, now clean, wounds, he smiled, “Thanks, Linds.”
“Anytime,” she replied, smiling back, after a beat she added, “but that doesn’t mean let this happen again.”
He tucked his knees up to his chest, wilting before her eyes, “If I can’t present, I don’t think it could. She doesn’t want to see me.”
“She really gave you an ultimatum?” Lindsay asked, abandoning the menial task of clean up in favor of her friends anguish. Michael nodded, picking at the hem of his shirt.
“Yep, present or get the fuck out of New Jersey.”
The Alpha growled, fingers clawing at the wooden floor absently, “That woman is fucking insane, you’re her son, she can’t just drop kick you to the curb because you aren’t what she expected,” she gouged out a handful of splintered wood in her hands and stopped, seeing the dejected look on his face she corrected herself, “because you’re might not be what she expected.”
Michael shook, tucking his head into the space between his knees and chest, “I appreciate the effort, Lindsay, but she’s right. I’m a disgrace,” he mumbled into his jeans. LIndsay jumped to her knees, dropping the splinters to the floor and chose to ignore the ones embedded in her skin. She could get them out later.
Her hand found his hair and encouraged him to look up with a light tug, “Michael Jones you are no such thing.”
To her surprise, his eyes were red rimmed and watering; his face pale.
“I’m twenty-one, Lindsay!” he choked, voice thick with emotion, “ I can legally get fucking smashed, but for whatever reason, I’m broken enough not to present. My entire family is made up of Alphas, I can’t just… this has to happen.”
Annoyed and frustrated with himself, and the embarrassing amount of water leaking from his eyes, he slammed the heel of his hand against his head once, twice, three times before Lindsay stopped him. Her skin felt soft against his wrist as she held it, her grip gentle but firm. In a familiar action, she began to move her thumb in precise circles around his pulse point. She could feel the blood pumping fast underneath the skin and his breathing quicken as he fought to hold in sobs.
“You aren’t broken,” she admonished gently, “and it is going to happen.”
He crumpled, his shoulders slumping as he let his head fall to her shoulder. She ignored the pressure of his knees against her chest as she swung her free arm around his back and held him close, “it’s too late for me. The genes fucked up, I’m fucked up.”
She patted his back once, firmly, “stop being such a drama queen,” there was a fondness in her voice which chipped at the coldness settling in Michael’s heart.
Up until now it felt like he had been living borrowed time, like every second that passed by would inevitably be leading to the day when he would come into his own and pay back every moment he had lived. But with the ultimatum came a sort of...realization, that maybe everything wouldn’t just fix itself.
“You know I’d love you even if you didn’t present right? you’d have a home here,” Lindsay said as she pulled back.
She gave him a well needed moment to wipe his eyes and gather his senses back before encouraging him to nod and smile, the expression more genuine than he was expecting.
“She isn’t worth that,” she said, gesturing to his red face. He only shrugged.
“But,” the Alpha continued, “If you’re so set on that route then how about…” the words were uncharacteristically quiet.
“Have you considered trying to...you know...force presenting?”
Michael cocked his head in interest, “Force it?”
She nodded, “Yeah, there are...methods, or so I’ve heard, to push your genes into developing,” she was speaking too carefully for Michael’s liking. The remainder of his tears dried up, leaving sticky trails down his face, but he pushed the feeling aside.
“Methods,” Michael repeated slowly, “Lindsay please tell me what you’re talking about because this is starting to sound incredibly creepy.”
She smiled, “Oh god no, nothing weird, it’s just…” she hesitated, seemingly unsure of how to approach the subject, “some people say that finding your mate and getting them to scent with you can kick start your system so to speak.”
“Nothing weird she says,” he scoffed, backtracking after a moment, “I don’t know my mate,”
“I don’t even know if I have a mate,” he continued.
She shrugged and finally started to pick at the splinters in her hand, “If you have the gene, you have a mate, it’s scientifically proven.”
Skin had already started to heal over the tiny pieces of wood and Michael winced in sympathy as she dug a sharp nail beneath the surface to extract the blood soaked splinters. She didn’t even flinch. He was once again reminded how different the two of them were.
“It’s also scientifically proven that ninety-nine percent of genetic carriers present before they’re twenty,” he responded, taking his eyes off the tiny rivers of blood running down her hand.
She laughed, “So there’s a one percent isle for you to fit into,” the holes had already healed by the time she wiped over them with a wipe from the first aid kit, still open and the contents strewn on the floor.
Michael groaned, “okay so say this is true, I have a mate somewhere out there and finding them can somehow attribute to making me finally present,” she nodded, “how the fuck do you propose I find said mate.”
“Well,” she hesitated, “I sort of have a plan for that.”
He stared at her, “A plan? Geez Linds how long have you been sitting on that?” her hands picked at the healed skin.
“Since your nineteenth birthday, when I was scared you were going to give up on yourself,” she admitted. Michael stared back at her in surprise.
“Two years?!”
She immediately held her hands up in defense and shrugged guiltily, “I wasn’t sure how to tell you,”
Michael sighed but looked on, intrigued, “go on then, what’s the plan?”
With a big grin she brushed off her jeans and stood, shuffling over to her closet and disappearing behind the oak door for a solid minute before reappearing.
In her hand was a bulbous glass vial, stoppered with a black cork, just over the size of a shot glass.
“Lindsay…” he ventured cautiously.
“Hear me out,” she interrupted before another word could leave his lips, “I got this stuff from a guy at school, you drink it,”
“A guy at school,” Michael repeated, “you want me to drink something you got from some random guy at school.”
She strode back towards him, “Shush, it’s designed to give you a vision, a picture in your head of the location of your mate.”
“You got me drugs,” he said in disbelief, standing from the ground to meet her level.
“It’s not drugs,” she ventured, “it’s a serum that digs out thoughts in your head, so deep down that even you can’t reach them,” she looked hopeful but he just shook his head.
“It’s drugs.”
“It’s kind of drugs,” she relented.
Michael let out a huff of air and groaned, “Fucking christ Lindsay, you want to drug me?”
She waved her hands in a placating motion, "Don’t say it like that, it works! I swear!"
His eyebrow raised in doubt, "How would you know? You obviously haven’t used it."
"You know I want to let fate take it’s own course,” she snapped back, “but I heard about this girl in school, used this stuff, a week later she was in Nevada with her beloved mate."
Michael balked at the idea, “Coincidence? Placebo effect?”
“Spirit walk,” she corrected, regretting the decision as Michael’s eyes widened, humored.
“Spirit walk,” he repeated with a smirk, “definitely drugs.”
“Just because it has a stupid name, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work,” she defended lightly.
Michael studied her for a moment, eyes moving from the vial to her face and back again. It was hidden in her hand but the knowledge of what it contained gave him an uneasy feeling, “I didn’t think you were into this new age hippy shit.”
“I’m into anything that’ll make you happy again,” she said sadly, eyeline flicking to the ground.
Michael lips snapped shut, stunning him into silence again before he choked out, “Well played, Tuggey,” the smile tugging at her lips said she knew she had him in the palm of her hand.
He relented, holding his hand out expectantly, “let me see it.”
The bottle was placed in the centre of his hand and the first thing he noticed was the surprising weight. He wasn’t sure if the product was denser than average liquid or if it was simply the thought of it’s contents giving him a false sense of scale but either way it felt like a boulder as he held it before his face.
The contents themselves were just another scale of unusual. Black as night with a shimmer swirling through almost like a galaxy, it reminded him of the images in old physics textbooks, before they were printed in colour. Like a photo in a newspaper, swirling and dancing before his eyes.
It was beautiful, but moved thickly and, the more he looked at it, noticed the resemblance of sludge. Glittery sludge.
“No way am I putting that shit in my body,” he declined finally, “it looks like fucking tar.”
“Not thick enough,” she informed him, taking the vial back and giving it a shake.
The liquid left an ashy trail in the wake of its turning.
“I don’t know, Lindsay…” he hedged, hesitant to have the product in his possession but found it returned to him anyway.
She crossed her arms and whined, “Come on, Michael. It can’t hurt to try.”
“Oh it can definitely hurt,” he said, but grudgingly popped the cork off regardless.
He raised the bottle to his eyes, twisting and turning it between his fingers and watched the contents move before his sight.
“I’ve been advised you shouldn’t smell it,” she recommended as he moved the vial towards his lips.
Well that was just an invitation to do just that and in seconds he knew why he’d been discouraged. The smell was utterly repulsive, somewhere between week old vomit and stale gas fumes, and threw Michael back a step in surprise.
Lindsay snorted with laughter and Michael huffed.
“The whole thing?” he asked nervously, appraising the drug once more.
“I didn’t ask,” Lindsay admitted sheepishly.
A split second decision and a Now or never on his mind he lifted the vial. Holding his nose at the last second, Michael flashed Lindsay a grin.
“Bottoms up.”
Within a matter of seconds, the two of them realized that he should have probably sat down before chugging the drug. The world span, a rush going straight to his brain and he stumbled.
He barely felt Lindsays arms close around him as he fell heavily to the ground, the vial dropping out of his vision into a swirl of black swallowing his sight. It could have smashed, he wouldn’t have known.
He was out before Lindsay could lay him down.
It was strange. A feeling akin to floating washed over his entire body but there was a heaviness in his heart that was dragging him down. Mountains and trees whipped by him in a dizzying dance, rolling hills and bright sunlight guiding his way.
His head was fuzzy, everything in his peripheral vision blurred, but the road ahead seemed crisp and sharp. It was winding, a highway probably, he couldn’t tell.
Empty, no cars in sight.
Suddenly he was in a forest. The sky was dark but clear with a smattering of stars surrounding a large, bright fullmoon. The surface was dark with craters and blurred from sight before Michael could get a proper look.
He stopped.
No longer moving through the air, his body felt heavier, more solid and grounded. Heat burned his skin, like fire flicking at his arms as he stared out at the open road.
Even his footsteps felt like a thousand pounds crushing the ground beneath him, vibrations shuddering through his body. Across from him was a worn out billboard. Not like the kind that sat high in big cities, this one was made entirely from rotting wood, the edges of the paper peeling up and flapping in the breeze. Brittle, dry grass flattened underneath his feet as he stepped closer and touched his fingers to the thick, paper-like surface, taking in the words painted precisely in a bright, vibrant red.
Almost the second he touched it, he felt a jerk, right below his ribs. It yanked him away from the sign but he didn’t fall, didn’t stagger, in fact his feet weren’t even touching the ground anymore.
Further and further he travelled, the sign turning to nothing more than a speck in the distance. The horizon melted away, blackness taking over his vision once again and-
He came to with a convulsive jerk, his head pounding and Lindsay's hand calmly carding through his hair.
“So?” She asked expectantly, eyes bright.
He scrunched his face in concentration, trying to think around the dizzy, drowsy feeling thrumming through his veins. Once he was sure he could grasp the memory he looked her in the eye and cringed.
“Texas.”