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The sight of El, curled up tightly in a ball, fast asleep in his bed makes him feel like he’s been winded. With her hair gone, she looks so much like she did back out on Mirkwood in the pouring rain that it’s almost impossible to believe so much - too much - has happened since then. He remembers her face when she had to hide in his closet when his mother had come home early; when he’d come back to see fresh tears spilling down her red cheeks, mixed with the surprise and hopefulness when he’d swung the door back open, how she had sobbed his name with genuine shock he’d come back, hadn’t left her in there. He had felt so bad, so in an attempt to make her laugh again he had put on a one-man show with Rory the dinosaur whilst she had sat on his bed curled up with his blanket. Watching her now, three years later, asleep on the same bed with the same blanket clutched tightly in her fist was too much. Mike felt like he was drowning, like the walls of his childhood bedroom were tightening all around him, trying to crush him underneath their weight. He made sure to quietly close the door behind him, before fleeing towards the basement.
Once he was in the basement, Mike was actively struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving and his throat tightening. His thoughts felt like they were swirling around in his head, like he couldn’t latch onto any for long enough to try and calm himself down. Spotting Rory on the shelf was too much, and before he knew it he was reaching out with shaking hands and smashing the stupid toy against the wall. It felt awful. It felt amazing. The dinosaur was broken into little pieces, but he kept going, not noticing that a particularly sharp piece of plastic had drawn blood from his hand. Next came the millennium falcon, and watching it crumble into tiny fractions as he smashes it on the floor feels so cathartic, he wishes all his problems could be dealt with so easily. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but by this point his quickening breaths had become full body sobs, his vision swimming with tears.
Mike feels as though he is outside of his body; like he is watching himself break down, watching as he kicks and rips and destroys the perfectly assembled blanket fort. Mike has destroyed it once before, back when he had thought El had lied to him about Will being dead. He feels trapped in an in-between stage, like he is both that scared little boy from before, and the traumatised teenager he is now, just desperate for this all to stop. He falls for it every time, the devastatingly convincing lull. So many months pass without issue, with no references to alternate dimensions and ghastly monsters and he starts to believe that they did it: his ragtag gang of friends and their brainy older siblings had defeated the bad guys.
That maybe it’s finally time to go to the mall with his friends, to plan a D&D campaign, to spend spring break with his beautiful girlfriend without feeling the urge to look over his shoulder, to check behind the curtain. That he can say goodbye to El without feeling like he is about to make a huge mistake, that the world is seconds away from ending.
“Mike?”
The creek of the staircase stirs him from his trance, and he looks over to see El, dressed in his Hellfire club t-shirt and shorts. She is not looking at him, but rather at the pathetic pile of blankets that was the fort five minutes ago, the first place she ever felt safe, warm, comfortable. Her bottom lip trembles, and her eyes flash to his, the hurt and betrayal clear. She turns back towards the stairs.
“El!” He goes to run after her, arm outstretched, when they both notice the blood on his left palm. El lets out a small gasp, and gingerly wraps her fingers around his hand, prying it open.
“What happened?” Her voice is gentle, but there is a wobble, a struggle to her words.
“Nothing, I uh-”
“Mike.” She pleads. He shuts his eyes. He hates that he keeps doing this, that he keeps being the one to hurt her when that is the last thing he wants in the world.
He feels embarrassed. “I broke Rory. And the Millennium Falcon. I - I don’t know why.”
El’s face softens, and she leads him towards the small basement bathroom. Once in there, she wets a washcloth and begins cleaning the blood from his hand.
Mike watches El in the mirror, his mind racing, thinking about the last time the two of them were in here together, when it was him wiping the dirt from her face after she had been away from his house - from home - for two nights, out in the cold.
El checks the cut on his hand. “I think that’s fine. The bleeding has stopped.”
When he doesn’t reply, she looks over to him, to find him already staring intensely right at her.
“You don’t need it. You didn’t need it then, and you don’t need it now.”
El looks down at the floor, knowing exactly what he is referring to, replaying the same conversation over and over again in her head.
“Don’t lie to me, Mike.” Her voice cracks. “You haven’t even looked at me properly since you found me in Nevada.”
“I’m not lying!” He is desperate, his fingers circling her wrist, words falling out of him. “I meant it back then, and I mean it even more now. Your hair isn’t you, El. I’m not saying I don’t care about it, because I know how much it meant to you, how long you spent growing it out. Of course I care, but it doesn’t change anything for me. You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”
Mike rests his forehead against hers, her heartbeat thrashing against his thumb on her wrist. His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, El. I thought you had gone willingly with Owens, that it was what you wanted. I had no idea, no idea, that he was alive.”
They are both openly crying now, her hand circling his waist, clutching each other for support.
“I wanted to kill him, El. For what he did to you. We had the agent’s gun in the car and I picked it up. If it wasn’t for Will…” He trails off. “You don’t have to tell me yet, or ever if you don’t want to, but I am always here to listen. I am always here for you.”
He slowly removes his fingers from her wrist, revealing her 011 tattoo. Her eyes drift towards it, but Mike covers it with his lips, placing a feather-light kiss against it. He cups her face gently, and covers her mouth with his own, just like he had wanted to back when he was twelve.
There is still so much to be said between them but for now this small moment of peace and comfort and love is enough. It is more than enough.