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Michael had forgiven him. Michael would always forgive him. Hell, Michael had said he would have died for him, and would still.
Alex had revered the Michael of his childhood memory, the mysterious saintly figure in the hoodie who had always appeared out of nowhere to save him. He had come to love the Michael who loved him, trained him, believed in him. But now he felt like he needed the Michael who had whipped him.
Alex’s very skin itched with the need to do penance for having betrayed Michael—for having used Michael’s love for him to lead him into the trap in New Delphi. The feeling did not dissipate, even after days spent comfortably in Michael and Noma’s company. It would come upon him in the middle of joking with Noma in the heat of the day or taking over guard duty from Michael at night, that tingling feeling of guilt. It was worse than when the tattoos had writhed in response to his attempt to run from his destiny.
It was after they had stopped for the night at an abandoned farmhouse—tractor rusting in the hay, Noma and Alex ransacking the house looking for the butter churn they were convinced must be there to fit the Abandoned Country Living look of the place—that Alex resolved to finally bring the matter up to Michael, no matter how embarrassing it was.
He had briefly entertained the idea of forcing Michael’s hand, of putting himself at risk or acting so childishly as to enrage Michael to the point where he’d pick him up, turn him around, and lay into him with whatever was at hand. But that was the coward’s way out, and while he still didn’t feel worthy of being The Chosen One, whatever that meant, or worthy of Michael’s devotion, he could at least ask Michael for this in all honesty without risking them all.
He found his opportunity when Noma excused herself for the night after supper, absently stroking the stitches at her shoulder as she told them which room she was taking so she could be awoken for the night watch. He and Michael, engaged in washing and drying the dishes, exchanged a glance indicating that there was no way they were waking her up tonight, not if she was experiencing phantom wing pain.
Alex really hoped he wouldn’t wake her with his yelling. If Michael agreed to do it at all, which he just had to. After he’d washed the last dish and handed it to Michael for drying, wondering at their bothering when the house would likely never be occupied again, he wiped his hands on his jeans, hoping the gesture would be interpreted by Michael less as “Alex is really nervous and about to ask something embarrassing” and more as “Alex needs to dry his hands off after washing the dishes and you’re holding the only relatively clean towel.”
Judging by Michael’s arched brow, he hadn’t quite succeeded. “Michael. Can we talk? Maybe out in the barn?”
Michael merely nodded, gesturing for Alex to lead the way.
Alex shivered, the barn’s cool air and the prickling anticipation of what he hoped was to come washing over him.
As soon as they were both inside, Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder, warm as a brand. “Alex, what is it? What do you not want Noma to overhear? Did she do something—“
Alex’s brow wrinkled. Noma? Why would Michael be worried about Noma doing something? “No,” he answered. “Michael, I don’t want her to overhear this,” he said, and, without stopping to think it over any longer, unbuckled his belt, doubled the strap, and held it out to Michael.
Michael, who was staring at him blankly and not making any move to take the belt.
“I know it’s not a whip, but surely you know what to do with it?” Alex tried to joke, even though his heart was pounding and he was sure his face was noticeably red even through his sunburn.
Michael sighed. “Alex, drop the belt,” he said, lip quirking as he and Alex heard the echo of “Leave the whip.”
Michael took a seat on a bale of hay and gestured for Alex to do the same. “I won’t pretend that I don’t know what this is about,” he said to Alex, who had bowed his head. “But you know that I forgave you. Have I done anything to make you think that I haven’t forgiven you? That I don’t believe in you?”
Alex raised his head at the note of worry in Michael’s voice. “No. No Michael, I know you have. And I know you believe in me. But I don’t deserve it!” He broke off, remembering Michael’s arms, warding him off as though afraid Alex had come to harm him.
Michael looked at him with the eyes of one who has experienced centuries of guilt and regret and tilted Alex’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Did you mean for harm to come to me?”
“No,” Alex replied. There wasn’t any question about that.
“Were you doing what you thought best for the human race?”
“Yes,” Alex said, trying to jerk away. Why wouldn’t Michael just do it instead of trying to rationalize everything? “When you put it that way, it sounds forgivable. But it isn’t! Michael, what if I fuck everything up? I’m sure people who do terrible things always think they’re doing the right thing!”
Michael tightened his grip on Alex’s chin, eyes boring into him as though he could will his faith to take root in Alex’s brain through the power of his gaze. “Your heart is pure, Alex. And I’ll be here to help guide you.”
Alex glanced at the belt out of the corner of his eyes.
“You don’t need me to help guide you with that, Alex,” Michael said, letting go and rising. “You must learn to manage your guilt after you’ve been forgiven. I’ll not lie. You may make mistakes along the way, and people may die. You must learn from these mistakes, but you needn’t pay for them with pain.”
Alex’s heart sank to join the guilt still weighing down his stomach. Michael’s words made sense. He was an adult, he was a soldier, and he was meant to be the savior of mankind and angels. He was in charge, in a sense, and shouldn’t have been expecting an authority figure to tell him what to do and punish him when he screwed up.
Still. He needed this, he needed Michael to restore some sense of order, of normalcy, of working within a system of rewards and punishments that made sense. Even just this once.
He rose, picked up the belt, and held it out to Michael again. “Please.”
This time, Michael accepted it.
“You know that I understand, I don’t blame you, and I forgive you.”
Alex nodded.
“I need a verbal answer, Alex,” Michael ordered, sounding as unmovable as he had when Alex had been his soldier.
Alex rolled his eyes, grateful for, while simultaneously irritated by, the return of this Michael.
Michael gave him a look.
“I know you understand, you don’t blame me, and you forgive me,” Alex said softly and sincerely. He didn’t want Michael feeling guilty about this, after all.
“Then if you still want this, take down your jeans and underpants and brace yourself with your hands against the wall,” Michael ordered.
This was….was…Michael couldn’t be serious. Was he trying to get him to back out? Did he just not want to hit his Father’s markings? All of those questions were contained in his cry of “Michael?!”
“Alex. Julian just tortured you, branded your back. I will beat you since you practically begged me to, but I will not strike your injured back no matter how guilty you feel. And if you do not do what I told you to right this minute I will walk out of here and go to bed.”
Shit. He had forgotten the low-grade ache from where Julian had tried to burn the markings off. Did Michael think Alex was trying to use him as an instrument of further torture? He hadn’t meant to—“Michael, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean—“
Michael cut him off. “I know,” he said, a trace of fondness breaking through. “Now, do as you’re told.”
Alex fumbled with the button of his jeans, face flaming once again, but by the time he’d placed himself in position at the wall, he felt at peace. It would hurt, but at least this made sense, this was a situation he knew how to handle.
He heard Michael step closer, felt the cool leather measure where it would strike, and then it began.
For someone who had resisted punishing him in the first place, Michael was doing a thorough job. It felt like a different type of fire than the branding, but it was a fire nonetheless, sending waves of pain crashing into him. It hurt so much that he couldn’t think, but though he couldn’t think, he could feel the layers of guilt that had weighed him down being stripped away.
He was muzzily aware that he had bitten his lip bloody at some point and had moved beyond lip biting and into shouting by the time that Michael, with a final lash to his upper thighs, dropped the belt with a clink.
Alex slumped against the wall breathing in the smell of old hay and long-gone animals as he gathered the awareness and strength to move.
Michael came up behind him, reached out to stroke his hair, then hesitated, fingers so close Alex’s neck prickled with the anticipation of their touch. Alex just barely kept himself from moving. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Michael to touch him. He did. At the same time, though, he didn’t want to interact with him again until he’d done something heroic, like defeat an eight-ball army or save mankind.
A second later, though, he relaxed. Michael clearly wanted to comfort him and had not been in a position to do so for most of his life. Alex ached, realizing Michael must be expecting anger and rejection—rejection he’d almost given automatically in order to save face. He made himself relax even further. After another moment’s hesitation, Michael stroked his hand through Alex’s hair more gently than he would have thought possible.
Desperate to remove Michael’s hesitance around him and sensing that he still feared rejection and possibly anger, Alex spun around, yanking up his clothes despite the pain, and buried his tear-stained face in Michael’s shoulder.
Michael smiled into Alex’s hair as he wrapped his arms around him. “Well. I hope you feel better?”
Alex nodded, smearing tears all over even more parts of Michael’s leather duster. He felt safe and strong and grounded. And he was finally in a place to understand what Michael had been telling him.
Michael held him until the light started to fade. “We should be getting back,” he said softly. “You should rest.”
Alex yawned in the middle of explaining that he was perfectly capable of taking the watch. So his eyes were a bit gritty. He would still be able to spot an eight-ball, no problem.
“Good night, Alex,” Michael said firmly. “Best assure Noma you’re unharmed.”
“Oh,” Alex blushed. “You think she knows?”
“Mm. I think she might have heard, yes,” Michael said, a hint of gentle teasing in his voice. “But she won’t say anything. I’m sure she understands, though I’m also certain she never blamed you. She’ll be happy to see you smiling your true smile again. As will I.”
Alex ducked his head, then glanced up. “Thank you, Michael.” He smiled wryly, wincing as he bent to pick up his belt. “Would you ever have imagined that I’d ask for a beating and then thank you for it?”
Michael smiled back. “No. Now that is a prophecy I would have disbelieved. But I believe in you, and I trust that when you have good information you will use it appropriately.”
Alex cocked his head. “Speaking of good information, what were you worried about with Noma? And what’s going on with Gabriel?”
Michael looked for a moment like he was about to put him off, but shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything about Noma, Alex. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, and it would hurt her if I told you. Gabriel….I don’t know what to tell you about my brother, except that he sacrificed himself so I could come to you.”
“Gabriel did? What? Why?”
“I’ll tell you once you’re in bed.”
Alex smirked at him. “Bribing me with a bedtime story, Michael?”
Michael nodded. “Is it working?”
Alex shook his head, but obediently returned to the farmhouse, stopping in to hug a Noma who was indeed awake and pretending not to be worried about him, and got ready for bed, wrapping himself in some faded and musty blankets.
Alex heard Michael and Noma talking in low voices in the kitchen, concern and reassurance mingling in their voices, and then Michael came in, took a seat at the edge of the bed, and began.
“Gabriel had charge of a boy named David, of whom you've probably heard….”