#he never has a triumphant moment where he Overcomes His Abuser and Breaks Out of His Control | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seeaddywrite · 5 years ago

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overcome by shame, can i ever change?

part 3/6: five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor.

warnings: for this part – grief, allusions to depression, alcohol abuse, self-loathing, abuse of a police officer’s position, the usual.

you can also read/follow on AO3, if you prefer. (the formatting is 110x better & includes italics where they are supposed to be!) i’m not making any promises about having the next part up tomorrow because this work week may kill me, but i’ll get it up asap.

Less than a month later, Michael’s slumped against the wall in the Chaves County Sheriff’s station. The view from the cell hasn’t changed since the day Michael and Isobel gave Max hell for healing Liz Ortecho in front of it, and the sight gives Michael a painful expectation of seeing his brother walking through the door at any moment, uniform and disappointed scowl in place, self-righteous lecture at the ready. But that’s not going to happen, so Michael’s swollen eyes are closed. The feeling of loss eases, if only a little, and keeping his eyelids shut helps against the steady throb in his cheek and ribs, too.

It also allows him to ignore the look burning into him from the desk across the room, where his arresting officer sits. The young man is new, desperate to prove himself -- fuck, it actually looks like he’s shined the badge on the front of his uniform. He’s wet behind the ears, too goddamned eager to show how much better he is than guys like Michael.

Michael knows that’s why he’s still sitting here. Sheriff Valenti would’ve let him go by now, shaking her head at him in wordless disappointment, just as she had the last few times he’d found himself in here after Max’s death. This guy doesn’t give a shit about Michael’s grief, though. Doesn’t even know about it, since only a few have been told the truth. Kyle’d insisted on bringing his mom into the loop after Caulfield and discovering his father’s role in it, and Michael and Isobel had been too numb to argue for more than a few minutes.

The sense of those eyes on him starts to chafe, and Michael forces his eyes open to meet the Deputy stare-for-stare. He knows the picture he paints: the black cowboy hat perched haphazardly on his head, the insolent tilt of of his chin and shoulders, the sprawling pose he’d adopted against the wall with his legs crossed in front of him. It’s an image he’s cultivated for the last decade of his life. The rebel. The drunk. The outcast, challenging anyone who dares to get too close.

Most people never bother to look beyond the facade, and Michael usually prefers it that way. Today, though, it rubs him the wrong way. He’s used to Max being the one to pull him out of the drunk tank in the morning, accustomed to the lectures and the insistence that Michael is worth more than this, more than the booze and the fights and the disappointment in everyone’s gazes when they looked at him. Those damned speeches had always made Michael homicidal; Max never seemed to understand that what they’d done to Rosa had killed any chance of a future for him just as surely as it had killed the girl herself. To Michael, Max had always seemed unaffected, infuriatingly numb to the truth of the crime they committed and immune to the consequences, and his insistence that Michael deserved to move forward, simply because he had, only ever made Michael resent his brother.

Finally, the Deputy seems to have enough of their staring contest. Michael’s eyes flicker open at the scraping of a chair leg on the floor, and he watches with a blank expression as the man strides across the floor with the sort of bow-legged strut used men with more ego than common sense. He tips his chin back to meet the man’s gaze, squinting through the swelling around his eyes, but doesn’t move otherwise, letting the man come at him first, instead.

“So,” he says, and Michael’s eyes dart to the too-shiny badge on his chest. Simmons. The name is vaguely familiar, like all names in a town this small, but Michael doesn’t care enough to try to figure out where he’s heard it before. It’s not like it actually matters. “Your third bar brawl in two weeks. I’d be impressed, except that’s nothing for you, is it?”

The sneer in his words is expected, and Michael only rolls his eyes. “Slow week,” he drawls in reply, ignoring the shooting pain caused by moving his jaw. “I’ll make sure to throw a few more punches next week just for you.”

Simmons huffs a disdainful laugh, and reaches back to take a stack of paperwork from his desk. “Unlikely,” he says, flipping a page in a file. “I know that you’re used to special treatment, Guerin, but I’m not Valenti. I don’t have a soft-touch for hopeless cases.”

Michael snorts. “Yeah? You want to go tell her she’s a soft-touch to her face?” He doesn’t think much of the law, never has, but he knows that Michele Valenti is far from gentle. She’s fair, and usually pretty by-the-book, if Max is to be believed, but she’s as tough as nails when needed, and if Simmons hasn’t learned that yet -- well, Michael’s pretty sure the Sheriff will enjoy showing him how wrong he is. Michael can only hope he’s around to see it.

Apparently, Simmons doesn’t like Michael’s flippancy. His brows draw downward into a pinched, angry expression, and he leans in close, close enough that Michael can see every carefully steamed inch of his impeccable uniform. The image jolts something loose in Michael’s mind, dragging unwanted memories of Max’s first days on the force to the front.

Isobel had insisted on re-ironing Max’s slacks so they wouldn’t be wrinkled for his first shift. Michael’d been at Max’s for god-knew what reason, since he hadn’t even been able to look at his brother that soon after Rosa’s death -- but Michael had been there as Max put that uniform on for the first time, watched as determination filled his expression and inflated his chest and shoulders. Determination to make up for the wrongs he’d done, to atone for the sins he’d committed by helping others, as if he could somehow undo the horrible thing they’d done with good intentions.

Michael had burned with fury at Max’s naivete, with jealousy, for his ability to move forward when Michael himself was stuck, suspended in that moment, day after day.

It’s funny. Michael had always thought that the year after Rosa’s death was rock bottom -- yet here he is, still trapped, still furious and heartbroken, with no one to blame but himself.

“You’re going down this time, Guerin. Assault, at the very least. That guy you were beating on had broken ribs, and there’s no way he’s going to drop the charges -- and I will personally see to it that someone claps you in cuffs and throws you in a cell to rot.” Simmons slams his hand against the bars, hard enough to make the entire cell rattle, and Michael blinks away the remnants of the memory to look back at Max’s replacement, lips curled in a sneer. Blood trickles from a split that hadn’t quite closed, yet and down his chin, but Michael doesn’t move to wipe it away.

“That what gets you off? Guys in handcuffs?” he drawls. “I’m flattered, officer, but you’re not really my type.” And that is an understatement. In fact, comparing Simmons to Alex is an actual insult, as far as Michael is concerned -- not that he should be thinking of Alex right now. Or ever.

Simmons’ face flushes with anger, and Michael allows himself a small, triumphant smirk. He knows he’s signing his own arrest warrant with his behavior, but he’s known that for weeks. Eventually, all of his sins would catch up with him, and he’s done trying to outrun them.

Much to Michael’s regret, Simmons gets ahold of his temper quickly; his hands clench at his sides, and there’s a vein throbbing visibly beneath his carefully tousled blond bangs, but his voice is calm, almost cloying pleasant, when he speaks again. “Ah, well that explains things, doesn’t it?” he muses, and the knowing tone in his voice makes Michael wants to punch him hard enough to break that Colgate smile. “I knew Evans was disappearing your paperwork - every time someone tried to prosecute you, it would all just vanish, or the plaintiff would just suddenly withdraw all charges. It was obviously Evans -- I just hadn’t been able to figure out why he’d risk his career like that on a nobody like you.”

Michael struggles to make sense of that information, tries to fumble it into the schema of his and Max’s relationship for the last decade, but the pieces don’t fit. Max had always been the goody-two shoes, so by-the-book in dealing with Michael’s indiscretions that it is impossible to believe that he’d literally been tampering with the paperwork to keep him out of jail. Michael had always just thought Max had pulled in favors with Valenti, or used the ‘old friend’ card over and over -- but this? Had Max really gone to such extreme lengths to keep Michael out of jail?

“But if you two were fucking before he skipped town, well. That makes a hell of a lot more sense, doesn’t it?”

White-hot rage greys out Michael’s vision, and he’s on his feet against the bars before his mind catches up with the instinct. The feeling is senseless; the insane assumption should be something he laughs at, uses to deride Simmons’ detective work, but Michael can’t summon any humor or snark to throw at him. Hearing Max’s name from his asshole replacement is too much, and Michael’s had all he can take. Power builds in his hands where they’re pressed against the cold metal of the bars, humming through him and causing a ringing, metallic buzz to echo through the small room.

He can’t do this. He has to stop, needs to push the power down and keep it hidden, but Michael’s so removed from his own body in that moment that he can practically look down at himself and see the tension turning into a wavering aura of power in the small cell.

“That’s enough,” a harsh voice snaps, and both Michael and Simmons’ attention shifts immediately to Alex Manes. He’s looming in the open doorway, blocking all view to the administrative section of the office, an air of authority around his camo-covered shoulders that makes Michael’s breath catch in his throat.

In some ways, Alex is as familiar to him as the parts of his truck, or the smooth surface of the ship fragments he spends his nights with, but while he wears that uniform and that particular expression -- the one that not only demands instant obedience but expects it -- Michael can’t help but feel like he’s staring at a stranger. And after years of limited contact and heartbreak, that’s likely how it should be. Michael almost wishes it could be that simple. Instead, he’s fairly certain that despite everything, he could still pick Alex out of a crowd of millions from miles away. Something in his chest always thrills to Alex’s presence, drawing Michael’s gaze to him even when Alex is the last person he wants to see.

“What the hell are you doing back here, Manes?” Simmons demands, crossing his hands over his chest and straightening his shoulders in an obvious effort to look intimidating. He’s got an inch and several pounds of muscle on Alex, so it should work, but in comparison to Alex’s hard expression and relaxed but ready body language, Simmons is nothing. Alex certainly doesn’t think so; he stares fearlessly back at the Deputy and raises an eyebrow, a challenge inherent in the minuscule movement.

“That’s Captain Manes, actually,” Alex corrects definitively. “And I’m here because the guy he hit—” Alex nods toward Michael. “— is Air Force. He’s being reassigned effective Monday morning with a black mark for excessive drinking and brawling in public, so he won’t be pressing charges.”

Alex presents a set of papers to the Deputy with a flourish, a hint of the attitude Michael had fallen in love with a decade ago shining through in the movement. Simmons gives him a long, hard look, then snatches the papers from his hands, all but tearing them with unnecessary force. While he reads, Alex looks around him to Michael, a silent query on his face.

Michael blinks slowly, taking stock of his body and the energy that has receded somewhat at the sight of Alex. He’s sober enough to wonder, this time, if he’ll always have this reaction to the other man -- if he’s doomed to only ever feel calm and safe around someone who’s so tangled up in some of the most negative, traumatic experiences of his life that Michael doesn’t know how to separate Alex’s comforting grip with the vice around his heart when he thinks of Caulfield. Of his mother.

Right now, he can almost convince himself it doesn’t matter. Michael’s too relieved to see Alex, too grateful for his intervention, to feel anything else.Taking a long, slow breath, Michael peels his fingers away from the bars of the cell and takes a step back. The metallic hum in the room stops completely, and as long as Alex gets him out of there without Simmons making any more comments about the kind of man Max was, Michael thinks he can avoid this situation turning into more of a disaster.

“The military doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Roswell,” Simmons says a moment later, his chest once again puffing out in righteous indignation. “Guerin’s been picked up three times in the last two weeks for the same offense. We don’t need your guy to press charges; I’ve got plenty of evidence to keep him in lock-up.”

Alex’s eyes narrow, and Michael almost feels sorry for Simmons. Almost.

“Really.” The word is flat, loaded with insinuation. “So this has nothing to do with the fact that you lost out on the position at this station to Max Evans? And then lost out on the last open position for Evans’ partner because he said he didn’t want to work with you?” Alex’s expression is carefully blank, but Michael can read him well enough to know that he’s ready to go for the throat.

It shouldn’t surprise Michael that there are large chunks of Max’s life he knows nothing about. The two of them hadn’t been able to get past what happened to Rosa and the way it was handled, and that crack had led to nearly complete fragmentation in the intervening years. There’s no chance of fixing it, now, no way of knowing if they could have regained the closeness they’d shared for so long, because Max is dead -- but somehow, Michael is still learning things about his brother that make him want to put his fist through a wall. How many times had Max risked his career for Michael by destroying documents and evidence? How many people had he run off from the position as his partner to protect Michael? And why had he done it? Protecting their secret is one thing, but fuck, how is Michael supposed to take that information in stride?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simmons blusters, but Michael can tell the Deputy knows that he’s been beaten. Alex doesn’t go to battle without all of the facts on his side, without an ironclad plan, and Simmons had lost before they’d even begun.

Alex snorts. “Sure I don’t,” he says amicably. “Why don’t we ask Sheriff Valenti, then? If all of your evidence on Guerin is by the book? I’m sure she’d be happy to back up one of her deputies and kick me out, if that’s the case.”

Michael doesn’t know if Alex is bluffing, which almost certainly means Simmons can’t tell, either. He waits, aware that he should be more concerned about the outcome of this grudge match than he is, until Simmons growls, “Fine. Get him out of here. But the next time --”

“You’ll throw him in cuffs and leave him to rot, yeah, I got it,” Alex interrupts, his tone suggesting that if he weren’t in uniform, he’d be rolling his eyes. “Keys.”

Simmons slaps the keys to the cell into Alex’s extended palm and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Michael watches, silent, as Alex allows his airman persona to fade back into the gentler, less composed version of himself. “I hacked the cameras before I came in, just in case,” he says, and gestures at the lock on the cell. “You still need me to let you out?”

A moment later, Michael has released the latch on the cell with a tendril of thought and stands in front of Alex, chin raised daringly as dark eyes take in his injuries. “We should go before that guy comes back,” is all he says, and Michael trails him out of the precinct and into the cool night air. Michael takes a deep breath and slouches back against the wall, eying Alex. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or what’s expected of him now; hell, he doesn’t know how to interact with Alex on a good day, anymore.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Michael says after a moment, the words stiff. Anger would have been better, but Michael can’t seem to summon it back now that it’s gone. “It would’ve been fine.”

Alex shoots him a skeptical glance, but doesn’t argue. “I’m going to take that as Guerin speak for, ‘thanks for getting me out of jail,’” he snipes, and hits a button on his keychain, making his SUV blink its lights from a block down. “Come on. Your truck is still at the Pony, I’m guessing? I’ll give you a ride and you can pick it up tomorrow.”

There isn’t much chance to argue, or Michael’s too tired to try. He trails Alex into the SUV, grateful despite himself for the unwavering presence at his side. His brain is still trying to process the fact that Max, despite ten years of distance and resentment, had still been protecting him. It’s a bizarre juxtaposition with the assumption that Max had only ever done anything to protect him in order to protect their secret. Max had fucked up so many times over the years: he’d left Michael alone and scared in foster care, had only listened as Michael whispered confessions of pain and fear of the families he lived with as a child, had pushed him into taking the blame for Isobel’s crimes and allowed him to give up on the one chance at a future he had --

Michael hates looking backward, and hates the fact that he understands Max so much better now that he’s gone. His brother had never been human, but he was as flawed as any of them, and yes, he had made mistakes. But how many of those mistakes had seemed unforgivable because of Michael’s own unhappiness? How much of his resentment toward Max had sprung from Max falling from the pedestal Michael had put him on?

The hand that had, until recently, been numb and scarred, flexes against his thigh. Michael will never know what Max was thinking, that night. He’ll never be able to ask questions, or try to mend the rift that he’d helped created between them.

Michael will never have a brother again, and the loss feels fresh, now, as if the experience with Simmons had ripped a new wound over the infected one still oozing in his chest.

“Michael,” Alex says quietly, catching his attention more effectively than if he’d stood up and yelled. It’s rare to hear his first name from Alex, rarer still to hear it in a tone that borders on affection. They’ve avoided that sort of relationship for years, both aware that they’re in the middle of a balancing act, and one wrong move could send them careening over the edge into a world of hurt. “You’ve got to stop doing this. I’m not going to be able to use the same tricks next time, and . . .” he trails off, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he psyches himself up for whatever else he has to say. “And Max isn’t here to stop them from making sure you end up in prison.”

The words emerge in a rush, so quick that Michael has to let them process before he understands why Alex is so nervous. No one who mentioned his brother had walked away unscathed, lately; it was a surefire way to send Michael spiralling.

But it hurts less, somehow, hearing the truth from Alex. Maybe because he knows that Alex understands grief, understands the feeling of anger that follows in the wake of abandonment, or because he knows Alex isn’t throwing words around to hurt him. So Michael doesn’t react; he simply turns his head to look out the window and watches the New Mexican desert fly by.

It’s clear that Alex doesn’t know how to read Michael’s silence. He rushes on, obviously determined to get the words out before Michael loses his temper. “Think about it, Michael. If they get you in a jail cell, how long is it going to take before your cellmates, or a guard, or someone realizes that there’s something different about you? What if you get hurt and sent to medical? Who’s going to stop them from doing tests and figuring out that you’re not human? My father would love that kind of opportunity, Guerin. Please, for the love of god, don’t give it to him.”

Michael swallows, an old fear rising in his gut as he considers the scenario Alex spins for him. Jesse Manes. Experimentation. Tortured, like his mother and the rest of those poor souls hidden away at Caulfield prison. He shudders, hands digging into his jeans hard enough that his nails score the tender skin beneath.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Alex’s hand is resting over the back of his left one, a gentle slide of skin that makes it easier for Michael to breathe. He almost misses the tremble in Alex’s fingers, caught up in his own emotions, but it’s there, and impossible to ignore. Michael glances up at Alex, surprised to see an anxiety nearly matching his own on his face, and wonders how often he’s ignored the way the people around him are feeling in favor of drowning in his own feelings.

Michael flips his hand and squeezes Alex’s back, and triumph sparks in his chest when he catches the barest hint of a smile flash across full lips.

“I know you don’t want to talk, okay, I get it. Believe me, I get it.” Alex’s words, when he speaks again, are full of rueful self-recrimination, and again Michael is struck by his own selfishness. He’s not the only one mired in trauma and hurt. But despite his own pain, despite the way Michael has treated him, Alex has been there when MIchael needs him. Every damn time.

“But the way you’ve been acting lately -- shit, Guerin, it’s fucking terrifying. The drinking is one thing, but the fighting? The total disregard for your own health and well-being? That’s not what Max would’ve wanted for you. Do you think he spent the last decade of his life bailing you out of jail because he wanted you to rot there? Do you think your mother died convincing you to run because she wanted you to die out here instead?”

Michael’s fists clench in his lap, but his powers don’t react. This is Alex, after all, the calm in the middle of his storm, and something in Michael refuses to allow anything that might bring him harm. He grits his teeth against the spiral of guilt and shame that threatens at Alex’s words, and reaches for the door handle, ignoring the fact that the car is still moving. Alex shouts and slams on the breaks, leaving them both startled and staring at each other across the console between their seats.

“I just want to help, Guerin,” Alex says, obviously biting back a furious comment at Michael’s stupidity. “I’m not asking you to love me, or date me, or whatever it is you’re so set against. I just want to make sure you don’t end up dissected or left to rot in one of my father’s torture chambers. Can’t you just let me?”

The fight rushes out of Michael with a long breath, and he slumps back in the car seat. His head tips to one side, and he looks straight at Alex with a resigned, wary expression. “That’s the problem, Alex,” he says dully. “I do love you.” As much as he could love anyone at the moment. “But I can’t do anything about it. Not right now.” Maybe not ever.

Alex’s face is washed pale yellow in the headlights of an oncoming car, and Michael doesn’t miss the hurt etched into the lines of his face, though it’s gone in a moment.

“I’m not asking you to do anything about it,” Alex says quietly. “I’m asking you to come back to my place tonight, get some sleep, and eat an actual meal in the morning. We can figure out where to go from there.” One large hand rests on the gear shift lever, waiting for Michael’s go-ahead before he puts it into drive.

Michael hesitates, part of him determined to climb out the door and trudge back to the Airstream to suffer through another night alone. But fighting Alex never gets him anywhere, and Michael’s tired of trying to stand on his own. If Max’s loss has taught him anything, aside from the fact that he does care about the self-sacrificing dumbass, it’s that Alex meant it, when he called Michael his family. And maybe, on a night like tonight, it’s not so wrong to want that support, no matter how selfish it feels.

So instead of following his instincts to run, Michael catches Alex’s eye and nods.

#overcome by shame can i ever change #my fic #oh good this one is EVEN LONGER #why am i like this

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