#not quite the tears you thought probably but hey i cannot do him literally weeping

[mothiir]

Cato in the cuck chair once again. This time he sheds tears.

cw: cato gets cucked, anal sex, gangbang, general debauchery.

—

—

“One moment, my dear son — the angle is a little awkward. Here.”

And before Cato knows quite what is happening he has a warm human dropped in his lap. He barely has a moment to register how he feels about this (bitter, resentful, ecstatic) before you’re crammed forwards against his chest with the force of his gene-father’s thrusts. The chair is built to take the weight of an Astartes, which is the only reason it does not collapse under the sudden influx of weight. Guilliman has one foot propped on the arm — Cato only avoided getting his fingers crushed by whisking them out of danger — and one hand cupping your midsection, pulling you up. His cock sinks further into your arse as you mewl and weep incoherently, totally cock-drunk and making even less sense than usual.

“Lord Primarch, I must protest —“ Cato says, but his objection is lost in the fray. Augustus arrives over his shoulder, kissing you sloppily — forcing you even further against him, so your breasts squash against Cato’s chest — before offering up his cock for you to slurp messily at, your jaw hanging awkwardly open, as though it has been fucked thoroughly enough to damage the joints.

“Hold her head still, please,” Augustus says, and before Cato can say that damn it, he will do no such thing, Guilliman catches his wrist and forces his hand into your hair.

“Like that, brother Cato — that’s a good lad. By the throne, girl, you were made for this, weren’t you?”

Cato cannot defy an order from his Primarch, even as said Primarch continue to bugger you further into insensibility, pausing his eager thrusts only occasionally — leaning down to kiss and nip at your shoulders. The movement causes the length of his cock to almost slide all the way out and you croon — either in distress or pleasure, your sloppy cunt leaving a mess all over Cato’s britches, smearing a vile mix of his brothers spend and your arousal over the fabric.

He’s going to have it burned. Damn it, he is going to have you burned —

The wet, thick sounds of Augustus fucking your throat echo in his ear, and the sub vocal thrum of Augustus’s sheer contentment drives him to even greater heights of violence. He will burn you all living. He will scalp you and feed Augustus the dripping mess of your hair. He will —

“Swallow, swallow it all,” Augustus pants, bucking his hips as he cums down your gullet — only you do not, you cannot, because you are useless and tiny and thus you manage a few mouthfuls at best before coughing the rest of it all over his bare chest.

(Bare chest? What happened to his shirt —)

And you sink down into his lap, eyes glazed with pleasure, lips puffy and pink, cum bubbling down your chin. Guilliman is still practically straddling Cato in his desire to fuck you, and the force knocks Cato back onto the bed —

(Wait — bed? There was not a bed —)

— and your cunt grinds up against his cock, sloppy and wet and just begging for him to slide inside, it would be so easy —

(No, no, no — none of this is right —)

— but before he can even try to angle himself in, to fill up the empty space inside you, to nuzzle his cock against the entrance to your womb, filling you to breaking point — before he can do that, he finds himself sitting once more in the chair, staring across a void of greyish fog as Hadrian slides into you from the front, Guilliman still working on repurposing your guts in the name of Ultramar. He hates you so much in that moment, hates you so much he can taste it, that it brings a tear to his eye, that —

When Cato wakes, it is to a cock fit to burst, and rage choking his lungs. He doesn’t bother to go to the refresher — only yanks his trousers down enough to get his hand around his cock, and once, twice, thrice — and then he’s emptying himself all over his own thighs, still blinking away the enraged tears the dream left him with.

He’s going to kill you. He does not think he has much other choice.

[seeaddywrite]

i’d break my heart with weeping

written as a response to @roswellprompts post, but it veered a bit off track:

Isobel hovers over Michael’s bedside, her face drawn and pale even as she plasters on an obviously-fake smile and smooths his hair back from his feverish forehead. “You’re going to be fine,” she’s saying, in a tone that suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as Michael. “Max and Liz are on their way back from Denver. They’re already on the plane. And Max can heal you as soon as he gets here. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It takes more effort than Michael wants to admit to keep his eyes open to look at her, and lifting his hand to squeeze hers is practically a herculean task, but he manages. If there’s one thing Michael Guerin hates, it’s seeing Isobel so close to tears -- especially because of him. He’s spent the last decade of his life wrapping her in cotton wool and trying to keep her safe, emotionally and physically, and he hates that after all of that, he’s still making her cry. 

And, realistically speaking, there’s a good chance it’s only going to get worse. Michael doesn’t think much of his chances of survival, at the moment. There’s a golf-ball sized hole in his gut from whatever weapon he’d accidentally triggered while working on the ship; it’s stopped bleeding and started  to heal, but the dark lines of infection spreading upward into his body are hardly reassuring. Max had picked a hell of a weekend to go help Liz go and pack up the rest of her belongings in Denver -- but Michael would never say so out loud, not when he knows damn well that some of the anxiety Isobel can’t contain is bleeding through from her connection to Max. 

“Hey, I’m sitting in this disgusting trailer playing nurse. The least you can do is keep your eyes open while I’m talking to you.” Isobel’s attempt at bravado is thin, and Michael forces his eyes back open immediately and smiles tiredly. 

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’d say you don’t have to stay, but I know better.” 

“Damn right you know better,” Isobel snaps, though the glare she attempts to shoot him is way too soft to be effective. Her hand is still at his head, her fingers carding through his sweat-matted curls, and Michael lets himself enjoy the affection. It’s never been a loaded thing, with Isobel. She’s always been willing to hug him or hold his hand, and he’s never had to second-guess or overthink why she’s doing it.  The easy, matter-of-course way she bestows her affections is one of the many reasons he loves his sister. 

“Here. Drink some more of this.” An open bottle of acetone is pressed against his lips, and Michael lifts his head to sip from it. Normally, he would have insisted to hold it himself, but as it is, he’s just grateful Isobel’s hand is steady. As he sips gingerly, Isobel is still talking, obviously in need of something to fill the silence. “I cannot believe you’ve been rebuilding a damn spaceship in that bunker, Michael. Without telling me or Max? It’s a miracle something didn’t go wrong a long time ago! And what were you going to do if you finished it, huh? Take off without saying goodbye? Just disappear? Do you know what that would do to Max? He’d never forgive himself! And me? God, Michael! What am I supposed to do without you?” 

This time, Isobel doesn’t manage to hide the way her voice cracks, and she slides from the chair she’s been sitting in to her knees beside the bed, her carefully made-up face pressed against Michael’s chest. He sighs and pats the back of her head clumsily with his good hand, and eventually winds up holding her there, ignoring the pain in his abdomen and the fever that makes him feel hot and cold in turns and fogs his mind. It’s the exhaustion that’s worst, though, constantly pulling at him and whispering how sweet it would be to just succumb to sleep. 

“I was never going to take off without saying goodbye,” he tells her honestly. “I didn’t -- I never really planned on it actually working, you know? It was just a pipe dream. Being able to fly away from all this fucking mess and find a place where I actually belonged.” 

It’s a testament to how crappy he feels that he doesn’t realize how sorry for himself he sounds, and how Isobel would take it. She immediately sits up, eyes wide with dismay, and the red rims make him swallow hard himself. “What do you mean where you actually belonged?” she demands, and her fingernails are digging into the back of his hand now, clutching at him. “You belong here! With me and Max! We’re your family. And don’t you dare give me that bullshit about just hitching a ride together on the same ride, because I will actually lose my mind.”

There’s no self-deprecating smirk, no redirection. Michael doesn’t have the energy. He just nods, once, and squeezes her hand in return. “I know you guys are my family,” he promises. “I just --” 

“Got shuffled from home to home and never felt like it,” Isobel finishes in a small voice, which was definitely not what he was going to say. It’s the truth, though, he supposes - to a point, anyway. 

“You and Max always did what you could,” he argues bluntly. “I never thought you didn’t, Iz. And it doesn’t matter, now.” Because he’s pretty sure he’s dying, and the absolute last thing he wants to do is make Isobel thinks he’s blamed her or Max for his shitty life. Even after Rosa, that was never the case. “You guys were always there when I really needed you. Still are.” He shakes their joined hands to make his point. “And there was -- someone else. They helped, too.” 

This isn’t the right time to tell Isobel about Alex. The right time would have been ten years ago, probably, or maybe the morning she nearly caught them in bed together. But fuck, if Michael’s dying, he doesn’t want to go with secrets on his chest -- and it’d be nice to go remembering how much he loved Alex Manes. 

Isobel smirks, and the expression is so entirely unexpected that Michael finds himself gaping at her. “You realize that Max can’t keep a secret from me to save his life, right?” she asks, using her free hand to dab at her eyes. The action smears eyeliner and mascara around her face, and it’s so not like the perfectly put-together Isobel that Michael’s not quite sure what to make of it. “He never told me who it was, but I know you’ve got a Liz of your own, god help us all.” 

The explanation makes Michael’s heart clench, because he’s not as lucky as Max. Maybe their feelings are comparable, but Max has Liz. She chose him, even after learning all of their dirty secrets, and she’s been choosing him every day since.  Hell, they’re not here right now to fix Michael because they’d wanted a weekend away from all of the Roswell madness for themselves. Maybe the excuse is picking up the rest of Liz’s stuff from her apartment in Denver, but Max has never been able to hide anything from Michael. 

Alex, though, always changes his mind after he chooses. He blows in, gets blown, and blows out, usually in less than twenty-four hours. Michael knows why he keeps doing it, understands that it’s Alex’s own way of trying to protect him because he does love him, but --  

Fuck, maybe thinking about Alex is a bad idea. Michael bites hard on the inside of his cheek, and looks up at Isobel’s expectant expression. Suddenly, giving into sleep sounds much more tempting, and he sighs. “Alex Manes,” he tells her finally, the name heavy with everything he felt for the man who owned it. 

Isobel tilts her head thoughtfully, and goes back to petting his hair back from his face. The dull ache in his abdomen is easy to ignore now; worse pain in his heart had taken over. He’d been wrong about being satisfied about dying just thinking of Alex, and sharing his feelings for him. Doing that had only made him ache for the man’s physical presence, and he knows better than to think that could happen. Alex didn’t want to be here, and Michael didn’t want to guilt him into coming just because he might be dying. That’s too much to ask anyone.

“When Max gets his ass back here and heals you, I want to hear that whole story,” she tells him, tugging on his hair chidingly. “I can’t believe you’ve been jonesing after someone for ten years and never told me! What, have you been hooking up all this time? It’s way past time to formally introduce him to your family, you know!” 

Michael blames the lump in his throat on the injury as he shakes his head. “We’re not together,” he says tightly. “Never really have been. It’s never worked out.” He doesn’t want Isobel blaming Alex for walking away -- or anything else -- so he’s careful with how he explains. “Look, can we talk about something else? Literally anything else?” 

One perfect blonde eyebrow lifts. “Why?”

“Because if we keep fucking talking about Alex, I’m going to do something stupid, like ask you to call him,” Michael bursts out, and immediately regrets it as the effort required to yell makes him double forward, one hand hovering just above the wound in his stomach. A soft hand rubs his back, and when he can straighten up again without crying out, the rest of the bottle of acetone is shoved unceremoniously down his throat. Michael swallows gratefully and relaxes back against the pillow. He’s gone hot again, so he shoves the duvet off, making sure the injury is covered by his t-shirt so Isobel doesn’t start panicking again. It looks awful and he knows it; Iz doesn’t need to.  

After a moment of quiet between them, Isobel presses her lips together. “So,” she starts slowly. “What you’re saying, then, is that you want Alex to be here? Now?” There’s something too innocent in the question, and if Michael wasn’t so out of it, he would’ve noticed the calculating quality in her expression. As it is, he just turns his head toward the window of the trailer. “I always want him with me,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But it doesn’t matter what I want. He made his choice.” 

It’s quiet behind him, and that, more than anything else, makes Michael suspicious. One of Isobel’s tells in stressful situations is her inability to stop talking -- usually it’s snarky comments, but sometimes, it’s just a random word-vomit. Silence is distinctly worrying. When he turns back to look at her, there’s a phone in her hands, and her thumbs are fast at work. “What -- Isobel, no.” It’s his phone in her hands, he recognizes too late, and considering the last few moments, he knows exactly who she’s texting. “Fuck you, Isobel! No!” She’s too far away for his hands to reach, so he tries to reach out with his powers. He’s too tired to manage anything more than a breeze that rustles her loose hair, though, and he hears the tell-tale swish of a message being sent. 

Anger and frustration wars with desperate hope in Michael’s head, and he wishes he knew whether he wants Alex to ignore the message or show up. He drops his head back to the pillow and withdraws from Isobel, angry with her for making him have to consider the possibility at all. 

“He says he’s on his way,” she chirps, apparently unbothered by the way he pulls back. She’s tugging her hair back into the fancy chignon that had fallen out of the clip when she helped him pull himself out of the bunker, drawn there by their psychic connection. When that’s done, she pulls a small compact from her purse and starts correcting her make-up, and it’s so familiar and normal that Michael could actually cry. “He seems pretty worried, too. Not like someone who’s choosing not to be with you.” 

Michael’s eyes narrow. “You don’t know the first thing about it, Isobel,” he grits out, and closes his eyes against the light she turns on in the trailer. The sun’s going down already, and Michael can’t help but wonder if he’s going to see it rise again tomorrow. He’s not usually so maudlin; he has all the faith in the world in Max, but the flight from Colorado won’t go faster just because he wills it to. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Isobel returns snappishly, coming back to sit at the edge of his bed. He considers shoving her off, just to see her scheming ass hit the floor, but he doesn’t have the heart, even now. She asked Alex to come because she knows that Michael wants him here -- it’s hard to be mad about that, even if he’s mortified and guilty. “You and Max scared the pants off of Noah when I brought him to meet you for the first time, and I’ve been denied my right to be the scary big sister. You didn’t tell me anything -- but I can feel how much you want him here, Michael. And that he hurt you. But sometimes, we hurt the people we love. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Her smile is soft, and Michael aches for the knowledge in her eyes. “You love him. And I know you’re scared, and --” She swallows, obviously fighting to maintain her composure. “And I know you’re not sure Max is going to make it in time. So, yeah. I texted Alex. I asked him to come. And I’m not apologizing for that, because I love you too much to sit here and watch you hurt like that.”

Sometimes, Michael lets himself think about what it would be like to have Isobel’s powers. To be able to convince people to do what he wants without worrying about repercussions -- he’s never considered how hard it must be, though, to be so close to what he and Max feel and do nothing about it. Telekinesis, he decides, is definitely the better option. 

He doesn’t know what to say in lieu of Isobel’s words, and he’s saved having to even try to reassure her when headlights hit the side of the trailer, making both of them blink owlishly. Isobel sits up a little straighter and glances outside, a small smile on her face. “It’s him,” she tells Michael, patting his hand as she stood to go open the door. “I’m gonna go call Noah to have him pick Max and Liz up at the airport. They should be touching down soon.” She leans over and brushes a Chanel-scented kiss to Michael’s cheek, and part of him wants to tell her to stay, because he’s afraid of what’s going to happen when he’s alone with Alex. But he keeps the words down, and just nods. “Tell Noah I’d appreciate it if he didn’t follow the speed limit quite so carefully, just this once,” he rasps, and Isobel chuckles. Her husband’s tendency to drive like a grandma is well-known, after all. 

“Like Max is going to let him drive back,” she says with a good-natured roll of her eyes. Michael knows she’s right -- Max won’t have the patience for Noah, tonight. He’ll be wound too tightly, even with Liz holding his hand. He kind of hates that he knows that; he and Max aren’t supposed to be that close, anymore, but there’s no denying that connection. “Just yell if you need me, okay? There’s more acetone under the bed.” She pauses, and shakes her head. “It’s so weird to think that we can say things like that out loud in front of the people we care about now, isn’t it? But, anyway. Make sure you drink some more. And --” 

“Michael?” Alex’s voice is just outside the trailer door, and Isobel sighs at the interruption, looking almost hesitant. She doesn’t want to let him out of her sight, Michael recognizes, and he does his best to look healthy and strong so she won’t worry.  

“Just be careful, okay? If this goes sideways, I’ll happily turn his brain into soup for hurting you.”

A throat clears near the entrance of the trailer, and Michael turns his head slowly to find Alex lingering there, looking distinctly uncomfortable as Izzy’s words permeate. Michael scoffs, swatting as his sister’s hand with a weak flap of his own. “She’s all bark and no bite, Manes,” he promises, the last word bitten off as he coughs into his hand. When his eyes open and refocus on Alex, the other man’s brow is furrowed, and he seems to have forgotten Isobel entirely.

“What’s going on?” he wants to know, and is limping toward the bed before either of the other two people can say anything. “You just said you wanted -- fuck. Guerin, is that blood?” 

Michael looks down at his t-shirt in confusion, and finds that there is, indeed, blood soaking through the grey fabric. “Well shit,” he quips weakly, glancing between Alex and Isobel because he can’t quite decide who to reassure first. “I’m never getting that stain out, am I?” 

Isobel presses her lips together, obviously torn between freaking out and saving face in front of Alex. Her dignity wins out, but only barely, if Michael doesn’t miss his guess. “I’m going to go call Noah,” she repeats firmly, tension obvious in her voice. “And tell him to step on it.” 

She turns and exits the trailer before Michael can say anything, and he doesn’t call after her. Isobel isn’t going to show her real feelings in front of someone she doesn’t know very well, and he can’t blame her for wanting to fall apart in private. He hates that she’s alone, but Noah will probably have a better idea of what to say than Michael would, anyway. 

“What happened?” Alex is crowding around the bed in the next moment, taking Isobel’s place. He tugs the hem of Michael’s t-shirt up, over the wound, and sucks in a harsh breath at the sight of it -- Michael doesn’t look down. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. “Guerin, we need to get you to a hospital,” Alex insists, his voice as steady as it always is, but Michael can hear the thread of panic running through the words. It’s probably his combat voice, that calm-under-pressure vibe that turns Michael on as often as it pisses him off. It warms him now, a little, because he knows that Alex is worried about him. How fucking petty is that? 

“You know why we can’t do that,” Michael says patiently, shoving his shirt back down with as much strength as he can muster. “Even if Valenti is working, and even if this was from a normal, human weapon, nurses would want to take blood to monitor the infection, and I’d rather be dead than turned into a fucking science experiment.” 

It’s a poor choice of words. Alex’s eyes go wide, and suddenly, his pallor is as bad as Michael’s. “Dead?” he chokes out, and Michael hastens to shake his head, regretting it immediately when the headache he’s been ignoring makes itself known. 

“No, no. Not dying.” It could be a lie, but Michael doesn’t particularly care. It’s worth it, if it makes Alex stop looking at him like that. “Max is on his way back from Denver. He’ll heal me. I’m gonna be fine.” The words tumble out of him in a rush, and he doesn’t know if Alex can tell he’s only trying to make him feel better or if he just doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t look reassured. “Sit down, man,” he orders, pointing at the chair Isobel had recently occupied. “Or you can go, if you want. I don’t know what Izzy said to get you here, but -” 

Alex blinks at him as he sits, lips pursed. “What do you mean, what she said to get me here?” he asks in a deceptively mild tone. “She said you needed me, Guerin, so I’m here. Just like I would’ve been if you’d sent that message yourself.” He sounds offended, like Michael hurt his feelings somehow, but that doesn’t make sense. Alex doesn’t want to be with Michael. He’d left. The implication seems pretty damn clear. 

Michael swallows, and pushes himself up into a half-seated position. He’s dizzy for a second, but the sensation passes, thankfully, as long as he doesn’t try to get completely vertical. “I don’t understand,” he admits, sounding just as lost as he feels. “I always need you.” If he wasn’t worn down and half certain he was going to die, Michael doubts he would’ve admitted such a thing so frankly. He’s never been good at being open with Alex, just as Alex has always sucked at talking to him. But he doesn’t want to die with this between them -- he wants it all out there in the open, just in case. “You always leave anyway.” 

For a minute, it’s like he’s been granted Isobel’s powers to see into the human mind when he looks at Alex. The calm, blank mask is long gone and the man looks gutted, like Michael’d just punched him in the face instead of speaking, and he knows he’s been unfair. He didn’t mean to be that blunt -- the fever is messing with his head, and he’s scared and feeling adrift, and apparently, he’s just taken it out on Alex without even meaning to. 

“Michael --” Alex licks his lips, and Michael watches as his Adam’s apple bobs. “God, I’m sorry,” he manages finally, his hand finding and wrapping around Michael’s mangled one. “I’m in love with you. I left because I didn’t want to tell you just to see you finish that spaceship and fly away -- not because I wanted to hurt you. And as soon as you can sit up straight, I’m going to prove that to you. But for now, please, for the love of God, let me take you to Valenti. I’ll make him bring medical supplies to the bunker or something, but --”

“Valenti’d be pretty useless without Liz,” Michael tells him quietly, and tugs on Alex’s hand, wordlessly trying to get him closer. Maybe it’s selfish, but for now, he’s willing to take what the other man said at face value if it means he can convince him to hold Michael for a while. He feels light-headed and floaty, and desperately wants to have Alex as a physical anchor. “She’s the biologist, and whatever this thing was --”

“What was it?” Alex interrupts, transferring himself from the chair to the bed and pressing his side against Michael’s gently. He inhales, and lets his head drop to rest against Alex’s shoulder. It’s the closest they’ve been since that awful night in the Pony, when Michael’d grabbed him to try to stop him from leaving, and it feels so good that his eyes sting. This. This is what he wants. Forever. And if he makes it through this injury, he’s damn well going to do everything in his power to make sure he keeps it. 

Right. Answer the question. “Not exactly sure,” he admits. “Something... went off, while I was working on the console. Kind’ve like a gun, but it looked more like a laser? And, well. You saw the hole it left. I guess it makes sense that people like me would have weapons that could actually hurt us, right?” 

Alex is staring at him in horror. “You mean this happened after I left today?”

Michael didn’t have to have all of his mental faculties in working order to see where that was going. He shook his head against Alex’s shoulder, prodding him in the side to get his attention. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d stayed,” he says, as loudly as he can make his voice work. “I would’ve still been tinkering down there, and I would’ve still gotten hit. Don’t go there, Alex. This isn’t your fault.” 

He coughs into his hand again, artfully hiding the sheen of blood that coats his palm when he pulls his h and away. Judging by Alex’s expression, he isn’t fooled. “Look. Max brought Liz back from basically dead, okay? She was shot in the chest. That’s a way more serious injury than this. I���m gonna be fine.” His head is swimming, now, and he’s leaning more heavily on Alex than he would like. If he’s not careful, they’re both going to fall off the side of the narrow bed - but he can’t bring himself to move. He tips his head up anyway, and nuzzles a kiss against the underside of Alex’s jaw, trying to ease some of the tension he can feel in the other man’s body. 

It works, to an extent. Alex sighs and his shoulders droop, and one arm wraps carefully around Michael’s aching body to cradle him close. Michael’s eyes close at the tenderness, and his breath comes a little faster as he tries to tamp down on the contentment brings just that one little gesture brings. If he’s got to die, Michael’s pretty sure there are way worse ways to go. 

He must fall asleep that way, because what seems like a moment later, he’s listening to Alex say something about calling Valenti to Isobel, the insinuation that he’s going to do it with or without her permission clear. Isobel’s response is biting, and Michael tries to open his eyes to figure out what’s going on, but his lids are way too heavy. The pain is gone, mostly, replaced with a heaviness that keeps him paralyzed against the mattress. The argument escalates, and Alex is all but yelling, now. “He’s unconscious, Isobel! Look at him! We have to do something now! Max can meet us at Valentis if --” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Michael could have wept with relief at the sound of his brother’s steady voice, if he were able to move. Isobel exhales with a ragged sob, and Michael can feel Max’s weight beside him on the mattress. Alex draws away, and he wants to protest -- but then there’s a big, warm hand against his chest and energy pulses through him, white-hot and overwhelming. His body convulses against his will, arching upward toward Max, but as always, his brother holds him steady. 

And then, after a moment, Michael can move again. He feels refreshed, as if he’s just woken up after a good night’s sleep, and his eyelids flicker open. “Christ, Max. Cutting it a little close, weren’t ya?” he drawls, sitting up and grabbing the other man by his shoulders as he sways. 

“Shut up,” comes the predictable response. “And if you ever do something like this again, I’m going to kill you myself. I almost crashed the damn plane twice on the way back from Denver.” The words are lacking any snap, and before Michael can come up with a suitable response, Max is hugging him, hard and tight. He sighs dramatically, pats his brother on the back, and pulls away, smiling crookedly. 

“I’m good, man,” he promises. “Thanks to you. Look, not even a scar.” He tugs up the hem of his shirt to reveal his unmarked skin, showing it off to everyone in the trailer -- which, apparently includes Liz and Noah, who are hovering anxiously near the entrance. 

Max studies the site of the wound for a moment, but nods, his entire body slumping with relief. Isobel steps up to his side with a bottle of acetone, which is graciously accepted -- and while Max recovers, Michael’s eyes find Alex again. He’s been shuffled off to the side of the trailer, still within arm’s reach, like he’s unwilling to go any further from Michael’s side. There’s a look of stunned amazement in his eyes -- and that, Michael understands. Watching Max use his powers always feels a bit like witnessing a fucking miracle to him, too. 

“Hey, Liz,” Michael calls, over his siblings’ heads. “Get him outta here, will ya? He needs to sleep for like two days before he can go anywhere.”

Max opens his mouth to protest, but Liz is already nodding, slipping through the crowded aisle of the trailer to grab his hand and pull him to his feet. He gives her the same sappy look he always does when she touches him, and Michael grins smugly at the two of them. “Seriously, Michael. Don’t you dare go near that thing again without someone here with you,” Max says, getting to his feet and slinging an arm around Liz’s shoulders to keep himself steady. “What if I can’t get here fast enough, next time? We’re not going to lose you, Michael.” 

He wants to resent the order, but Alex is sliding back onto the mattress next to him, his expression suggesting that he very much agrees with with Max is saying, and Isobel has her hands on her hips, obviously ready to tear him down if he tries to argue. “Yeah,” he surrenders with a groan. “Okay.” 

His gaze meets Max’s, and he nods, once. Max gives him a small smile, and he and Liz disappear back out into the night. Noah and Isobel are next to leave, after Isobel wraps him in a long hug. It’s a little weird, because Alex doesn’t move while she’s leaning over him, but he lets her hold on for a long moment before gently pushing her back into Noah’s waiting arms. Before she leaves, though, her blue eyes narrow on Alex’s face. “You’re staying?” she asks, the question loaded with implications. 

Alex isn’t intimidated. “I’m here until he tells me to leave,” he answers, and Michael’s look is incredulous. When has that ever happened? It’s damn well not going to start now. “And don’t worry. I’m not planning on doing anything that might lead to you turning my brains to soup.” There’s a tiny, amused flicker at the corner of his lips, and Michael has to stifle a grin. 

Isobel purses her lips, but eventually gives in and cracks a smile. “See that you don’t,” she says, tossing her hair imperiously. “Both of you are coming to dinner tomorrow night, by the way. I can check Michael’s in one piece, and you and I -” she looks pointedly at Alex. “Are going to get to know each other better.” There’s a ‘or else’ implicated in the words, but Michael and Alex just agree. To be honest, Michael thinks he’s going to want to stick close to his family for a while, after this. The near-death experience has shaken him, and Max and Isobel and Alex are the only people who have ever managed to make him feel safe. 

When they’re finally alone, Michael pulls Alex into him and kisses him chastely, cocking his head to one side as he tries to get a read on the other man’s mood. He’s been awfully quiet, and that’s not really like him -- but then again, it’s been a hell of a day. “You okay?” 

Alex snorts in disbelief. “You’re asking me that? You’re the one who just basically got brought back to life!” 

“Yeah, but you’re the one who had to watch,” Michael responds softly. “I’d rather be the one dying than have to watch you do it.” The idea of it makes him feel sick all over again, and he banishes the thought immediately. 

“As long as you’re okay, I’m fine,” Alex promises, but the way he lets Michael hold him without any complaint or attempt to take control of the embrace says otherwise. But there’s no reason to call him out on it -- as long as he lets Michael take care of him for a little while, he’s content to let it go until Alex can believe that he really is fine. 

They’re quiet for a while, then, content to just hold onto one another while the stress and adrenaline of the day leaves them. Michael can’t remember the last time he’s felt this content, which is a strange reaction to a near-death experience, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he’s far happier to focus on Alex than what had nearly happened. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” Alex starts eventually, his hands tightening on Michael’s shoulders. “I’m in love with you. And I’m not going anywhere. As long as you want me here, I’ll be here. No more running.” The determination in his voice means a lot to Michael, and his eyes close in relief he didn’t realize he needed. 

“Good.” The ghost of a smile forms on his lips. “Because I’m not sure even I could protect you from Isobel if you took off now. . .” He laughs in earnest, and presses his lips to Alex’s, his hands framing his face. “And in case all of this wasn’t enough, and you need to hear the words -- I love you, too.” 

Apparently, Alex needed to hear the words despite everything they’d talked about. A genuine smile lit his entire face, and an answering expression morphed Michael’s expression. Michael would say those three words over and over if it made Alex look at him like that -- hell, he’d sing them, set them to song, if it made Alex happy. They sit there for a long second, grinning like fools at each other, just happy to be alive and together -- and if earth can give him this, Michael decides, why the hell would he ever want to leave?