Caleb Michaels (
greatamazingfeelingsboy) wrote2020-01-16 09:03 am
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mid-Jan
Michael isn't doing too hot. Which, fuck, of course he isn't. He'd been literally abducted, cut into, cut open, studied, like some fucking science experiment straight out of any sci-fi movie. Of course he isn't doing well. But he's not even talking. Caleb's so worried about him that he's taken off from school for the rest of the week, and he visits whenever he can handle it.
Right now, he steps into the apartment with a wan smile at Alex, and he follows Michael's feelings into the bedroom. They're muffled — acetone, Caleb's pretty sure — but ever since that weird moment in the lab, when he'd felt Michael reach out, Caleb's had an even stronger connection with him. The acetone does nothing to really hide the feelings from him.
One of the dining room table chairs is by the bed, because Caleb sometimes stays for a long time. He wishes Dr. Bright were here. If anyone could be trusted with Michael's secret, it'd be her, and she'd be able to help him through this. Caleb isn't equipped for this beyond his ability, and he's not even sure he's actually helping.
He sits in the chair, draping his jacket against the back of it, and looks at Michael, allows himself to tune into his frequency.
'Fucked up' doesn't even really cover it.
Michael isn't doing too hot. Which, fuck, of course he isn't. He'd been literally abducted, cut into, cut open, studied, like some fucking science experiment straight out of any sci-fi movie. Of course he isn't doing well. But he's not even talking. Caleb's so worried about him that he's taken off from school for the rest of the week, and he visits whenever he can handle it.
Right now, he steps into the apartment with a wan smile at Alex, and he follows Michael's feelings into the bedroom. They're muffled — acetone, Caleb's pretty sure — but ever since that weird moment in the lab, when he'd felt Michael reach out, Caleb's had an even stronger connection with him. The acetone does nothing to really hide the feelings from him.
One of the dining room table chairs is by the bed, because Caleb sometimes stays for a long time. He wishes Dr. Bright were here. If anyone could be trusted with Michael's secret, it'd be her, and she'd be able to help him through this. Caleb isn't equipped for this beyond his ability, and he's not even sure he's actually helping.
He sits in the chair, draping his jacket against the back of it, and looks at Michael, allows himself to tune into his frequency.
'Fucked up' doesn't even really cover it.
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He'd trusted Alex to talk for him and send his apologies, but he's starting to wonder if he's ever going to be able to go back. He hasn't even moved from the bed, and his eyes are glazed and tired, his body listless. He's been patched up, but he doesn't do anything but lie there, drinking acetone to numb him, and curl around a pillow in lieu of Alex not being in bed with him.
Michael's exhausted, even though he hasn't done anything, but he curls into himself a little more when he sees Caleb, as if he can somehow withdraw and bury his feelings, as if Caleb won't have to feel them, then. He peers up at him, barely registering him for more than the briefest of moments, his eyes flicking to him, and then he buries his forehead in the pillow.
It's like he's gone back to being that mute, scared little boy all over again, because his nightmare had come to life.
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"You know that doesn't work on me," he says softly. He reaches out and gently ruffles Michael's hair. He needs a shower. His curls are getting greasy and tangled. But Caleb doesn't really care about that. Michael needs contact, needs comfort, and if he can provide that, even a little, then he will.
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He swallows and mouths 'sorry' as he lifts his head, wincing at the touch to his hair, because he knows how bad it's gotten. He reaches up to pry his hand out of his hair, staring at it with disgust, but that requires getting up.
That's not the biggest worry he has right now either, and he eyes Caleb. He learned a little sign, back when he was a child, but he doesn't need that now as he points to Caleb, and then makes an "okay" symbol with his fingers, raising his brows questioningly.
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"Dude," he whispers. "You are not allowed to worry about me right now. You literally went through your special brand of hell. I'm just so fucking glad we got you out of there."
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And he still feels guilty as hell for dragging them into this.
His hand drifts to the wound near his stomach, which he thinks will scar, and thinks about the glowing organs and the paranoia. His eyes flick to the door, meaning Alex, and he wonders how many cameras they have now. He points out there, then makes the same worried 'okay' symbol, knowing this answer might not be so passionate.
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And he's so worried about Alex, more than he can say.
He lets out a choked little sob, and just wants Alex to be okay. He wants Caleb to be okay. Gesturing for the notepad by the bed, he tries to get Caleb to hand it to him, because he feels better writing things.
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But he can't bring himself to do that. He wants to take care of Michael, protect him. And if that means giving in, and letting him write instead of speak, then he will.
He leans back, and reaches with his free hand to grab the notepad and pen.
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I'm sorry. Didn't mean to drag you into it.
He rips that off to hand to Caleb, already writing on the next page.
My emotions must be a mess. You don't have to stick around, I know it's bad.
After all, if Caleb gets overwhelmed by beer and anger, what must he be feeling right now, as raw and emotional as Michael is?
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It's the truth, he realizes. As awful as the comedown from the toxic whirlwind of emotions had been, he knows he'd do it again, if it meant getting Michael to safety. He covers Michael's hand while he's writing the next message, stilling the pen.
"Stop. Dude, if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be. Yeah, you're feeling a lot right now, but." But at least he's feeling something. It hasn't been cut off in that impossible, abrupt way. "But you're alive. You're alive, and you're home, and apparently that's all my ability really cares about right now, because I'm here, and I'm not overwhelmed."
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Then he hauls all six foot something of him down into the bed so he can grab him possessively tight, a mute and distraught man, but grateful for what he does have.
His family made sure he didn't die, and he has to hope they also made sure that no one will have evidence of what they found. Grimacing when he realizes he pulled Caleb right onto his wound, he fights to steady himself and shift onto his good side, but he doesn't let go.
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He can feel the gratitude, mixed in with everything else, and it brings tears to his eyes. There's an almost disbelieving quality to it, like Michael can't believe they'd gone after him, had saved him, and were taking care of him.
"We love you, Dummy," he says, responding to his feelings since he can't respond to his words.
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He presses his hand over Caleb's heart, trying to share the same feeling without saying the words, if only because the very act of talking is too much. He hasn't spoken since they strapped him down, since his last protest had fallen on deaf ears.
Soon to be dead ones, as Alex had made sure.
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"I know," he answers again. "I know, Michael." He takes a breath, squeezing him gently. "You— You don't have to hold it in. It's not weak, to feel what you're feeling. You can let it out."
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He also wants to go into the pod.
He knows it would be stasis and he would still end up feeling it after, but the idea of not existing for a while is tempting and he knows how to do it. He goes a touch limp at the squeeze, feeling weak. Reaching for the pad, he writes, beer? because he wants to make sure Caleb knows he wants to drink.
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"You know I've gotta leave if you start drinking," he says softly. "Can't have both." He wants to leave the choice up to Michael. He'll get him a beer if that's what he wants, but that means the cuddle session has to end, and Caleb has to leave.
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He winces a little as he moves, his stitches catching against his shirt, and he makes a wounded sound of protest, unable to get too close.
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It isn't meant to be anything scandalous. Michael obviously wants as much contact as possible, and he can't get too close or he'll aggravate his stitches. But Caleb can press the full length of his six-foot-something body against his back and wrap his arms around him, chin on his shoulder. He sort of pushes one leg between Michael's, angling their hips forward so Caleb is partially pressing his weight on his back, one leg between both of Michael's. It isn't perfect, and if this were any other person, any other scenario, Caleb might be blushing. But this is Michael, and he needs physical comfort as much as anything right now, so this feels right.
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He closes his eyes and focuses on calm, breathing in and out, and he strives for it, because he wants Caleb to feel it, wants him to feel something other than guilt and panic and fear from Michael right now.
He grabs at his hand so he can squeeze gently, supportive, appreciative, and grateful for his position. If he were himself, he'd make a crack about Alex finding them like this, but he's not.
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"You're not alone," he murmurs. "Okay? I'm here. Alex is here. We've got you."
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He's not alone.
And it's the strangest thing to get used to it. He drags a word, barely whispered, but spoken. "Thanks."
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But he doesn't say any of that. He just holds him, not trusting himself to speak, and if tears prick at his eyes and slide down over the bridge of his nose, then maybe Michael won't notice them.
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When he turns a little, he sees the tears on Caleb's face, and he uses his rough, calloused thumb over them, giving him a look that basically pleads for him to not cry.
Because if he does, then Michael's going to -- again.
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His smile is still tired, like he doesn't have the energy, and he wishes that he could do anything else, but he feels like he can't. So instead, he rests his forehead against Caleb's and just breathes out slowly.
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"Just rest," he murmurs.
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And then adds a little happy face with a question mark, like that'll get Caleb going in the right direction.
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It aches to think that his secret is out there, that people know he's an alien.
Fuck, what's he supposed to do? He doesn't sleep, mostly because he hasn't been, but he adjusts to press in tighter, tapping Caleb's hand to get his attention. He gestures to himself, then adds, "...how many know?"
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"No, I mean, no one," he lies, and tries not to wince at how obvious it sounds. "Alex took care of the, y'know, the people there, and. Yeah, no one knows."
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He nods, trying to let that soothe him, and he breathes out raggedly, curling into Caleb's hold. He mouths 'okay' and closes his eyes, making a gesture with his fingers for Caleb to keep talking.