greatamazingfeelingsboy

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michael guerin

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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.

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Michael hasn't gone to work since he got taken.

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.

Caleb leans closer to watch him. It stings, to see and feel Michael withdraw from him like that, but he can't find it in himself to hold it against him. Instead, he leans his elbows on his knees.

"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.

He hates the feeling of being useless, but he feels like he can't even have a voice, because if he opens his mouth, he might just end up sobbing all over Caleb, and that's not what he's there for. He doesn't deserve to have that put on him.

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.

Caleb shakes his head, and he reaches for Michael's hand and takes it. Not because he isn't okay, but because of course Michael is worried about him in all of this. He leans closer and rests their foreheads together.

"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."

Michael breathes out raggedly when their foreheads press together. It's a comfort, it is, but it's also enough to make him feel weaker than ever before. It shows in the way his breath shudders and sobs. He's supported, he has friends, and more importantly, he has family.

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.

"Stop feeling guilty," Caleb insists, gently shaking the hand he's holding. "You didn't drag us into anything. None of this was your fault." He sighs, keeping his forehead against Michael's. But he still sees the little gesture towards the door, feels his worry for Alex — a special, beautiful purple-yellow marbling — spike, and he shakes his head. "He's... dealing," he answers. "He's worried about you. Like, a lot. Those people—" He stops, because he's not sure he can talk about the lab yet. "He's really worried about you," he repeats.

Michael rolls his eyes, because asking him to not feel guilty about this whole disaster is impossible. It's his fault that he's an alien. It's his fault he wasn't a lot more circumspect about the crash and New Years. It's his fault.

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.

For a moment, Caleb debates handing it to him. Michael needs to speak. He needs to open his mouth and let everything out. He can feel it there, simmering beneath the surface. If he could reach out, turn up the heat a little, and let it boil over, then maybe Michael could get some of this out, deal with it somehow, and feel a little bit better.

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.

He reaches out for the pad, grateful, and he writes with a shaking hand. His writing is already scrawled and ugly at the best of times, and this is no better.

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?

Caleb reads the first page, then crumples it and shakes his head. "Fuck, Michael, you didn't drag me into anything. You're my friend. I went there because I wanted to help you, and I don't regret it."

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."

Michael hates how his hand shakes, and hates how when Caleb touches him, the items on the nightstand move, like a fear response kicking in. He closes his eyes tightly, but when Caleb says that he's here, that he's home, that he's alive, and that's all he cares about, he grabs at his shirt at the shoulders.

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.

Caleb makes a small sound, but he moves readily, until he's snuggled up with Michael, and he helps get them situated so he's not ripping his injury back open. He wraps his arms around Michael's shoulders and just hangs onto him, lets Michael hang onto him.

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.

He doesn't speak, but he does give a grateful sob that's wracked from the depths of him, like he doesn't believe him, but is selfish enough to accept it, because he wants it so badly. He grapples to haul Caleb in a little more, burying his face in Caleb's chest to muffle the sound of his pitiful weakness.

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.

He tips his head to rest it on Michael's, curling his fingers against his back in a gentle, soothing scratching motion.

"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."

Caleb shouldn't be the one having to comfort him, but at the same time, Michael also needs this. He grabs at his shirt and hauls himself in, breathing raggedly and deeply, just wanting to be there. He wants to plead for forgiveness, or to go back in time.

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.

The guilt is still there, and Caleb wishes he knew how to chase it away. Michael hadn't done anything wrong. None of this was his fault. If anything, he should be angry. When he sees the message on the pad, he gives Michael a sad smile.

"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.

He wants to be numbed, but he also doesn't want Caleb to leave. He nods, and puts the pad away, deciding instead to wrap his arms around Caleb's waist to pull himself in. He and Isobel and Max had done this when they were younger, especially after the drifter, and he's back to that, a puppy pile of grief.

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.

"Here, hold still," Caleb says. He extricates himself from Michael's octopus grasp, then moves to his other side and spoons up behind him.

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.

Michael has been touch-starved for a long time, even though he'd never willingly admit to it. He feels better the moment Caleb curls him in, and lets out a ragged, shaky sound, burrowing back into him, grabbing for Alex's pillow in order to pull it in to his chest and face, inhaling deeply.

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.

Caleb matches Michael's breathing, without even thinking about it. Each breath squeezes his chest tighter against Michael's back, and he echoes Michael's squeeze of his hand with one of his own.

"You're not alone," he murmurs. "Okay? I'm here. Alex is here. We've got you."

He's been alone for so many years of his life. Even when he had Max and Isobel, he felt alone, because they had a happy family, and he had the group homes and the loneliness. Now, he has Caleb and Alex, they have Luke, and he has friends.

He's not alone.

And it's the strangest thing to get used to it. He drags a word, barely whispered, but spoken. "Thanks."

That one syllable, a whole sentence, unties the knots that Caleb's insides had worked their way into. He lets out a shuddering breath and clings to him a little tighter.He wants to tell Michael to keep his gratitude, because of course they'd helped him. Of course they'd gotten him back. He wants to point out that Michael would've done the same for him, if it'd been Caleb on that fucked up table. He wants to tell him that he'll never let anything like this happen again, even if he has to learn how to shoot a gun, even if he has to ask Rowan to teach him how to kill. He'd do it, to keep Michael safe.

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.

Now that he's spoken, it hasn't unleashed the rest of his words. They still feel caught up behind a dam that he's nervous to let loose, but he's so grateful for Caleb's relief, curling into his body. He feels awful that they did this for him, because it's just more death that's tied to him, but he wanted to be rescued.

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.

Caleb huffs a weak laugh and manages a smile. "Shut up, you weren't supposed to notice," he says. He sniffles and wipes his face on Michael's shoulder. "I'm just... so fucking relieved we got you out of there, and... and you're gonna be okay. I promise."

Michael makes a face, because now his shoulder is all soggy, but he doesn't care, not really, and he ruffles Caleb's hair off his forehead, gently touching and making sure he knows that Caleb is okay, too, because he willingly entered into a war zone for him.

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.

It's the same exhausted, sad fog that Adam feels. Well, not the same, but close enough that it makes Caleb's heart ache. He closes his eyes, forehead against Michael's.

"Just rest," he murmurs.

Michael doesn't want to rest. Closing his eyes brings nightmares, and that's the last thing he wants right now. He'd rather press up against Caleb and try and think of happier things. He reaches for the notepad and writes, talk to me? on it.

And then adds a little happy face with a question mark, like that'll get Caleb going in the right direction.

Caleb smiles small. He's not great at telling stories, but he gives it a try. He tells Michael about playing Quidditch with Alice and her friends. He tells him how the game works, in case he doesn't know, and about their positions, and the different things that happen during the game. While he talks, his fingers keep up a gentle, steady drag against Michael's arm, trying to soothe him with touch, hoping he'll drift off.

Michael doesn't actually accuse Caleb of nerdery, but he mouths the word when Quidditch comes up again. He's starting to feel a little better for the soothing voice, for his being there, and for the way he can just let Caleb's touch lull him.

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?"

His voice is small and rough and broken, and Caleb feels a fresh swell of protective rage at the people who did this to him. Then he registers the question in the words, and he swallows.

"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."

Michael's a bad liar himself, but the thing is, he doesn't recognize it in other people. He trusts them, at least when they're close to him, so he trusts Caleb at his word, especially when he knows that Alex had done something about it.

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.

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