#barely registering the solid thunk of your head knocking against the floor

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Unmasked

Spider-Man is forced to fight the Sinister Six while he’s sick, which leads to his enemies making unexpected discoveries about their arch nemesis.

Chapter 3

Ow. 

That was the first coherent thought that registered in Peter’s brain. 

Pain. He was in pain. A lot of it.

It started with the sunlight shining directly in his eyes through the ceiling-high windows. Then there was the sharp ache in his left leg. Then a sting in his shoulder. A cramp in his stomach. A throb in his skull.

And then, everywhere.

Peter was hurting all over. And yet, it was dull, distant, hazy hurt, like he was a ghost floating above his body after it had been run over by a dump truck.

Ugh…

His eyes scrunched into angry lines before fluttering open. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused, and no amount of blinking seemed to fix it. His brain felt like it had been replaced by three tons of bricks.

What…where…

He was…inside someplace. It was bright—way too bright. The ceiling overhead was tall and white. He was lying on a couch that felt like it had never been sat on before.

Am I…dead…?

His muscles were stiff as stone. He feared for a moment he was paralyzed, until he felt his fingers twitch, followed by his toes. It hurt—a lot—but hurt was better than numbness.

Okay. Not paralyzed. Hopefully not dead.

“Mmmgh,” he moaned. Slowly, he slid his hands back and pushed off the couch, lifting himself into a sitting position. “Oh, god…”

His skin was hot and sticky. Every bone, organ, and cell ached. He still felt sick, but now with about seventy extra ailments piled on top of that, which meant he was probably still alive. 

Probably.

But how?

The last he remembered, he was getting his ass handed to him by the Sinister Six. For as long as he’d operated as the masked vigilante Spider-Man, he’d never gotten thrashed that badly. How did he get away? Did someone rescue him? Had the Avengers swooped in and saved his dumb, in-over-his-head ass right after he’d blacked out? But how could they have gotten there in time?

And where the hell was he?

Now that he was no longer lying down, the room had started listing a little. Peter reached up to rub his temple and felt something crinkly stuck to his head. He grabbed hold of it and started peeling it off his skin, wincing from the pain. Once he’d torn it free, Peter held the unknown object in front of his eyes. It was a large, bloody bandage. 

Huh.

Peter’s eyes dropped to his lap. A thin blanket was draped over his body. When he lifted it away, he cringed.

His torso was a gruesome patchwork of Frankenstein-style stitches and bandages. He counted three sets of sutures on his upper body alone, plus four other cuts and scrapes held together with butterfly tape. His entire chest looked like one gigantic bruise. Plus, the burns—some from scraping across coarse concrete, others from actual fire. Every small movement sent waves of pain rippling across his body.

Yeesh, he thought, poking gingerly at the bandages on his shoulder. Well, someone friendly had to patch me up. But who?

Peter let the blanket slip from his fingers. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the couch and carefully placed his feet on the floor. Sweat slipped off his brow and dripped onto his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed. Peter inhaled sharply, then threw his weight forward, standing upright for an instant. Then he collapsed, gasping. Dizzying agony blossomed in his left leg and thumped like a second heartbeat.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. He glanced back and saw his shin had been fashioned with a makeshift splint: two metal rods and ass-load of packing tape.

Right. Broken leg. The sound of the bone cracking in half reignited in his memories, sending a shudder down his spine.

Peter used the sofa to pull himself off the ground. This time, he placed all his weight on his right foot, using his left only for balance. His body ached and trembled with the effort it took to stand, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Ouch. Ugh. Okay. Yeah. That’s a start. The fuzz in his vision was starting to dissipate, but the fog in his brain clung like fungus. It felt like he’d been inhaling a bunch of that laughing gas stuff his dentist had given him back in the 6th grade when he had to get a tooth pulled. His head was heavy and light at the same time.

The room was a lounge area with stiff furniture and minimal decor. A wilted fern sat in the corner alongside a weird, tall block with a piece of metal sticking out of the top that Peter assumed was some form of modern art. The walls were entirely bare except for a small landscape painting that looked like it belonged in a motel bathroom. There were two other chairs across from the couch, a coffee table, a gray rug, and that was basically it. 

Beside the fern, a pair of double doors stood wide and closed. When Peter strained his sensitive ears, muffled voices could be heard conversing in the other room. Curiosity plucked at his chest.

“Um…hello?” he called, voice raspy. He approached the doors, hopping more than walking, gritting his teeth as his injuries burned and throbbed, heat radiating feverishly off his skin. By the time he transversed the room, he was out of breath, lightheaded. He leaned against the wall for a minute and cycled slow gulps of oxygen through his lungs.

Once he’d somewhat recovered, Peter limped in front of the large doors. The voices were louder now, but not loud enough to be recognizable. They sounded mostly male. Peter took a deep breath, reached out his arm, and cracked the door open just a hair to peek inside.

It was a kitchen—that was the first thing he saw. A man stood at the island with his back to the doors. Across from him was a round dining table with a bowl of fruit in the middle.

“How is he?” the man asked, biting into an apple. His voice was definitely familiar.

“Still hasn’t woken up, right?” another responded.

Maybe this is another one of Clint’s safe houses, Peter thought. Or an Avengers’ base I’ve never been to before. Or a secret sitting room in some tragically decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Or—

Seconds before Peter opened his mouth to say hello again, the man eating the apple turned around. When Peter saw his face, his heart jumped out of his chest and splattered at his feet.

“I don’t know,” Herman Shultz said over a mouthful of fruit. “Has he?”

The oxygen around Peter vanished in an instant. It’s Shocker! The guy who broke my leg! W-what the hell? What is he doing here?

“Not from what I’ve heard,” the second voice continued. Another man entered his narrow line of vision, this one lit up like a neon sign, and Peter’s throat seized.

“You’re not being very helpful, Maxwell.”

“I told you not to call me that! I’m Electro!”

Shocker held up his hands. “Right, right, sorry. Electro, then. You’re not being helpful.”

What the shit, what the shit, what the actual, living shi—

“Don’t ask me about these things. Ask the doc.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Look—here he comes now.”

Clank, clank, clank. Heavy, metallic footsteps rang in Peter’s ears and shook the floor beneath him. Horror and disbelief flooded his veins as the eight-limbed scientist stepped in front of him, hardly three feet away, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Ask me about what?” Doctor Octopus said.

Peter leapt back from the door, clamping both hands over his mouth. 

Oh…my god. It’s them.

“I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

They’re here. They found me. They came to finish the job.

Half of the super villains that had just wrecked his shit were standing in the neighboring room. Hell, maybe all of them were. They’d probably taken whoever had helped him hostage, or perhaps the poor soul was already dead. He wouldn’t stand a chance like this. He didn’t have his suit, his webs, nothing. He’d tried his best to fight them when he was just sick with the stomach bug, and look how well that had turned out for him. If they attacked him now, one solid hit was all it would take to knock him out. Or, if he was being fully honest, kill him.

Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the room. I have to get out of here! He hobbled toward the wall of windows and placed his hands against the glass. It was at least four inches thick; probably bulletproof. But it was his only option. With a shivery grunt, Peter hoisted himself off the floor and crawled toward the ceiling, every step piercing him with flashes of pain.

Okay. Launch off the ceiling, kick through the glass, make a run for it. In his loopy, concussed mind, the plan sounded foolproof. The voices of his enemies were growing louder; Doc Oc’s footsteps were approaching rapidly. It was now or never.

Hanging off the upside-down surface, balancing on his good foot, heart racing, head dizzy and faint, Peter threw himself at the window. He hit the glass with a loud thunk, bouncing off like a bug on a windshield, then crashed on top of the weird modern art piece, shattering the mahogany box into wood chips.

Peter lay sprawled in a heap in the wake of his failure, groaning and dazed. As he forced himself upright, gripping his head in his hand, the doors behind him burst open.

“What the hell?” Doc Oc exclaimed, alarm caked across his expression. When his gaze landed on the young superhero floundering in the splintered remains of his college art project, stunned and disheveled but now awake and wide-eyed, his muscles relaxed slightly. “Spider-Man?”

“Holy shit, he’s awake,” Electro said.

“And he destroyed your favorite sculpture,” Shocker added.

Peter’s eyes dashed between the three men, wild and afraid. He’d been unmasked by his absolute worst enemies—but that seemed the least of his troubles. I’m toast, he thought. Tiny pieces of wood clung to his hair, face, and back. Seeing him conscious for the first time sent a spark of relief through Doc Oc, though he hadn’t expected him to wake up for at least another day; the combination of pain meds he’d given him was pretty strong. When Octavius moved an inch closer to him, Peter scrambled to his feet and backed away, tripping over himself in the process and heavily favoring his right leg.

“Spider-Man—” he began, trying to keep his voice level. Spider-Man picked up a chunk of the destroyed box and chucked it at him.

“S-stay back!” he shouted. His voice was shrill and cracked at the end of the demand. Damn, Otto thought. The evidence of Spider-Man’s youthfulness was clear as day to him now—how had none of them noticed it before? Perhaps they had simply chosen not to notice.

Doc Oc dodged the projectile with ease. “Spider-Man, listen to me—”

Peter made a break for it, gunning for the opposite side of the room. He’d hardly made it two uncoordinated strides before three more figures emerged from a door behind the couch, blocking his escape path: Scorpion, Sandman, and Rhino. He skidded to a stop with a gasp.

“Whoa,” Rhino exclaimed, towering over the half-naked hero. “Would you look at that. Tiny spider is alive.”

Shit! Peter screamed internally. He whipped his gaze in every direction and realized he was surrounded.

“He needs to stop moving,” Otto said, knowing there was no way to accomplish that with words. He raised his tentacles above his head, the pincers snapping hungrily. “Grab him.”

Rhino made the first move, reaching out with his meaty hands to snag the kid by the arm. But Spider-Man ducked and rolled out of the way, moving surprisingly fast despite all of his injuries, though it was obvious the exertion was hurting him. Scorpion and Sandman tried next, lunging for his legs, but Peter hopped right over them and flipped backwards, wincing and staggering once his feet hit the floor and banging into the window.

“You’re going to reopen your wounds,” Octavius warned him. He thrust two tentacles at his torso, but Spider-Man flinched out of their grasp. Otto launched the other two arms at him, and Peter skirted between them, springing on to the wall. The exhaustion and terror in his face were evident. Otto felt bad for scaring him so much, but this was for his own good.

“Spider-Man—please,” he groused. His mechanical arms grabbed and snapped at the air, barely missing the slippery little hero every time. “Just—stay—still!”

Peter wasn’t listening to a word he said. All he knew was that he couldn’t let himself be caught. Every inch of him was screaming in agony. When the tentacles pounced on him all at once, Spider-Man shrunk small and dove underneath them, somersaulting past Doc Oc’s legs and popping up behind him. Peter bolted blindly for the double doors, only to ram straight into Rhino’s giant leg and fall flat on his ass. Three metal prongs clamped around his midsection before he could regather himself, pinning him to the floor.

“Agh!” Peter yelped, tugging uselessly at the claw’s strong teeth. “Let me go!”

Otto lifted Spider-Man off the ground. He continued to strain and squirm, kicking his legs and grappling with the mechanical pincers gripping his waist. The rest of the Sinister Six gathered around the frightened hero, forming a circle with him in the middle. He looked so small against the looming backdrop of super villains. His young face beamed with all the emotions his mask typically concealed—most prominently, fear.

“Spider-Man,” Octavius repeated, holding his hands out tentatively. “Calm down.”

“I’ll pass, thanks!” Peter quipped, betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

“Okay, it’s definitely him,” Electro groaned amusedly.

“I know you’re scared,” Doc Oc continued. “And you have every right to be. But if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to injure yourself further.”

“And if I don’t keep moving, you’re going to injure me further!” He thrashed and twisted valiantly, but it was evident he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His movements were slowing down, his attempts to escape growing more and more pathetic. Otto waited for him to burn himself out, crossing his arms against his chest. It didn’t take long.

“Are you quite done now?”

Peter hung his head, breathless and shivery, gripping the prongs around his torso less to try to escape and more to hold himself upright. Perhaps his impromptu acrobatics display hadn’t been his smartest idea. All that leaping and flipping and bouncing around had sapped the last whispers of energy from his bones.

“Ugh…room’s…s-spinning,” he murmured. Otto took that as a “yes.” He held Spider-Man closer and frowned at a red spot on his ribs. 

“And now look what you’ve done, you idiot. You’ve torn your stitches. I tried to warn you. Half an hour’s worth of sewing, down the drain because of your recklessness.”

“What are you…what…what’s…?” Spider-Man slurred. He was suddenly seeing double of everything. He dropped his gaze to his midriff and watched two blurry lines of blood slip down his side.

“I sutured you up, and you ruined it,” Octavius explained. Peter slowly lifted his head and wrinkled his brow.

“You…” he said, blinking repeatedly. “What?”

“Told you we gave him brain damage,” Rhino whispered. Peter looked at him over his shoulder, then swept his gaze around the circle, making eye contact with every member of the Sinister Six. They saw him. After all this time, his face was finally exposed to his enemies. No disguise, no secret identity, no mask. He felt so naked without it. Not having a shirt or pants on didn’t help either. Strangely, their expressions lacked their typical thirst for spider blood. It dawned on him that over a minute had passed, and none of them had tried to kill him. And so far, they still weren’t trying.

“I’m…confusion,” he stammered. “What—what’s happening right now?”

It was somewhat amusing to see Spider-Man so delirious and out of his element. Doctor Octopus lowered him to the ground but didn’t let go of his torso. Peter was almost glad he didn’t; he doubted he could stand on his own right now.

“I tended to your wounds while you were unconscious,” Octavius said. “It’s not a perfect patch job, but I did the best I could.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his big, brown Bambi eyes wide and puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I also gave you some pain killers, which might be making your head a bit fuzzy.”

“But…why?” he scoffed. “You did this to me. You’re the ones who…beat me up. You love beating me up. You—you hate me. You want me dead. You’ve tried to make me dead a million times.” Peter jolted suddenly, a cramp shooting through his broken leg. If he was on painkillers, they were doing a pretty piss-poor job. Everything hurt and was too confusing to comprehend. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands, moaning. “Oh god…I’ve gotta be trapped in some crazy fever dream right now. Or maybe…I’m dead. Am I dead? None of this makes any sense…”

“You’re not dead, Peter,” Otto said, stifling a chuckle.

A shudder rippled through the teenager. He lowered his hands, revealing the colorless face behind them.

“How…how do you know my…?”

Shit, Doc Oc thought. It was a careless slip of the tongue. He had meant to keep his knowledge of Spider-Man’s alter ego a secret so as to not frighten him further, but it looked like the cat was out of the bag.

Peter’s gaze shifted anxiously between the six super villains again. Fresh fear clouded over his glassy eyes, and he went back to squirming against Octavius’ hold.

“Now what are you trying to do?” Otto asked, exasperated.

“G-get the hell out of here,” Peter answered. He yanked at the claw around his torso, grunting with effort. “I know what this is. This is—one of those—hrgg—P-Princess Bride situations, isn’t it?”

The team of villains exchanged bemused glances with each other. “What are you talking about?”

“You know—mmneh—when the bad guys—c-catch Wesley, then heal him—just so the life-sucky torture machine thing is—m-more torturous? That’s what this is, right?” His face was flushing red, and more of his sutures were starting to leach blood.

Scorpion threw up his hands. “What’s the brat trying to say?”

“I think he’s saying we only doctored his wounds so that when we kill him, it’ll be all the more slow and painful,” Electro clarified with a shrug. “Which honestly sounds pretty in character for most of us.”

“See? This guy gets it.” Peter pushed at the prongs with all his might. Even as a half-dead, half-conscious mess, the kid couldn’t stop himself from being a smartass.

“I’m just impressed he made a reference to a movie that came out before he was a concept,” Rhino said. “You know, instead of, like, Finding Nemo?”

Otto could see the strain Spider-Man was putting himself through in his pitiful attempts to escape, so he decided to see what would happen if he succeeded. When Spider-Man shoved at his metal pincers again, he let them snap open. Surprise flashed across Peter’s face as he dropped to the ground and wobbled on his feet, followed by weary triumph.

“Ha! See? T-told you I would…I could…”

He faltered and swayed, staggering backwards. Sandman enlarged his hand and caught him before he could hit the floor. Peter sat limply in his palm, breathing heavy, frail and febrile and injured and exhausted. He looked down at the sand-hand that had stopped him from falling, then back up at the surrounding circle of villains, fear and confusion stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“W-why aren’t you...trying to kill me?”

The room dipped into nervous silence. Spider-Man’s gaze continued to jump between them, searching for answers.

“Why did you treat the wounds you gave me?” he continued weakly. With every word that passed his lips, the shake in his voice increased. “W-what do you want from me? Are you trying to…turn me to the dark side or something?”

Shocker stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

“No,” Sandman answered pointedly, shooting Shocker a sideways glare.

“Then what?” Peter snapped. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why aren’t I dead yet?” Spider-Man dragged himself back to his feet, grimacing harshly. “T-tell me what you’re planning to do with me, or I’ll—I’ll…”

His scowl dropped suddenly, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched.

“Or you’ll what?” Scorpion asked in a mocking tone.

When Peter didn’t answer him, Octavius took a step closer. “Spider-Man? What’s wrong?”

Gradually, the terror in his face gave way to dread. Peter sucked in a gasp and cupped his hand over his mouth.

 “I think…I’m gonna puke.”

Otto blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was not the response he was expecting, but it didn’t look like the kid was joking. He lurched forward, stifling a gag, making everyone exclaim and leap back. His pale face hinted a sickly shade of green.

“Oh,” Octavius repeated, animated by a new sense of urgency. He glanced around frantically until he spotted the fern in the corner of the room. He seized it with one of his tentacles, dumped the plant and the soil onto the floor, then slid the empty pot in front of Spider-Man. “Uh, here.”

Peter moaned in defeat before doubling over the pot and retching violently. The Sinister Six turned away in disgust, fighting to keep their own lunches down. There was hardly anything inside him to upchuck in the first place, but his body continued to dry heave for another half-minute. Once the bout passed, Peter was left wheezing and trembling with his head held low. His throat burned and tears were slipping from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away.

“Forgot about the stomach flu,” Electro said, sticking out his tongue. “Blech.”

Peter wanted to ask how the hell they knew he had a stomach bug, among many other things, but he was too fatigued to form words.

Octavius turned back to him squeamishly. The poor kid looked so small, hurt, and sick. It amazed him how quickly his hate for Spider-Man had transformed into a tentative fondness. He felt the need to comfort him somehow, the way adults were supposed to comfort young ones when they weren’t feeling well. But he had no idea how.

Instead, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and a cup of water from the kitchen and placed them both by his side. “Here,” he said awkwardly.

Peter eyed the items and whimpered softly. With miserable, lethargic movements, Peter washed out his mouth and wiped his face, every breath aching in his chest. Shame and fever radiated off him in waves. When he was finished, he just sat there, panting and shivery. Too weak to move.

“I think you ought to lay back down, Spidey,” Sandman said, plucking the hero off the floor between two massive fingers. He returned him to the couch with delicate care, guiding his head to the pillow and draping the blanket over his body.

“No…” Peter mumbled languidly, trying to sit up. When he closed his eyes, he couldn’t get them to open again. “Just…tell me…why…”

Something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, gently pushing him back down. Octavius had grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen and soaked it in ice water. The cool touch against his skin was soothing and unexpectedly soporific. Slowly, his muscles went lax. His tumultuous thoughts faded into sleepy nothingness.

“We will,” Otto lied. “But for now, rest.”

It was almost endearing how quickly Spider-Man drifted back to sleep. Octavius left the towel on his forehead and watched as his breathing eased to a steady rhythm.

“Damn,” Shocker sighed. “Poor kid.”

“We really beat him senseless,” Rhino said.

Electro stood over the slumbering hero with his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is Spider-Man, like…kind of adorable?”

Scorpion snorted. “Adorable?”

“You know! In that, like, puppy-dog, dumb little kid kind of way. I mean, look at him! Does no one else think so?”

Sandman shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I mean, maybe. Sorta.” His expression gradually hardened, and he looked at Doc Oc. “So…is what you said before true? Is he really, like, an orphan?”

Otto lowered his gaze. “Not exactly. His parents died when he was a toddler, and he was adopted by his aunt and uncle, who became like parents to him. But then his uncle was killed last year, so now it’s just him and his aunt. He hasn’t had a particularly easy life.”

“And we certainly haven’t helped on that front,” Rhino added.

“It’s insane to me that at his age, this is what he chose to do with his powers. If I’d gotten his abilities when I was fifteen and gone through all that loss, I’d have been robbing every store on 5th Avenue.”

Shocker smirked. “I hate to say it, but...he’s kind of a good kid. Even if he is an obnoxious little dumbass.”

Amidst the conversation, Octavius’ face remained stoic, unreadable. He waited a while before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to let you all know. I, um, spoke to Tombstone this morning.”

All eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“He saw footage of us capturing Spider-Man on the news,” he explained. “He’s offering us two million each in exchange for the kid.”

Rhino’s jaw dropped. “Two million dollars? For each of us?”

“Holy shit,” Sandman breathed.

“What the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And he just wants the kid?” Shocker exclaimed. "That’s it?”

Otto nodded slowly. “Alive, but yes. That’s all he wants.” He swallowed and looked at the floor. “He’s given us until the end of the week to accept his offer.”

Excitement and dismay swept across everyone’s expressions. Each person waited for someone to speak up, for someone else to say no, we can’t. But it was just too tempting a proposition to dismiss out of hand. They could finally be free to do what they wanted. Free to live as they pleased, villainous or otherwise. Free to punish this city the way it had punished them, if they so choose. Turning over the kid was all it would take. One quick transaction. Hand over their nemesis, their sworn enemy, and it was done. They’d be rich.

“What the hell does he plan to do with him?” Sandman whispered uneasily.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Doc Oc clarified. “I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. We can discuss it more later.”

An air of tentative relief settled over the room. Electro puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms against his chest.

“In that case, what are we going to tell him when he wakes up again? That we want to sell him to some psychopath so we can all be millionaires? That we think he’s cute and want to keep him as a pet?”

Doctor Octopus shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. He turned back to his team. “I’ll keep monitoring him and re-treat the wounds he opened. I think it’s best we always have a pair of eyes on him to prevent another incident involving the destruction of my art pieces.”

The rest of the Sinister Six agreed, scattering throughout the complex, the proposition weighing heavily on all of their minds. Otto put on some classical music and began mopping the fresh blood off Peter’s torso.

[alexanderlightweight]

Home is You

This is for @alexmanesairstream! Thank you for the prompts, I sort of muddled them both together and then it got a little away from me!  Hope you enjoy it!

Michael was fraught with tension and he scowled at his beer bottle, knowing from the mental buzz that sparked like static electrify across his brain that Isobel was fast losing her patience.

“Look, Michael if it’s making you this worked up just go see him.”

“He clearly doesn’t want to see me.  Do you think it’s payback?”  Michael asked and ran his hands through his hair, trying not to think of all the worst case scenarios and failing.

“What I think clearly doesn’t matter,” Isobel said.  “Seeing as I keep on telling you to just go over to his place and talk to him in person.”

“We’ve been talking.  Talking is all we’ve been doing for a couple months now.  This was supposed to be the first step.  Sort of like a date.”  It felt odd to admit, but it was something that had been building for months.  A relationship built on trust and respect and not just desire.  It was supposed to be the beginning of a relationship that Michael had been craving for over a decade.  It was just like life to give him a taste of what he could have, then rip it away.

If this was Alex once again walking away from him, Michael was going to break and it was going to be explosive.  

“Sort of like a date?”  Isobel asked with little sympathy and then she scoffed, “if it’s only sort of a date then what does it even matter?”

If Michael had just a little less control, then the glass in the room would have shattered.  As it was, her wine glass gave a delicate little hum of warning and Isobel winced before setting the glass down.  “Sorry.  Look, Michael you have to figure this out.  Don’t let this be another misunderstanding or accident.  I realize you’re scared,” he shot her a glare that didn’t even phase her.  “But you both being scared is part of what made this take so long to get here.  Granted you both had different reasons for dragging your feet, but at some point you both need to stop making the same mistakes.”  

“If you’re wrong,” Michael warned, unable to finish voicing what he feared the most.

Isobel rolled her eyes and gave him a tiny mental push, “go Michael.  You don’t want to know what I’m planning if you two don’t manage to work this out by Monday.”  

Michael conceded defeat gracefully -with a grumble and the overexaggerated drag of his boots against Isobel’s floor.

-

Michael hadn’t been to Alex’s cabin very often.  The times he had been there, Valenti or someone else had also been present.  It was both exhilarating and neausiating to be approaching what he knew was Alex’s home and sanctuary by himself.  He wanted this to work.  More than anything, he wanted their relationship to be feasible and healthy and something that wouldn’t shatter as easily as bone.  Max may have been able to heal physical wounds and Isobel could root out mental and emotional ones, but not one out of their motley family could heal him if tonight went wrong.

Of course, it went wrong.

The first thing Michael noticed was that the cabin was lit and smoke was coming from the chimney.  It had been cooling down at night, but Alex would never have a fire going if he’d actually planned on meeting Michael for dinner like he’d promised.  Turning to corner to park and seeing Valenti’s car only made caused his mood to darken and agitation to churn in his stomach.  

From an intellectual point of view, Michael understood that what Alex and Valenti were working on was important, he also knew that a part -though not all- of Alex’s dedication to what was a rather thankless task, was because of him.  From an emotional standpoint, Michael wasn’t so understanding.  Especially if Alex’s reason for standing him up was because he was working with Valenti.  That shit wasn’t acceptable.  

It was with wild energy coursing through him that he unlocked Alex’s door with his powers, barely noticing that the door made a solid thunk as it opened.  The inside of the cabin was surprisingly dark, the only light besides the fireplace was a flickering lamp in the kitchen.

What did surprise him was a loud curse and then the sound of something being knocked over and then a quieter curse.  Valenti stumbled out from Alex’s bedroom looking like he hadn’t slept in days and his shirt soaked, an empty glass in one hand.

“Geurin?”  Valenti asked with what was clearly genuine surprise, “shit sorry.  I must have fallen asleep.  What are you doing here?”

“Trying to figure out where my errant date was,” Michael drawled, “just what kind of shit did you two find this time?”

Valenti blinked twice and then held up a hand, “give me a second before the interrogation, Guerin.  Actually, let me ask a couple questions first.  What time is it?”

“Past ten,” Michael said and watched as Valenti made his way with ease to the kitchen, grabbing a pot of what was clearly cold coffee and filling the glass in his hand.  The doctor didn’t even hesitate to down it before he rinsed it out and filled it with water that he slipped much more slowly.  

“Right, so I’ve been here... shit.  I got here yesterday, to go over something with Alex.  You said you had a date tonight?”  

“He didn’t mention it?”

“He’s ah...” Valenti sighed, “look I need you to trust me as a doctor okay?”  Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest and shifted his weight.  “Right.  Don’t even know why I thought that might work.  I got here yesterday and Alex was a little under the weather.  I convinced him to rest a little bit and he felt bad enough to agree, only when he woke up again his fever was pretty bad.  He’s not holding down medicine or fluids and his fever is high enough that he’s not making any sense.  He mentioned sending you a message and I gave him his phone, but it’s possible he forgot to send it.”  Valenti paused and took another sip of water, “or even type it out.  Like I said, he’s pretty out of it.”

“He’s sick?  Do we need to get him to a hospital?”  Michael asked, immediately alert despite the fact that he hated hospitals.  He hadn’t been around a human he cared about long enough to be there when they were sick.  He would have been, if it were for Alex, but they’d never had that opportunity.  

“I’d really rather not move him.  I gave him an IV earlier to get some fluids in him and he’s been doing better since then.  Honestly, he just needs rest and someone to look after him and help him out.”  Valenti said and he fixed Michael with a very serious look, “I have to get back to my apartment to rest at some point though.  If he’s not doing better I’ll probably have to take him with me and then to the hospital anyway, I can’t leave him here alone like this.”

“I can stay with him.”  The words were out of his mouth before Michael’s brain had finished registering Valenti’s words but he meant them.

“Guerin,” there was a pause, “you and Max and Isobel don’t get sick.  Alex is, he’s going to need a lot of looking after and a lot of help.”  

Valenti gave him and look that Michael didn’t even try to discern, he just shook his head stubbornly, “I can take care of him.”  

-

The list of things to track about Alex’s condition was long but not overly complicated.  The most important thing was to monitor his temperature and keep track of his fluid intake.  Valenti had been very clear that if anything got worse that Michael was to call him immediately, for once Michael didn’t argue.

Alex’s body was flush with heat, his face too pallid and hair soaked with sweat.  His eyes were glazed over with fever and when he met Michael’s gaze there was little recognition for a few minutes.  Then he seemed to collect himself enough to offer a small smile before he buried himself back into his pillow.

-

Taking care of Alex seemed to mostly be entertaining himself while Alex slept.  Michael hadn’t been sure what to do with himself at first; heating broth that Alex couldn’t quite hold down and texting both Valenti and Isobel updates on how Alex was doing.  She’d offered to come over but he’d been firm in telling her that wasn’t necessary.  Now he found himself pressed against Alex’s side, using his tablet for research and waking Alex up when he felt the other man needed it.  They hadn’t talked much, Alex being either too exhausted or too sick to have a serious conversation.

It took a week for Alex to get back on some semblance of a meal plan.  His body rejected most solid foods and Michael knew it was driving him crazy.  It should have been driving them both crazy but Michael, Michael found a strange sense of peace in looking after Alex.  In the fact that Alex was letting him instead of fighting to do everything himself.  

Michael had only left the cabin twice and that was to grab some of his things and make sure the bunker was sealed tight.

Taking care of Alex while he was sick was one of the most intimate things Michael had ever experienced.  Alex was stubborn and proud but even he knew when to lean on someone else and the fact that he hadn’t insisted Michael leave, hadn’t asked for someone else to see him like this.  It made something in Michael hum and settle happily in his chest, his entropy evening out as though Alex’s breathing and heartbeat were a song that soothed his mind.

It was like they were in their own little world.  Valenti had been called to a nearby hospital for an emergency and since Michael wasn’t sure exactly how Alex felt about anyone else at the moment, he didn’t bother letting anyone besides Isobel knowing what was going on.  

-

“So all it took for you to get along with Kyle was me getting sick?”  Alex teased him, cheeks finally showing some color that wasn’t from a fever and Michael rolled his eyes while using his powers to tuck the blanket around Alex.  

“I can tolerate Valenti when he’s useful, if I have to.”  Michael admitted sourly, “this isn’t going to become a common thing, Alex.  I wasn’t going to risk you dying or something and he’s the expert on human illnesses.”

“So what you’re saying,” Alex drawled with a glint of mischief in his eyes that made Michael wary, “is that Kyle has a better understanding of my anatomy than you?”  

“Alex,” Michael said warningly and was greeted with a smirk, “sometimes I wonder if you want me to break his face.”

“Sorry.”  He didn’t sound sorry at all, “but you kind of set yourself up for that one.”  When all Michael did was glower at him, Alex chuckled and reached out a hand to him.  “Thank you for trying to work with him.”

-

Taking care of Alex when he was incoherent and mumbling unintelligible things and barely able to hold a cup without spilling on himself was the easy part.  Taking care of a bed-ridden but coherent Alec was a trial in patience and a test in cunning.

“Guerin, no.”  

“What happened to Michael?”

“Michael is reserved for when you’re not holding a very sharp razor.”  Alex replied and gave the blade a very wary look.  “I’m fine waiting to shave.”

“You’ve been complaining about how being sweaty and not being able to shave is making you feel gross.  I can help with that.”  Michael sat down next to Alex and put the razor back on the tray of grooming supplies he’d gathered.

“I haven’t seen you clean shaven since we were kids.”  Alex raised a brow and looked at him challengingly, “you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“You’ll find I’ve only perfected my technique over the years.”  Michael said and grinned smugly before letting his mouth soften into a much gentler smile.  He raised his hand slowly and cupped Alex’s jaw, “I can tell it’s bothering you sweetheart, if you can, trust me with this.  Okay?”  He made sure his voice and his grip were tender, no demands.  If Alex decided he didn’t want this, Michael would respect that.  Alex watched him, brown eyes dark and gorgeous, brow furrowed in a way that made Michael want to soothe away all of his exhaustion.  

“Alright,” Alex said, pressing his cheek into Michael’s palm.  “I’d appreciate it then.  And Michael,” Alex paused, “I do trust you.  

Michael’s breath caught in his chest and he bit back the biting humor that defensively came to mind.  Even after all this time spent with Alex, there was a lingering fear that nipped at his heels and hid in the shadows of his brain.  

“Let’s put it to the test then, Private.”

-

Alex held himself still.  The moment, the act of Michael shaving him felt fragile.  It was his skin that a blade was pressed against, but he felt as though he were a sniper with Michael in his sights.  

Michael’s hands were calloused and warm, gentle but firm on his face, moving Alex where he needed to go.  The blade a steady and soft pressure.  Each slide of it against his face came with a strange pressure before it disappeared.  Soon enough he realized that Michael was using his powers to delicately maneuver the razor so that Alex was completely safe from even the tiniest and most accidental of cuts.  That devoted attention -on top of Michael’s dedication while he was sick- nearly broke Alex’s already cracked heart.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t think I’ve said that yet.”  He finally murmured, trying not to startle Michael.

“Alex, not right now.”  Michael said and gave him a stern look, “let me finish this.  I’m almost done.”  

Alex waited until he’d lifted the razor away to wipe it clean and then reached up, tangled his fingers with the hand Michael still had on his jaw.  Tilting his head he pressed a kiss to the now unscarred skin of Michael’s left hand, “you just keep on taking care of me.  I didn’t get to tell you how much I was looking forward to dinner.  To a real date, with you.”  

Michael gave a slow shuddering breath and clenched his eyes shut for a long moment, fingers tightening on Alex’s.  “Alex, why do you... you.  Fuck, you have the absolute worst timing for everything don’t you?”  Michael opened his eyes and Alex swallowed, already having forgotten what he meant to say in reply.  Michael’s eyes were fierce and burning and Alex felt consumed by the intensity.  

“Every time I try to wait for the right time, I hurt us both.  I don’t want to, I can’t keep doing that.  Eventually, I’ll be too late again.  Waiting for you was , Michael.  I don’t want to push you away again, just because I can’t figure out when or how to tell you what I feel or what I want.”  Alex kept his gaze locked on Michael’s.  “So, because I think I need to make it clear.  I wanted that date with you.  I knew what I was going to wear.  I wanted that night to end with a decision.”  

“And what decision would that be?”  Michael asked, voice hoarse but gaze no less relentless.  

“That no matter what, I’ll be there for you.  You’re my family, Michael.”  Michael’s gaze dimmed a little and Alex quickly continued, “but that’s not all I want you to be.  I wanted to tell you at dinner that I wanted more. That I want a relationship with you.  That I still love you.  I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Michael didn’t let him add anything else, just half lunged forward and Alex was dimly aware of the tray hitting the wall.  Pushed out of the way by Michael’s powers and then he was lost.  Pulled away from reality until his world began and ended with the press of Michael’s lips on his own.  Fingers sliding through his hair and tangling with the messy strands and hushed words of “I want that.  I want you,” pressed between gasps of air against his lips.  

He didn’t know how much time had passed before they parted.  Michael pressing one last kiss against his lips before pressing tiny, softer kisses against his cheeks and neck.

It took a long moment for Alex to come down from that euphoria, he was dizzy from the exertion of their kiss and he could do little more than rest a hand on Michael’s head.  By the time Michael stopped lavishing him with affection, Alex was waning and his eyes fluttering in a desperate attempt to stay awake.  

“If that’s all it took to wear you out, then we’re going to need to work on your stamina darling.”  Michael’s teasing was gentle and Alex gave a tired scoff in response.  Whatever energy he’d gained that day was gone and he just wanted to fall asleep with Michael’s comforting heat and weight against him.  “Alex, Alex stay awake just a little longer.”  Alex struggled to open his eyes and was rewarded with a soft, “there we go.  I meant it when I said you have the worst timing, let me just finish this and you can sleep.”  

Michael’s voice, his hands, the words he was speaking and even the scrape of metal from the razor all seemed twined together in something deeply comforting.  

-

Michael stretched out, tearing off his shirt as he headed to the Airstreams shower.  It had been a long but successful day and he was pleased with the amount of work he’d gotten done.  It had been a few months since Alex had missed their date and somehow, during the two weeks that he’d taken off, everyone had decided to have problems that had to be fixed.  While he couldn’t complain about the steady work, it did bite into his time spent both with Alex and in his bunker.  Of the two, Alex was his priority, but he did miss time spent discovering and learning more about who he was and where he was from.  The piece of his ship that Jim Valenti had left Alex, stayed in the bunker under the cabin, a place that Alex and he had been converting to both a lab and a more functional safehouse.  

Done with his shower, Michael went to grab new clothes and then cursed.  He’d been doing laundry at the cabin and apparently, he’d been forgetting to bring it back with him.  Deciding that if anyone pulled him over they could just deal with it, he put on his dusty and grease smeared jeans and forewent a shirt.  It wasn’t until he went to grab the rest of his dirty laundry that he really looked around the Airstream and he paused, taking in something that should have been obvious.

The Airstream was practically empty.

Oh it still held pieces of him.  It was still very clearly somewhere he had lived, but the longer he looked around the more he realized he didn’t live there anymore.  Somehow, in the days, weeks and now months of being with Alex, he’d only slept at the Airstream when he was too tired to drive home.  Or on the rare occasions when they were in town and he convinced Alex that it was faster to just stop at the Airstream instead of driving to the cabin.  

Michael drove on the side of too fast as he headed back to the cabin.  Alex was in the backyard, his laughter ringing through the air like a siren call when he arrived and Michael followed it.  The beagle pup they’d rescued was darting around, valiantly attempting to chase a soccer ball that outsized her.  Alex turned and smiled at him, looking healthier and happier than ever and Michael understood now what Alex had meant about feeling seventeen again.  Except they weren’t, they were better now.  Stronger, able to take care of each other and he knew that neither of them would ever look away again.  

“Too hot to put a shirt on, Cowboy?”  Alex asked as he met him for a kiss.

“More like I forgot that all my clothes were here,” Michael said evenly and he could feel Alex tensing under his hands, “I’ll have to remember to take some spares over tomorrow.”  

“Just some spares?”  Alex asked, voice tinged with hopefulness that let Michael know they were both on the same page.

“My home’s here,” Michael said and he put his left hand on Alex’s chest, right over his heart.  Alex was the music he needed to survive this planet, to survive the universe.  Whether that was here, in a little cabin in Roswell or on a ship set to explore the universe.  So long as he had Alex, his mind was quiet and life was worth it.