#el-gilliath

7. “This isn’t goodbye”

The words had haunted him throughout the night. The distant sound of Alex’s guitar and his voice, the echo of it in the desert as he played to the stars and to Michael, seemingly asleep in the Airstream next to him.

Michael had fallen asleep with Alex in his arms and had woken up to the cold night air and music on the wind.

It’s not goodbye when I want to be anyone, anywhere with you

Alex’s voice was as beautiful as it had been a few years ago, playing emo standards in the back of Michael’s pick up as Michael tried hard to ignore the thrum of pain in his left hand.

This wasn’t a emo standard, that Michael knew. He had no clue if it was something new, he hadn’t changed his station from the classic country station since Alex left. He had changed it to avoid the songs he knew only because of Alex, just as he had avoided everything in his life that Alex had touched.

He didn’t even remember seeing Alex’s guitar when he pulled up in his rental car. They hadn’t really wasted a moment. Alex had stepped out, duffle bag in hand, and Michael had thrown it to the back of the Airstream and had pulled Alex into his arms.

And it’s not goodbye when I say I have to go because everywhere I carry a little piece of you. And every time I leave a little bit of me with you.

Michael glanced at the clock. 5 am. Alex would be leaving soon, Michael knew. That’s how they did this. Limited time, no goodbyes. Just Michael waking up in the morning to silence and the vast empty desert, nothing but the stars and his loneliness for company. This was a change, waking up before Alex actually left.

He wasn’t sure if it was better.

And it’s not goodbye because I’ll miss you every day and it’s not goodbye when I still your face, even a thousand miles away.

Was it better to know Alex didn’t want to leave, just as much as Michael didn’t? Was it better to know that Alex didn’t spend his last few hours with Michael at his side, instead he left to sing to the stars about how hopeless they were?

Michael rolled over. The pillows were thin, but Alex wasn’t singing loudly and the gusts of wind would cover up anything else. It would have to do.

Michael closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Tried to ignore how much he hurt at the thought that Alex never said goodbye, never said I’ll see you again. Michael could hear the strum of the guitar stop. He heard Alex’s card door slam. He braced himself for the sound of the engine as it started.

It never came. Instead, the Airstream door opened and Alex slipped off his jacket, then his jeans. His cold body slipped under the thin sheets. Michael shivered. Alex pulled him in tight. Michael kept his eyes closed.

Alex hummed and kissed his shoulder. He hummed the melody he had been singing. Michael let his body relax. Alex kept humming as Michael drifted back to sleep.

And it’s not goodbye because I keep coming home to you.

---

This definitely doesn’t fit perfectly your prompt, but I hope you like it!

word count | [2,770 words] 

pairing | [malex] 

characters | [michael guerin, alex manes] 

warnings |  [angst, mentions of torture, mentions of blood, injuries, mentions of abductions]  

author’s notes | [beta’ed by @islndgurl777​] [many many thanks to @eveningspirit for her hand-holding and guidance while outlining this!] 

summary |  [alex has been missing for weeks, and michael has finally found a lead to find him]

can’t buy back yesterday

His heart is thumping in his chest in sync with his footsteps — calculated, measured, so unlike his usual recklessness that heʼs sure Max would be proud of him — as he threads the corridors on his own, the silence surrounding him deafening.

Theyʼve decided that splitting would be beneficial for their goal, but Michael had refused to leave with a partner. Max and Liz work fine together, and Isobel is really at ease with pairing up with Valenti. Rosa and Maria have chosen to remain outside, waiting by the trucks, ready to flee the moment everyone gets outside the building — even if Mariaʼs newly discovered powers could have been handy in a situation like this one, she hadnʼt trusted herself with them. That had left Michael to choose between joining one of the other teams or fending for himself.

He’s chosen the latter. He knows he canʼt trust the rest with saving Alex, and his powers are by far the most convenient in a rescue operation.

Max has given him a pitying look, and Isobel has squeezed his shoulder in passing. No one has made him promise to be careful inside, very much like they have done with each other — Michael knows theyʼre aware he would do anything for Alex, and that asking him to think instead of act when Alex is involved is one giant waste of time and words. Even Maria knows that, and he’s chosen her over Alex.

This corridor is just another dead end in a row of disappointing leads he’s followed in the past twenty minutes. He’s been using his powers to guide him through the building they’re raiding, eerily silent and abandoned just like Caulfield had been; maybe that’s why Michael feels so unnerved about the whole ordeal of searching for Alex in here. There are so many red flags flaring up in his mind — so many memories of cells, of prisoners, of torturing and blowing up — but his gut tells him that Alex is somewhere trapped among the cells peppering the corridors he’s been checking. He’s never been wrong about Alex, not even when they have been apart, be it because of war or because of their own stupidity.

He knows Alex is in here. He’s just failing to find him, and that’s taking a toll on his determination.

It’s been weeks since any of them had last seen Alex. It had taken them several days to realize that Alex wasn’t around, that something was wrong. Michael would always kick himself about that — about having fallen so far off Alex that he hadn’t noticed his absence until it had been too late. Now, so many weeks later, Michael is finally following a clue that might lead them to actually finding Alex. Michael’s scared of the state Alex might be in the first time he sees him. He’s afraid that he might have arrived too late, given that it’s the story of his life — learning about Sanders twenty years late, acknowledging his own need for help and love twenty years late — but this time it could be worse. It’s Alex’s life they’re trying to save; a second late and it would be too late for backpedaling. Too late for rescuing him. Too late for Michael to look into those eyes one last time before breaking both their hearts again — because that’s what he does, breaking them beyond repair.

He’s trusting his instincts right now, as he approaches the end of the corridor full of empty cells. He knows Alex is in here somewhere, he can feel it in his bones. There’s another metallic door in front of him, the last one he has to try before moving on and leave a shred of his heart behind. He places his hand on the knob, tugging at it to budge. When it doesn’t, Michael frowns. Until now, every door has opened without trouble; he hasnʼt even had to use his powers to check the other cells. But this one isn’t like the others — this one is locked.

replied to your photo

“Official S3 description via The CW In season three, still reeling...”

Please do not get me hopeful for s3, I don't have time for clown college 😂🤡

None of us have, and yet here I am, applying for the full ride scholarship to Clown College as we speak. 🙃

I’M MALEX TRASH THR🤡UGH AND THR🤡UGH

He has to be doing it for a reason though, he has a plan

“You know I’m not letting you inside looking like that.”

Alex is giving him the eyebrow. The eyebrow that says ‘I’m less than amused, Michael.’ That says, ‘tread carefully, Michael.’ That says, ‘if you set so much as one paw in this house right now you’ll be sleeping outside, Michael.’

He whines, long and low. To be fair, his vocal capabilities are somewhat limited. If he were human it would have come out as a groan. He looks up at Alex balefully. He’s tired; exhausted, really, and the scorching sun has left him burnt out and wanting nothing more than to collapse inside in the shade and take a well-earned nap. And maybe an ice cube.

“Don’t look at me like that, you know the drill,” Alex says, his posture relaxed but unyielding as he leans faux-casually against the wooden door frame.

Michael grunts and lets gravity pull him down to his haunches; seriously contemplates just collapsing right here on the porch and taking his nap, indoors be damned. 

Alex takes a step toward him, tone chiding. “Oh no. Nope. You are not sleeping out here again. You stained the deck last time.” 

He remembers it well. Too well. Alex had made him clean it. Michael had spent hours on his hands and knees trying to scrub the damn stain out, utilizing every creative cuss he knew, before giving up and renting a pressure washer. His back aches just thinking about it. 

“Awuh,” he whines, and, okay, yeah, he knows he’s not playing fair. Alex’s eyes go just a little bit soft, like they always do when he ‘speaks’ Alex’s name (or the closest approximation he can manage given the limitations of the canine vocal range). He’s not above playing dirty.

Alex huffs, shakes his head. “No, Guerin. You’ve got hours yet before you can change back, and it was your choice to roll in - ” he sniffs not-so-delicately, “whatever the hell it is you’re covered in. You need a bath.” 

Michael looks down. He is pretty filthy. Mud coats his paws from the rain they’d had overnight, and he is well aware of the fact that he smells like wet dog. Because - well - he is a wet dog. He watches Alex’s nose crinkle adorably and considers himself lucky that Alex’s nose isn’t as strong as his is right now or he’d probably never be allowed to touch Alex ever again, wolf or human. The blood matting his fur is even less desirable, he knows, but there’s something about a fresh carcass that makes his lower wolf!brain go kinda hinky. It’s not his fault, okay. It’s genetics. Liz said so herself.

He licks his blood-stained muzzle not-a-little sheepishly.

The thing most werewolf stories overlook is that the full moon lasts for more than just one night under the cover of darkness. No. The full moon lasts days, and the moon still exists when the sun is shining. The pull on him is strongest when the moon is at its fullest, sure, but the days just before and after have no small impact, too. He can feel its power waning now, though, and he’ll be able to shift back soon. Today, at least. He’s confident. 

For now, though, bath. 

Begrudgingly, and with no small amount of grunting and whining, he hauls himself to his feet and pads across the porch to the side of the cabin where the bucket and pump reside. He barely fits in the cabin’s small bathing tub as a human, let alone as a large quadrupedal animal. So they’d adapted.

Their setup is pretty clever if he does say so himself. He’d put it all together at Alex’s insistence and after several tersely worded not-arguments. Paving stones now lead around the side of the cabin to a cement slab that funnels the water runoff into the nearby ditch. A hand pump connects directly to the well for easy access. 

He plods over to the slab and assumes the position. After a long moment Alex follows him around the corner, stripped to the waist, towel slung over one arm. He feels his tail start to swish back and forth without his consent. Traitorous apendage.

The well water is cold, which is admittedly not terrible. It really is hot as fuck outside. Alex pours bucket after bucket over him, neck and shoulders and back and haunches, and he watches as the majority of the blood and caked-on mud rinses down the hill. He represses the urge to shake it off. The slightly floral-scented dog shampoo comes out next, and he has to admit that it’s not entirely unpleasant to have those long fingers shifting purposefully through his fur. Alex washes him briskly, efficiently; scrubs his back and belly, chuckling as he passes over that spot that makes his hind leg shudder and shake, lifts each foot and rinses it clean, takes a washcloth to his gory muzzle. 

When he’s clean enough to pass inspection Alex rubs him down thoroughly with the towel; leaves tufts of newly-revealed brown fur charged and standing on end. He waits, as patiently as he can manage, for Alex to back away before shaking himself, head to tail. He feels suddenly jittery and wired, and he suppresses the urge to prance in place only by sheer force of will. He looks up to see Alex looking back down at him, big brown eyes lit with amusement.

“Yeah, okay. Go ahead,” he says, and laughs as Michael takes off running across the field. The zoomies, they’re real. And no, he can’t explain them. 

From over the ridge he hears Alex’s sharp whistle and he lopes back to the cabin, tongue lolling. This time when he tries to enter Alex steps aside and lets him through the doorway. He makes sure to rub against his leg as he passes, careful not to unbalance him on his prosthetic. He circles, snuffles at him, finds his scent there. Better.

In the kitchen he drinks greedily from the bowl on the floor and waits patiently, tail swishing, as Alex retrieves an ice cube from the freezer. If Valenti ever asks he will go to his grave denying the accusation that he does ‘tricks’. It’s degrading. He’s a half-wild creature of mythology, not a goddamned show poodle. But. The way the corner of Alex’s mouth twitches as he snatches the ice out of the air means he’s willing to make some concessions. He crunches contentedly and goes to lie down on the cool wooden floor. 

Alex drops himself onto the couch moments later, shirt disappointingly back in place, and swings his legs up to stretch out. Michael flops over onto his side and chuffs happily. After a moment Alex’s hand drops into the fur at his ruff and he lets himself drift off to the feeling of that gentle touch. 

He wakes some time later, in the hazy, long hours of the red-orange afternoon; shudders and groans through the agony of his shift, and is welcomed, still shaking, into the circle of Alex’s warm arms.