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bitch i’m a monster [Part III]

if you haven’t read Part I and Part II, i would not suggest starting here!

A/N: this part was hard to write, & it got really long? it’s almost 6k of biting, talking, & denial, with some angst on Michael’s end thrown in for fun. the last part is much more light-hearted, & will end happily. don’t believe me? i don’t blame you. i’ve lied to you twice now about how long the damn thing is going to be, but the next part really is the finale!

major thanks to @soberqueerinthewild for listening to me bitch & moan over this section, coming up with the brilliant idea that the last part centers around, & reading over the first three drafts of this section. (why does she put up with me? the world will never know.)

warnings for biting, blood drinking, somewhat graphic descriptions of blood & pretty obvious references to sex, though it is not explicit. also, yes, self-indulgence & ridiculousness abound.

To Alex, it’s as if the world freezes in the next moment.

The hunger is still there, clawing at his insides, but it seems less all-consuming than it had a moment ago. It’s shock, maybe — Alex certainly feels numb enough, and the ringing in his ears and disconnect from his own body are the same symptoms he woke up to when he’d lost his leg. And really, it makes sense. This is impossible. Michael, sitting cross-legged in front of him, staring back evenly into the vampire’s eyes that Alex couldn’t conceal any longer. Their knees are touching, now that Alex has shoved himself back into a sitting position, and Michael’s got a hold of both his hands as if he’s afraid Alex will be the one to leave since he’s refused. If they’d been wearing less clothing and not trapped in the middle of the desert, it would be a scene straight out of Alex’s fantasies, and it doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

He’s known since Sebastian did this to him that Michael couldn’t ever find out, that no one could ever find out, could ever be involved in this part of Alex’s world. Every time Alex had succumbed to a moment of weakness and allowed Michael to get closer, his imagination had conjured images of the disgust, the horror, that would paint his face if he ever saw Alex like this. He’d convinced himself that keeping Michael far, far away from his darker self was the only way to keep him safe, and now that it’s all ruined, Alex has no idea what he’s supposed to do next — especially since at this moment, it feels like he’s smothering in his own skin and the only available source of oxygen is the blood flowing through Michael’s veins.

“Alex, breathe.” Calloused hands release Alex’s, only to take hold of his shoulders and shake. The motion is gentle, but it’s enough to make him realize that while he hadn’t been registering the pain, it had still taken hold. His entire body had seized, his muscles tensed, and at some point, he’d stopped breathing. So he lets the air out of his lungs in a sharp exhale and shoves Michael back, putting at least a few inches between his body and Alex’s teeth. He can smell it now, the blood, and his baser self is locked on that scent like a shark would be on bleeding prey in open water. It doesn’t matter that Michael has no open wounds, that Alex shouldn’t be able to smell blood contained by skin. But the fragile barrier is nothing to his supernatural senses. It would take less than an instant for Alex to rend that flesh and have living blood in his mouth, flowing through his veins —

And fuck, apparently a few inches of space isn’t enough to get that scent out of his nose. Alex clenches his jaw and closes his lips, less to hide the fangs that Guerin’s already seen and more to put an added layer of pathetic protection between them and Michael’s fragile body.

“Why can’t you ever just listen?” Alex demands, though the words emerge as more of a ragged sob than the accusation he wants them to be. “Fuck, Guerin, would it kill you to just follow an order once in your life?” Like the onset of the attacks, the release is unpredictable. Alex’s muscles suddenly unclench, and he slumps forward, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched as he struggles to catch his breath while he can.

“This time, I think it would have killed you,” Michael says tersely, and when Alex lifts his aching head to look at him, he actually has the gall to look angry. Alex is trying to protect him, to get him to see reason and run for once in his damned life while his entire body screams at him to do otherwise, and Michael’s pissed? Unbelievable.

“You do realize you just basically had a seizure or something, right?” Michael continues, his voice unyielding. “While we’re god knows how far from help?”

Alex’s laugh is bitter and inappropriate, but he can’t help it. “Help? Christ, Guerin, look at me.” He lifts his chin and forces his lips apart so that his fangs are on display. He knows all too well what he looks like — predatory. Inhuman. Monstrous. He holds the position for as long as he can stand, letting Michael see everything he’s so painstakingly hidden for the last several years. Every wall he’s put in place to keep himself safely hidden away is gone, and Alex is left feeling exposed and vulnerable and off-kilter, and he’s not ashamed to admit that his temper is short. “What the hell do you think a hospital can do for me? I’m a vampire, Michael. I can’t go to a doctor any more than you can. They don’t exactly give the kind of blood transfusions I need.”

“Right.” Michael is quiet for a moment, and Alex uses the respite to duck his head, chin to chest, and tries to figure out his next move. If Michael won’t leave him, the next logical solution is for Alex to leave — but he’s not optimistic about his ability to even stand, right now, let alone move fast enough that Michael won’t be able to keep up with him. Under normal circumstances, he could run faster than the human (or alien) eye could track; he could get back to Roswell in five minutes and this entire nightmare would be over. But somehow, Jesse Manes has enough information on vampires to know what constant exposure to sunlight does to Alex. He has enough data to organize the perfect trap for Alex and Michael — and as long as they make it out of this damned desert alive, Alex is going to find out how, exactly, his father knows all of it, and he’s going to make damn sure this never happens again. With his teeth, if necessary.

“For god’s sake, this is ridiculous,” Michael says suddenly, and Alex’s head jolts upright in surprise. Concerned, dark eyes find Alex’s and he finds himself relaxing fractionally at the warmth that has never quite dissipated from that familiar gaze, no matter how bad things have gotten between them. Even now, with his vampiric features on full display, that hasn’t changed — and the desperate hope that flares to life in Alex’s chest at the realization hurts more than hunger ever could.

“Here.” The decisive tone pulls his attention back to Michael, but before Alex can snap that he really needs to stop fucking talking long enough for Alex to get his inner beast back on a leash, there’s a pale wrist thrust in front of his face, a spiderwebbing of bluish veins immediately drawing the laser-focus of his enhanced vision. The world around him blurs alarmingly, and when it rights itself, Alex’s lips are brushing Michael’s skin. The fingers of one treacherously strong hand are wrapped around Guerin’s wrist, the others around his elbow, and Alex knows his grip is too tight, that he’s pressing finger-print shaped bruises onto the otherwise unmarred canvas of Michael’s skin. But Alex is hanging onto control by his fingernails, and all of his energy is dedicated to keeping his lips tucked over his fangs — he can’t even pull his face away, let alone release the death grip he has on Michael’s arm.

“Come on, man, just do it.” Impatience colors Michael’s order, and Alex stops breathing entirely, fury at Michael’s lack of self-preservation momentarily eclipsing everything else. “This is all because you’re hungry, right? All the pain, and the seizures, and the uh, teeth?” The hesitance around that word is understandable, and Alex is in enough physical pain that he barely feels the sting of it. “So dig in. I’m an all-you-can-eat alien buffet.”

Alex exhales raggedly and summons every iota of strength he’s got left to sit back. His fingers are still digging into Michael’s arm, and he can feel the tips of his fangs scoring his own lips, but he’s not about to sink them into Michael, so Alex considers it a win. “This isn’t a joke, Guerin,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw.

Michael snorts. “You sure? Kind’ve sounds like one, if you think about it. ‘An alien and a vampire are trapped in the desert . . .’”

For a moment, Alex just stares at the smug, teasing smirk on Michael’s face, rendered utterly speechless by the cavalier attitude toward something that could cost him his goddamned life. It lasts for a moment before Alex’s patience abruptly snaps. He snarls, fangs bared, and lunges forward, tackling Michael to the ground in a blur of movement he’d believed himself incapable of only a few moments prior. It’s all too easy to pin Michael’s bulk to the sun-baked dirt with his body; Alex grips strong wrists and forces them to to the ground as he settles his weight against Michael’s thighs. Short of a miraculous disappearance of the pollen still coating his curls, there’s no way Michael can move unless Alex allows it — and he’s not feeling particularly magnanimous at the moment.

“There’s a rock in my kidney now, thanks,” Guerin gripes breathlessly, the air knocked from his lungs by the impact of his fall. His muscles go lax, head lolling to one side as he looks up into Alex’s furious face expectantly. He makes no effort to fight back; instead, Michael just waits, neck vulnerable and exposed by this new position, and Alex wants to shake him for not realizing the danger he’s inviting.

“I could kill you, and you’re cracking jokes!” he hisses, mouth dangerously close to a major artery as he bends inward, letting the tips of his fangs slide over the shell of Michael’s ear. Finally, the steady, thudding rhythm of Michael’s heartbeat accelerates as Alex pushes him further into the desert floor, and if he wasn’t so damn hungry, so determined to make his fucking point, it would be enough to stop him. Fear isn’t an emotion he ever wants to inspire in Michael, and every human instinct he has screams for Alex to stop, to pull away and tell Michael to start running -- but they’re past that point, now, if it was ever even really an option.

“You don’t know what you’re risking right now, Guerin. If you had any idea how much I want to hold you down like this and tear into your fucking throat, you wouldn’t be laughing!” He wants to sound angry. He wants Michael to hear the threat inherent in those words, to understand that Alex would never have let his fangs drop if he were in any kind of control, and that every second they play this game is sending him hurtling closer to the edge of a cliff that he won’t be able to avoiding falling from. Nonetheless, the words emerge as more of a desperate croak, and he has to drop his forehead to Michael’s chest to ride out another wave of agony as his body reminds him that he’s only inches from ending it.

His fingers spasm and his grip fails, but instead of pulling away, Michael just lifts one hand to cup the back of Alex’s head, repositioning them both so that Alex’s face rests in the cradle of Michael’s neck and shoulder. “If you were really out of control, you would’ve done it already,” he says quietly, and Alex can feel the words rumble through his chest where they’re pressed together. “And I trust you.” There are gentle fingers sliding through Alex’s hair, caressing the back of his head, and the soft gesture is in such fierce juxtaposition with the pain raging through his body that he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“C’mon, Alex, just let me take care of you this time, huh?” Michael continues to cajole, his voice low and calm, almost hypnotizing, and Alex struggles to remember why biting him would be such a bad idea. He’s still on top of Michael, chest-to-chest, his face tucked into the other man’s neck, and Michael sounds so damn certain that this is the right thing to do, that it would be okay —

Alex trembles, but gives in.

There are no other options anymore; Michael isn’t going anywhere, and Alex doubts he would be able to let him, even if he wanted to. And God help him, but he’s so hungry. “Two minutes,” he rasps. “Count it out, and if I don’t stop by the time you’re done, yank my hair and make me,” he murmurs against Michael’s skin, wishing that he had the ambition to lift his head and impress the importance of such a request on this man that means so much to him. But the energy that movement would take is too much, and Alex finds himself slumping completely into Michael instead, nuzzling against his neck entirely on instinct. “Don’t let me hurt you, Michael,” he manages, though the quiet plea is barely understandable around his fangs.

And then, before logic can beat out need and instinct, before Michael can even take a breath to respond, Alex sinks his fangs into the artery pulsing just beneath his nose.

As soon as the first drop of blood hits Alex’s tongue, any semblance of rational thought ceases to exist. He’s euphoric with the sudden lack of pain, giddy with relief and the taste of something forbidden, and Michael’s hand is still on the back of his head, cradling him as he drinks like he’s something precious. In that moment, negativity and fear flee, and Alex is in no hurry for them to return. He’s never taken blood straight from the source before, is accustomed to refrigerated, congealing goop that barely sates the hunger and leaves him cold and wanting, but able to function as human.

Michael’s blood, though, is alive. It’s hot and addictive as it drips into Alex’s mouth and turns to raw energy in his veins. Drinking it is like shoving his finger in an electrical socket and seems to create a current over his skin, cranking every nerve receptor up to ten and hyper-sensitizing his entire body. In the rush, Alex forgets to drink, reveling in pure sensation. For the first time in three long years, Alex feels like more than a reanimated corpse going through the motions of life. He feels whole, real, and he never wants to go back.

A trickle of blood distracts him as it escapes his lips and trails down damp, sunburnt skin. Alex chases it, licking a long stripe up the tendon beneath Michael’s ear before sealing his mouth back over the wound he’d made. Michael shivers beneath him, shifting restlessly, and Alex uses some of his rapidly burgeoning strength to pin him again. Inhuman heat emanates from Michael’s body, soaking through the thin cotton of Alex’s shirt and into his chest, and he presses impossibly closer, his entire body canting into Michael’s. Raw pleasure shoots up his spine as the evidence of his desire presses hard into Michael’s thigh, and Alex is too far gone to be embarrassed. He repeats the movement, a slow roll of his hips, and all but purrs when Michael responds with a cut off groan.

The low, throaty chuckle that echoes from Michael’s chest resonates through Alex’s as well due to their proximity, and he focuses for a moment, trying to unscramble his brain without disengaging from the source of his newfound energy. With the monster in his head sated by the promise of blood, it’s easier to do, and he abruptly realizes that Michael’s talking to him, murmuring something every time it seems like Alex is going to stop or pull away. The words are lost in the flood of arousal and that overwhelming energy still buzzing through his body, but Alex can hear his voice. He’s always associated that low, lust-rough rumble with contentment, with safety, and the warm embrace cocooning him does nothing to erase that feeling. Instead, it sends the same message to Alex’s subconscious as always: he’s safe. He’s loved. He’s wanted. He’s allowed to have this.

He turns his attention back to the task at hand and drinks from the wound he’d made in slow, careful pulls, savoring every drop of blood as it slides down his throat. Each sip stokes the fire growing low in his stomach, and every shiver or shudder from Michael only encourages Alex on — he’s lost track of anything resembling time, knows only hunger and desire and the pursuit of more. The world outside is lost in a sea of pleasure, and some part of Alex knows that this could be the last time he gets to have Michael this way, the last time he’ll be allowed to touch him, and the rest of him responds with a frightening desperation.

Then, all too soon, Michael’s tugging gently on his hair, trying to get his attention, and Alex honest-to-god whines when he’s forced to disengage his fangs and look up into Michael’s flushed face. Hunger is still a low, non-exigent buzz beneath his skin, but it’s melded so completely with arousal and energy that Alex can’t separate it any longer. His lips are wet with blood, his features still twisted into a predatory visage, but Michael is smirking at him like he hasn’t noticed, and Alex can’t help but smile back. His humanity is a distant thing, present, but walled off by instinct and want, and he’s in no hurry to let it shackle him back to self-loathing and guilt.

“That was two minutes,” Michael says while his fingers trail over Alex’s temple and down his cheek. The touch is careful over the blown, black veins around his eyes, but he doesn’t shy away from them. Alex pushes into the touch, letting it soothe the need still burning through his veins. “But I’m not dizzy or anything, and you look like you could use a little bit longer.” The scrutiny should bother him, Alex knows distantly — he doesn’t like being fussed over, and it’s not Michael’s job to take care of him. But in that moment, when he wants nothing more than to meld his skin with his lover’s and keep him there, in that moment forever, it feels good to have Michael’s worried eyes on him.

But something in the back of Alex’s mind tells him that Michael’s words are important, that he needs to pay attention. Two minutes? The significance of that time frame escapes Alex, though he knows it should mean something, and he struggles to push through the influx of energy and emotion to piece it together. But Michael isn’t repeating himself, is relaxed and comfortable beneath Alex, so the attempt fails. Alex tilts his head to one side, letting his disinterest in the topic be known, and entertains himself by tracing the features of Michael’s face with a fingertip. He stalls when he hits sun-roughened lips, and leans in to press his mouth against them, fangs and all. In this state, Alex is a creature of simple pleasures, and in that moment, all he wants is to kiss Michael.

There’s no resistance. Michael’s lips part under Alex’s insistent tongue easily, and they get lost in the give and take of kissing and roaming hands. There’s a voice in the back of Alex’s head reminding him that they’re trapped out here, that his father’s trying to kill them, and that lying in the sand is hardly the right place for any of this, but he ignores it. This is what he’s wanted for years, forever, and finally, he’s able to separate himself from stupid, human worries and take it. So he grinds his hips down into Michael’s, chasing sensation and that connection with someone he loves, and makes no effort to hold himself back. His hands slide beneath Michael’s shirt, palms sweeping over the expanse of sweat-tacky skin and muscle, and Alex moans openly when Michael shifts, pressing his thigh up at just the right angle to send sparks dancing along Alex’s spine.

And for a while, it’s just the two of them lost in a fog of touch and desire. It’s all so familiar and easy, like sliding on an old, comfortable flannel after losing it for years, and Alex can’t quite believe that they’re here again, together and connected in a way that he thought was lost for good. But eventually, Michael has to breathe; Alex can feel him panting raggedly against his mouth and pulls away to give him the chance, even as his body clamors for more.

He repositions himself carefully across Michael’s chest, tucking his cheek against one shoulder, nearest the puncture marks from his last bite, and busies himself with lapping at the weeping wound. Blood has left stains on Michael’s skin and pooled in the divot of his collarbone, and Michael huffs in surprise when Alex’s tongue meets the sensitive area impatiently. The taste isn’t as good now that the blood’s been able to cool, but Alex isn’t picky — and he knows that Michael won’t mind if he bites him again. He’d basically invited it, hadn’t he?

“So, Anne Rice got the whole blood and sex thing right, huh?” Michael teases, once he’s gotten his breath back. “I guess fiction’s gotta get a lucky guess once in a while … but I’m yet to see the alien movie that gets it right.”

Alex freezes, humanity returning all too quickly with a flood of embarrassment. He doesn’t know exactly why, but something in that good-natured joke reminds him that this isn’t normal. That he’s spent the last fifteen minutes out of his mind and rutting up against his ex’s thigh like a horny teenager — and the worst part is that even now, with his entire body frozen in mortification, he’s still straddling Michael’s legs with an impossible to miss hard-on.

“I always thought it was a little unfair, you know? Vampires and werewolves were sexy, and aliens got turned into little green men who get hauled off and dissected in every fucking movie. But I guess I’ll have to let that one go if it’s actually true, huh?” Michael’s rambling, and Alex wonders if it’s because he’s realized that reality has crept back up on Alex, and is trying to help. But even the familiar teasing timbre of Guerin’s voice isn’t enough to ease Alex’s discomfiture.

“But seriously, do you get hard every time you bite someone, or am I just special?”

If Alex had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the note of vulnerability in Michael’s voice as he asked the question. As it is, he’s too swamped with mortification and immediate protest to even wonder why Guerin’s asking. “No!” he bursts out, rolling away from the comforting warmth of Michael’s chest to put six feet of desert between them before he sinks back to the ground and wraps his arms around drawn-up knees. It’s not a reaction he’s proud of; small and vulnerable isn’t a role he adopts often, especially in the middle of a life or death situation. But today has been such a riot of emotion that Alex is exhausted, and the fact that he still has to actively work to think more like a human than an animal is wearing at his last reserves. Besides, at this point, Michael’s seen him screaming and seizing in pain, has touched every inch of his scarred flesh, and didn’t hit him when Alex sunk fangs into his neck — there’s not much Alex can do to make himself more vulnerable than that.

Even while stewing in self-pity, it’s easy to hear Michael get up, and his footfalls on the sand are far from silent. Alex tracks him as he gets closer and is intimately aware when he flops down next to him, heedless of Alex’s deep and abiding desire to put miles between them. He’s silent, obviously correctly interpreting the rigid set of Alex’s spine and the tension in his coiled muscles as a desperate need for time to pull himself together. Alex allows the silence to linger for a while, long enough that it starts to feel tense, before admitting, “I don’t bite people, Guerin. Ever. I didn’t know it would be like that. Or I wouldn’t have —” That’s not entirely true. Alex is fairly sure he would have; he’d been perilously close to losing control. So he cuts himself off, then corrects the statement: “I would’ve warned you.” He swallows, staring out at the horizon to avoid looking at Michael. “I’m sorry.”

Alex blames his positioning on why he jumps at the hand on his back; it’s impossible to have been expecting that when he’s got himself convinced that Michael’s going to run off and put as much space between them as possible. It’s what he would do, in the same situation -- alien is one thing. Vampire, though? Dependent, and turned on by, blood? Who the fuck would want that in their lives?

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me,” Michael promises, and the hand on his shoulder slides down Alex’s spine in an achingly familiar caress. The simple touch brings back so many memories of their time together; the other man has always been overly tactile with Alex, likely because he never got much in the way of physical affection himself. But whatever the reason, Michael’s never been afraid to reach out -- and the fact that he’s doing it even now, with his own blood staining Alex’s lips, is enough to make Alex tremble. He relaxes incrementally — it’s impossible not to, with Michael’s warmth at his side and against his back — and exhales on a slow sigh.

“Look, I have about a million questions, especially about how it’s possible for you to have never bitten anyone else before,” Michael says, after a moment of fidgeting alongside Alex. He’s clearly been trying to figure out the right way to say something — he always taps the fingers of his good hand on his knee in introspective moments, and Alex has known him too long to miss the signs. Internally, he groans. He doesn’t want to talk about any of this, doesn’t want to get into the limited understanding he has of vampirism or the sad story that led him there. But he owes Michael explanations, especially now, so Alex sits up straight and nods, bracing himself.

“ — but right now, I just really want to know if you got enough.” Whiskey-colored eyes scan Alex’s body, like Michael could see the symptoms of hunger if he looked closely enough, and the only response Alex can manage is a cracked, disbelieving laugh that borders on hysteria.

“You’re worried I didn’t drink enough of your blood?” he asks incredulously, once he’s regained some semblance of composure. “I pinned you down, bit you, basically molested you, and —”

“Oh, come on, Alex,” Michael interrupts with a derisive snort. “You didn’t molest me. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the only reason we’re not still having sex on a regular basis. As far as I’m concerned, you can touch me whenever and however you want.” Michael swallows, then adds, “Believe me, man, I wanted that just as much as your vampire hindbrain did. I guess I should’ve known you didn’t really want it, though.” He huffs, a bitter, self-recriminating noise. “The power of wishful thinking, huh? For a minute there, I really thought you did.”

They’re shit at talking and always have been, but Michael’s so much better at openness than Alex. He’s got no problem putting his heart out there to get broken and has given all of his secrets to Alex with an enviable ease, but returning that openness seems all but impossible, no matter how wrong Michael is. So Alex is silent, instead, and uses the time to blink away his more predatory features.

His face shifts back to human, and when he looks up at Michael next, the other man is clearly hurt by his silence and trying to hide it with irritation. “Fine. You don’t want to talk about that? Answer my damn question. Was it enough, or are you going to have another seizure in twenty minutes?”

Frustration is rough in the words, and forces himself to lift his chin to meet Michael’s gaze head-on with a cool expression of his own. It’s not ideal, but Alex doesn’t know how to give away these pieces of himself without putting up some sort of wall between them. Once he starts giving Michael that access, there won’t be any locking him out again, and Alex is terrified of what that might mean. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly, the words starkly honest. “I’ve never been in this situation before, Guerin. I only ever drink blood from a bag, and I don’t usually make a habit of spending hours in the sun. I’ve always been careful to feed on a schedule, so I don’t lose control, so this —” he hesitates, picking at the fabric of his pants distractedly. “I just don’t know, okay?”

Michael frowns. The expression isn’t unhappy; it’s the same frown Michael wears when presented with a unique puzzle, like a difficult physics problem or a philosophical hypothetical like the ones Max is so fond of throwing out for discussion. “What difference does the sun make?” he asks finally, every inch a scientist adjusting an equation for variables.

So Alex explains what he knows about how the sun affects his blood consumption, tripping over some of the words. Besides the one-sided conversation with Sebastian right after his transformation, Alex has never had anyone to talk about these things with. It’s all been locked up in his head, hidden beneath the self-loathing he felt every time he was confronted with the reality of vampirism. It’s a relief to finally be able to say the words aloud, despite the awkward situation, and it gets easier the longer he speaks.

“Okay, so, the longer we’re in the sun the worse it’s going to get,” Michael summarizes succinctly. “Considering we’re in the middle of the desert, I think we’ve got to assume you’re going to keep burning energy pretty quickly.” He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and Alex tracks the motion with his eyes, unable to stop watching Michael — as always. “So, how much blood do you normally drink at once? If you’re following your schedule? And how often?”

Alex blanches at the frank nature of the question. Talking about the science behind vampirism is one thing — admitting to the more personal aspects is harder. He still hasn’t forgotten that less than half an hour ago, he was fangs-deep in Michael’s neck and rutting against him without any care for propriety, and this topic is coming dangerously close to touching that one. But he answers, as shortly as possible. “The bags say 300 millimeters on them. I drink three every day, at normal meal times — about six hours apart. If I push it past six, I start to notice how hungry I am, and I’ve never gone longer than seven.” He winces. “Until today, anyway.”

Most people, Alex thinks, would have a hard time believing that he doesn’t have all the information about what he is. He’d made the same assumptions about Alex, after all, and knows Liz did too, after Max revealed his heritage to her. It’s a natural response, to assume that when someone admits that they’re a different species that they know their own biology, at the very least. But Michael knows better. He understands what it’s like to be something other than human and be left with more questions than answers. He knows exactly how it feels to lack control over parts of himself, and have no idea why. So he doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t look at Alex like he’s an idiot. He just nods and adds the limited knowledge to whatever equation he’s putting together in his mind.

“So you normally have 900 millilitres of blood a day, and today you’ve had — what, maybe fifty? You spent more time apologizing than you did actually drinking anything.” There’s the barest insinuation of an accusation in the statement, and Alex finds himself giving Guerin a flat look in response. “And we’re trapped in the middle of the desert, so whatever you did actually have will be burned off in an hour or so, according to that math. I’m not liking those odds, Manes.”

Alex sighs and rubs at his face. He’s more than ready to stop discussing his feeding habits, and vampirism at all — not that he thinks he’s going to get out of it. Michael’s going to have more questions, of course, and Alex owes him the answers. And it’s not even that Michael’s being overly personal about his inquiries; he’s being entirely professional, treating everything as more of a scientific hypothesis than anything else.

But maybe that’s the problem. Alex doesn’t want to be a science experiment to Michael, nor a problem to solve. He wants everything between them to be personal, and always has. Being able to open up to someone about vampirism, about all the things he doesn’t know and all of his fears and uncertainties is simultaneously terrifying and alluring, and Alex wants Michael to be that person. But instead, he’s treating him as clinically as any doctor Alex has ever seen.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Michael announces, folding his arms over his chest and glaring balefully at Alex when he only lapses into silence once again. It seems the safest option, considering he’s been far more open and honest about himself than he can ever remember being before.

“Just bite me again. You know you’re not going to lose your shit and kill me this time, and losing 300 mL of blood isn’t enough to hurt someone with my body mass. It’ll be fine, and then we can actually move onto figuring out how to get back to town instead of worrying about how long we have before you start screaming again.” He’s completely matter-of-fact as he speaks, and doesn’t let Alex even get a word in edgewise before pressing his body closer and tipping his head to one side, revealing the two careful puncture marks Alex made earlier. The motion tugs at the skin, and fresh blood wells at the site, making the monster in Alex’s chest snarl with want.

Instinct intervenes, and Alex’s fangs slide from his gums. His entire body thrills at the acrid scent in the air, and he’s tipping his head forward before he catches himself. “Damn it, Guerin,” he mutters, closing his eyes deliberately.

“What if I —”

“What if you actually relax and let me take care of you?” Michael interjects. “Yeah, that’d be a real fucking shame, wouldn’t it?” The bitterness is harder to ignore now, and it hurts in a visceral way that leaves Alex aching to prove Michael wrong. “I told you. You’re not going to do anything I don’t want. You stopped when I told you to before, even when you were out of it, so I’m not worried. So just — do it and stop arguing, for fuck’s sake.”

God help him, after a few moments of vacillation, Alex does. And this time, when he’s overtaken by the rush of endorphins and energy, he doesn’t even try stop his hand from wandering down the front of Michael’s jeans.

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