out_there | Prison Break Fic: Impossible Things (2/2)

Title: Impossible Things
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Alex
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 15,083
Notes: Continued from Part One.

***

Alex also notices that he's a little more handsy, more prone to touching Michael whenever he's close. It's not sexual, not directly. It's in the kitchen: a hand on the back of Michael's shoulder, a palm against the small of his back, fingers curled around his wrist as he stirs the gravy in the pan. It's small things like brushing Michael's arm as he walks past or resting a hand on Michael's leg when they watch TV.

Alex isn't sure if it's possessive or protective. He doesn't know if he wants to claim Michael as his and his alone, or if he just wants Michael to remember that there's still someone here, still someone on Michael's side.

There's something reassuring about having Michael warm and solid under his hand. Still, Alex is surprisingly thankful that Michael doesn't mention it.

***

Michael's mood lifts slowly, like a long icy winter gradually thawing to spring. There's nothing fast, nothing sudden about it, and it's vaguely fascinating to observe. Michael goes from sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, lost in his own thoughts as Alex watches TV, to frowning in concentration and using the commercial breaks to try to identify the on-screen culprit. Michael starts smiling again -- quick, fleeting smiles, easy to miss if Alex weren't watching for them -- and helps cook dinner and brings textbooks over. The only thing that hasn't gone back to normal is Alex's urge to touch.

He likes having a hand on Michael, resting his fingers on the soft denim of Michael's jeans or pressing his palm into the thin cotton of Michael's t-shirt. He likes leaning behind Michael when he's studying, sliding hands over Michael's shoulders and sucking a few slow kisses to the side of Michael's neck. If it were lust, if it were just a way of hurrying Michael into bed, Alex would understand it.

But it's slipping into a habit. Becoming something Alex does without really meaning to.

They're walking down the street when some douchbag in a suit gives them a dirty look. Alex glares right back until the guy backs down, glancing away, and that's when Alex understands. That's when he notices his arm low around Michael's back, fingers curved around Michael's hips. As far as body language goes, it's pretty damn obvious.

Stupid as it is, Alex finds himself hoping Michael hasn't noticed. He's not sure why, but it's got something to do with liking the ability to claim Michael -- even if he knows he shouldn't -- and not wanting Michael to tell him to stop.

When he looks across at Michael, Michael gives him a sly, sideways grin. "I think we're offending people."

Alex replies without thinking. "Don't care."

Michael allows himself to drift a fraction closer. Just enough for Alex to stretch a little and hook his thumb through the side belt loop of Michael's jeans. Smiling, Alex looks straight ahead but, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael duck his head.

Then Michael asks, "Any chance you could meet me this Thursday?"

***

Thursday passes in a distracted blur. Unfortunately, it's the kind of distraction that involves guns and hostages. By the time he gets the paperwork out of the way (more of an annoyance than usual), he's running almost an hour late but when he gets to Union Station, Michael's still waiting. He's leaning against one of the ridged stone columns, one hand in his pocket, scanning the crowds as they pass. He doesn't smile when he spots Alex, but the tension beneath his eyes eases.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show," Michael says when Alex gets close enough to hear him.

"Busy day." It's a massive understatement and judging by the way Michael lifts one skeptical eyebrow, it's not particularly believable. "Not worth talking about," Alex adds, and that's almost true.

Michael shrugs and pushes away from the building. As he does so, a kid -- maybe five or six, dark hair in an embarrassing bowl-cut, chewing on gum -- dashes around the corner and cries, "Time!"

Alex blinks. Michael doesn't seem surprised, just looks at his watch and says, "Three minutes, forty-two. I still say you can do it faster."

"You said under four minutes, Uncle Mike," the boy whines, and there's something a little familiar about the tone of voice, the cocky angle of his crossed arms. Something that doesn't remind Alex of Michael at all.

"Fine," Michael says, pulling a packet of gum from his pocket, "take it." The boy snatches it out of Michael's hand and Michael rolls his eyes and adds, "LJ, this is Alex. Alex, this is Lincoln Junior."

"Nice to meet you," Alex says, and the boy shrugs. To Michael, Alex asks, "Your nephew?" and Michael nods.

It doesn't take a genius to understand what Michael's telling him.

***

Alex waits until after they've eaten at McDonald's, until after they've returned LJ to a modest house out in the Eastern suburbs. Michael follows him home without comment so Alex waits until his door is locked and they're sitting on the couch. Then he asks, "When was the last time you slept with someone else?"

Michael smirks. "You don't remember last night?"

"With someone other than me."

Michael settles back on the couch, lets his head loll back and his eyes almost close. Alex isn't fooled. Between dark lashes, there's the glitter of steely blue eyes watching him. "Are you sure that's what you want to ask?"

"I could ask if Burrows is your brother," Alex says, "but I'm pretty sure he is."

Michael nods once.

"I could ask if your parents are anywhere around but I'm pretty sure they're not."

Michael shrugs but he doesn't deny the fact.

"I could ask why you let me believe Burrows was another client but I'm guessing you thought it was safer."

"You're competitive," Michael says slowly. A less observant man -- someone who isn't used to looking for tells, for guilt and fear and worry -- might not notice Michael's palms pushing flat into his legs, his knuckles bent up tight as he talks softly and evenly. "I thought you'd try harder. If it were a challenge, if it were proving you were the better man. I thought you'd need a reason to try."

Alex is tired but there's a wariness creeping through his bones; he's on unstable ground and he knows it. Whatever Michael's showing him, whatever he's being allowed to know, there'll be a reason for it. Alex isn't sure he wants to know why, not just yet. "You didn't answer my question."

"It doesn't mean anything," Michael says, which makes Alex suspect it means more than Michael wants to admit. "The night before you called me and said you were back in Chicago. That was the last time. But sleeping wasn't really involved."

It's funny that Alex doesn't feel triumphant. He doesn't even feel relieved. There's just a low, curling worry waiting for what's next. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"I'm in a difficult situation. I don't expect you to fix it, but--" There's a breath and Michael lets his eyes close completely. "I want to know where I stand. If it's worth staying."

"As opposed to?"

"Leaving Illinois. I've been thinking about it."

Alex wraps his fingers around Michael's wrist. Then he says, "Tell me what's going on," and Michael does.

It's all short sentences, unemotional and easy to follow. It sounds rehearsed, like Michael's trying to keep this as uncomplicated as possible. Like he doesn't expect Alex to understand, not really. But Alex does.

Alex understands the twist in Michael's shoulders, the slightly haunted look he gets when he says, "When Linc was in Juvie, I was in foster care." Alex has seen enough victims, enough human casualties, to understand it all too well.

When Michael says, "I'm not a fan of living in a foster home again," he means he's terrified. When he says, "Linc has an ex in New York. I might be able to stay with her," what he really means is that he'd rather be anywhere else -- no matter the impact on his academic record, no matter what he has to do to make ends meet.

Then Michael says, "But high school's here. And LJ. And you." Michael says it like Alex is an afterthought, like he barely matters in this decision but Alex understands what he means.

"What do you need to know?" Alex asks, brushing his thumb over the tendons of Michael's wrist. Somewhere outside, Alex can hear traffic, the muffled sounds of a city slowing down. Inside his apartment, he listens to the wheezing of next door's ancient air conditioner and Michael's slow breath in.

"Would it make a difference to you? If I was gone? Or would it just be the inconvenience of picking up someone new?"

"Michael," Alex says, and then stops. Because he's not this guy. Because he doesn't have the right words. He never has.

"It's okay, Alex," Michael says softly and for a moment, Alex thinks he gets it, thinks Michael understands what he doesn't know how to say. Then Michael stands up and holds out a hand, tugs until Alex is on his feet. "It's okay if that's all this is. That's the beauty of paying, really. It keeps things simple."

"That's not--" Alex says, and then, "I don't mean--" and Michael smiles and says, "It's okay," like it really is, like this is all he expected.

"Stay the night," Alex says. It's a cowardly retreat. He should tell Michael to stay, to stay forever, but instead he says, "Not like there's anyone waiting for you at home."

Michael tilts his head down, breaks eye-contact, and says, "Yeah, okay." Alex kisses him before he can say anything else that sounds like defeat.

***

Alex wakes up with his nose pressed against the curve of Michael's ear and blue-tinged light hovering around the blinds. It's morning, but still early so Alex stays curled behind Michael. He keeps his arm where it is -- loosely over Michael's side, fingers hanging and brushing the soft stretch below Michael's ribcage.

Michael doesn't say anything. He doesn't make excuses for Alex or blame him; doesn't ignore the situation or say it doesn't matter. He just catches Alex's hand in his, rubbing his thumb against Alex's knuckles.

Alex could break the tenuous peace but there isn't anything to say. It's easier to kiss Michael's bony shoulder and press his hand flat against Michael's warm skin.

Slowly, he sketches Michael's body with his fingertips, with his lips, as if he's trying to memorize the angle of every jut of bone and the taste of every curve. He works his way to elbows and wrists, knees and ankles. In silence, he explores; it should feel new and full of promise, but it doesn't.

It feels like a desperate last chance, like a slow, quiet goodbye.

***

Getting ready in the morning is rushed and disorganized. It's amazing how quickly Alex has become used to living alone, not having to share a bathroom in the morning, not being distracted by someone standing half-dressed in his bedroom.

It isn't helped by the way Michael pauses, staring into Alex's closet at the grey shirt hanging at one end. The grey shirt Michael's worn out but never worn home.

For a moment, Alex thinks he'll ask for it. He's not sure if he'd let Michael have it; he's not sure he wants every trace of Michael erased so fast.

Then Michael turns away from the open door and pulls on his t-shirt. He grabs his bag and follows Alex to the lift, but he doesn't mention the shirt.

***

It's not a busy day. Alex hates slow days, hates being bored. Hates the low mechanical buzz of desktop computers when he has nothing to do but tidy up paperwork. Hates that he keeps thinking of Michael, tempted to call even if he's sure he'd be too cowardly to say anything important.

He hates feeling useless, like there's nothing he can do. And after the third time he's gotten up from his desk, paced to the window, and caught himself staring at the far outline of Union Station, Alex surrenders. He fishes Michael's number out of his wallet and dials.

It's disconnected.

Alex frowns, thinking. It's a hunch low in his gut, but he stands up and grabs his jacket, uses the flimsy excuse of going home sick to get out of the office.

Alex remembers things. Lines from films, odd moments of body language, names and addresses. They stick in his mind. He only saw Michael's license once but he doesn't have any trouble remembering the address of the building or finding it. The thing he can't remember is Michael's apartment number, so he asks for the building manager and knocks on his door instead.

A guy in his thirties answers the door and Alex can't help looking him up and down -- sweatpants and bright blue polo shirt; receding hair line; second generation immigrant by the accent, probably with Greek parents living somewhere in the city -- as he says, "I'm a friend of Michael's. Michael Schofield."

The guy says, "Huh, that was pretty fast," and reaches into his pocket. Alex tenses but the guy only pulls out a key and says, "Haven't had a chance to clean the place yet but you can have a look round if you're interested."

Alex forces a smile and makes himself say, "Thanks." He follows the guy up the stairs -- three flights, dirt in the corners, a child's scribble on the second landing -- and he's glad the guy doesn't try to make conversation. He just slides two keys into the locks, opens the door, tells Alex he can have the furniture if he wants and how much the monthly rent is.

The furniture, what's left of it, is sparse and mismatched. There's an orange couch with coffee stains on the arms and bare patches on the back. It clearly sags in the middle and Alex doesn't think it'd be comfortable to sit on (can't imagine settling into it, wrapping an arm around Michael as they watch TV). There's a light coffee table that looks like it came in a cardboard box from Ikea, and a heavy entertainment unit in the corner. On it sits a bulky, brown television set with dials on the side.

There are blinds hanging from the windows, and they look like newest item in the room.

The kitchen is small and clean, and Alex has the strong belief that if he opened the cupboards, he wouldn't find much more than bread, peanut butter and jelly. Maybe a box of macaroni and cheese. So he walks straight past it, ignores the bathroom and looks for Michael's bedroom.

There's a metal-framed double bed in the middle of the room, one bedside drawer on the left side. There's no linen on the bed, nothing in the drawers or closet. When Alex pulls back a blind, there's the view of a dark, narrow alley and he realizes that this is a perfect room for a shift-worker, for someone who works late and sleeps through the morning. It's Burrows' room, not Michael's.

Michael's room has a single bed against one wall with the matching bedside table from Burrows' room. Against the other wall, there's an old freestanding closet and an Ikea desk. Alex runs a hand along the wall above the desk, noticing the small oily marks and thinking this was where Michael had posters, or maybe study notes. This was where Michael sat and crammed for exams. This was the room -- a child's room, really -- where Michael slept and woke up and got dressed before going to school.

It feels empty, but Alex doesn't know if there's nothing left behind or if there was never much in the first place.

He looks in the closet, hoping Michael packed too quickly to take everything, and finds two photos tucked against the mirror on the inside of the door. The first is two boys standing by a lake. They look around five and eleven, and it's easy to see the resemblance to LJ. On the back is written 'Linc and Mike - 1983'.

The second is a string of four photos from a photo booth. The first two shots are LJ -- same haircut, under a year ago by Alex's guess -- and in the third there's a blurry Michael moving behind him. In the fourth shot, Michael smiling at a point a little above the camera, one arm wrapped tight around LJ's shoulders, and LJ throwing his head back, frozen in the middle of laughter.

Alex puts the photos in his pocket, as carefully as he'd handle evidence. They're strange things to leave behind, and Alex wonders if Michael left them on purpose. If they were left to be found.

He checks the bedside drawers, in case there's anything there, and finds them empty. There's nothing stuck at the back of the drawers or taped underneath, but there are marks on the ash-brown carpet, marks that show it's been lifted and moved slightly out of place. Alex tilts the bedside drawers back and reaches under, and that's when he knows Michael decided to leave these things behind.

It looks like scraps of paper, rubbish, but it's not. There's a take-out menu from the first Indian restaurant Alex took him to and a logo-printed napkin from the Mexican place they went last month. There are movie ticket stubs: a few films he'd taken Michael to and the rest are kids' films, always on a Thursday afternoon. There's a cut-out from a newspaper -- three inches of an old case that mentions Alex by name -- and a tiny, lined notebook with recipes and ingredients scribbled down in narrow, cramped handwriting. Alex flicks through a few pages of simple instructions and recognizes the things that he's cooked, remembers holding Michael's hand around the whisk and showing him how fast it needed to be mixed.

At the very back page, there's a timetable for Greyhound buses to NYC. Alex stares at it for a moment. He thinks about sitting in Denver and seeing the ad for the Chicago position. The feeling is very similar: holding the piece of paper, thinking that it's impossible and ridiculous, that it's pointless to even try.

There's the same sharp kick of adrenaline when he knows -- even though it can't and won't work, even though it's absolute stupidity to think otherwise -- that's he going to do it anyway.

***

The bus terminal is fluorescent and stark, half empty in the early afternoon. Alex could go to the ticket counter and ask, but he'd rather walk around and see for himself. He looks at the travelers, the excited and the exhausted, and finds Michael slouched on a plastic chair with a gym bag on his lap.

"Hey," Alex says, and Michael looks up.

"There's a diner round the corner," Michael says, glancing at the clock on the wall and giving a small smile. "I've got a couple hours."

Moving the bag to his shoulder, Michael stands and tugs his red baseball cap down lower. Alex follows him through glass doors that slide shut behind them, and somehow isn't surprised that Michael's back to loose jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. It's an outfit designed to be overlooked, a style you'd find on any kid between fifteen and twenty-five.

Out in the street, Michael doesn't talk and Alex feels compelled to say, "You don't seem surprised to see me."

"You work for the FBI, you knew I was leaving the state and probably wouldn't pay to fly," Michael says blandly, and Alex has to duck his head to catch the corner of smile under the cap's shadow. "I figured it'd take about three phone calls for you to find me."

Michael turns right into an alley, and Alex shadows him around the corner. He figures it's a shortcut to the diner but when he glances up, it's a dead end of faded brick, back doors and hulking dumpsters. "Michael?"

Past the second dumpster, Michael takes a few steps towards the wall and stops, taking off his cap and dropping his bag to the grey concrete at their feet. "I didn't think you'd show," he says, and when Alex comes closer, Michael reaches out. Catching a hand on the sleeve of Alex's jacket, he tugs until Alex leans in. There's a light kiss then, landing off-center to the side of Alex's mouth, and Alex feels Michael smile.

"There's a hotel nearby," Michael says into Alex's skin, staying so close Alex can smell the scent of him. Standing so close Alex has no choice but to twist his head a little and catch Michael's lower lip between his teeth, to press forward when Michael gasps and pin him against the wall.

Michael kisses back, as tempting and welcoming as ever, and it's easy. Easy to cradle the back of Michael's head in his palm, easy to ignore the rough grate of brick against his knuckles. Alex gets a hand on Michael's hip, works three fingers under the waistband, and gets rewarded with a stuttered, "Oh…" when he brushes skin.

Michael grasps on his biceps, hands holding tight and then relaxing as they kiss. It makes Alex feel powerful, invincible. It's intoxicating: feeling Michael lean back into the wall and spread his thighs, arch his hips up against him. Michael's already half-hard and Alex knows all he'd have to do is move his hand a few inches to get Michael all the way. But they're also out on the street--

Alex looks around. Sees the dead end to his right and the dumpsters to his left, and realizes they're mostly hidden. Nobody's going to look too closely. They'd probably never notice.

That's what he tells himself as he slides a hand between Michael's legs. Even through the denim, through the cool metal buttons, he can feel the heat of Michael pressing against his palm. He rubs with the heel of his hand, reaching down to trace the head of Michael's cock with his fingertips. He asks, "Can I..." because he knows he shouldn't, not here, but Michael says, "Yes, yes, Alex," and buries his face against Alex's neck.

Alex tugs, yanks until the buttons give, shoves material out of the way until he gets a grasp on smooth, hot skin. This is easier than anything: fisting Michael's cock, working it slowly, waiting for Michael's fingers to dig into his arms before he speeds up. He judges his tempo by the soft gasps near his ear, and curls his other hand around Michael's neck, feeling the tendons tense and tighten as Michael gets closer.

Michael bites down as he comes. On bare skin, Michael's teeth would be sharp and painful, and Alex would have the bruise to remember it. But through his jacket and his shirt, Alex only feels a dull pressure against his shoulder.

Alex pulls a tissue out of his pocket and cleans Michael up enough to get him dressed again. Then he presses a kiss to Michael's temple and asks, "So, that hotel?"

"Down the block," Michael says, and he still sounds a little out of breath. He doesn't pull away. "Thought you might want to get a room for a few hours."

Alex doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to have move yet, so he stalls. "How much?"

"Don't know."

"Really?" It's the kind of thing Michael usually knows. Michael likes being prepared, likes knowing the details of the situation. Then Alex gets it. "You really didn't think I'd come?"

Michael snorts, and Alex can almost guess the bad joke that will follow. "Haven't come yet."

"That's a terrible line," Alex says, trying not to smile. "You really thought I'd--"

"Do your job? Be busy? Have better things to do? Yeah, I did."

Alex doesn't want to let go -- still doesn't want to move, not yet -- but Michael eases away. He picks his bag up, hoists it onto one shoulder, and then pulls the cap down low. Alex can't see his eyes, and he suspects that's intentional.

Alex could back up, let Michael walk past him. He could ignore the twinge in the back of his mind, that instinct that says he's missing something, that he's so close he just needs to think it through to understand everything. "So you're surprised I showed, but happy to see me," he says, leaning a hand on the wall beside Michael, trapping him there, "and then you suggest a hotel room. For a few hours."

"So?"

"You're still planning on getting on that bus?"

"It's not like I could stay," Michael says, hiding beneath the cap. "We tried hiding from Social Services when they wanted to send Linc to Juvie. It's harder than it sounds. I stay, I end up in foster care."

To Alex, it sounds like a rationalization. Logical, true, but not the real reason. "Then why ask if I'd miss you? If there was no way of staying, why ask?"

"Even if I stayed, it's not like I'd be able to see you. I'd have a curfew. Telling them there's this thirty year old guy who pays to fuck me," Michael says, voice getting hard and angry, "wouldn't change it."

"I'm twenty-eight." It's probably the least important part of Michael's statement, the last thing Alex should worry about arguing, but it's the first objection that comes to mind. Followed quickly by, "You could lie."

"I know." And just like that, Michael slouches, and the anger turns to defeat. "I could get Mrs. Murphy to take me in and lie about it. She's been a foster parent before, and if I said she could keep the money, that I had somewhere else to stay, she wouldn't ask any questions."

Alex reaches out, pulls the cap gently off Michael's head. He runs his fingers through Michael's short, dark hair, through the wave that always threatens to turn into curls, but Michael keeps his gaze slanted at the ground.

"But that means I'd have to earn enough to cover rent and bills, so I'd have to work other nights. And..." Michael pauses, and Alex waits, waits for him to look up and say, "You're kind of possessive. A couple weeks of finding bruises you didn't leave, and you wouldn't be interested anymore."

It makes sense, in a Michael-specific way. In a way that makes Alex want to hit something, want to beat some sense into the world with his fists. But it also makes him want to wrap his arms around Michael and say, "Stay. Don't go anywhere. Just stay."

"I already handed my keys in, Alex. I have no rental history and no legal job, and--"

"And you're making excuses. You're running away."

"Maybe I just want a reason to get out of here," Michael bites back. Alex likes it; he'd rather have Michael angry than hear he's already given up. "Maybe I don't want to stay."

"I don't think that's true. I don't think you would've left these behind if you were so thrilled to leave." Alex fishes the photos out of his pocket and Michael's eyes go wide. He grabs them out of Alex's hand and slides them into his bag as fast as he can.

"I didn't mean to leave those."

"Did you mean to leave the receipts? The movie stubs?"

Michael never has a lot of color in his face, but what he has disappears. "It was rubbish, you didn't even notice it gone. You don't get to be angry about me keeping it."

"Of course I'm going to be angry," Alex says sarcastically, but Michael looks guilty and worried. Michael looks like he's been caught doing something horrible and the world's going to fall apart.

"Look, I know it's not-- I'm not stupid enough to--" Michael swallows back those words. "I know how this works. You pay me, and that's it. The only thing I get, the only thing I should be taking is the money. But that was rubbish and--"

"You really think I don't care?" For some reason, that thought almost hurts.

"You like acting as if you care. That's what you pay me for. I know it doesn't--"

"It doesn't change the fact that I care," Alex says, talking over Michael. "Complicates it, but doesn't stop me from worrying about you and wanting you and everything else."

"Don't. Please." Michael's voice breaks painfully on that last word. "I'm not asking anything of you, Alex, so... don't."

"Not asking anything? You're asking me not to care, not to give a damn if you're in New York and all alone and--" Alex grunts in sheer frustration. He doesn't let go easily, he never has. If he'd had the smarts to recognize the choice when he had it, he wouldn't have let Pam go either. "I give it a week. A week before I'm on a plane to New York, tracking you down myself."

There's a spark of a smile, gone so fast Alex isn't sure what it means. "That wouldn't fix the situation."

"Then what would? What do you want?" Alex steps forward, pulls the cap off Michael's head and pushes right into his personal space. There's a lot he can tell by getting up and into someone's face: it startles people into reacting, stirs the basic fight-or-flight responses. Usually, it shakes them up enough that Alex finds out what he needs to know. "What is it that you want?"

"Impossible things," Michael snarls back at him, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet and meeting Alex's challenge. "I want Linc to be free. I want to feel safe. I want to graduate high school and get into a good college, and I want to see LJ every week and visit Linc whenever I can."

"And that's it?"

"And I want to see you! I want to go out to restaurants and let myself forget that I'm just a paid convenience. And I want--" Michael stops. Sunlight catches on his forehead, his nose, fading his eyes to an unnaturally bright silver. For a moment, he looks perfect, stunning and so full of passion, raw and aching. Then Michael steps away, takes that frustrated hunger and need, and locks it up behind cold eyes and a low voice that doesn't waver. "I want to believe there's a happy ending, a simple solution that gives me all of that, but I don't. Since Happily Ever Afters only happen to people who believe, to people who deserve it, what I want doesn't make a difference here."

Alex feels the tug of Michael pulling his baseball cap out of his hand and suddenly, this feels like arguing with Pam. Like he could scream at the top of his lungs and still not get through. Like no matter how hard he tries, how far he reaches, Michael will hide behind that snide cynicism and distance. Like no matter what he says, he'll never know the right words.

"There aren't any Happily Ever Afters. Life isn't like that," Alex says. "There are only happy moments, then someone loses a job or loses a kid. Someone strays, or they change and want something new, or they die. Disasters happen or tiny, personal catastrophes but it's always something. Someone feels hurt or betrayed, or it's just too hard, and then it falls apart. It always ends in tears and anger and pain. There are Happy Right Nows but that's the best you get."

It makes him sound bitter, but it's honest. It's true. And maybe it's enough because Michael says, "I wouldn't know what to do," and he sounds lost, but Alex thinks maybe -- just maybe -- they can figure this out.

"You cash in your ticket. You go to Mrs. Murphy. You get your stuff and anything else you want to keep, and you move into my place. You're there half the week anyway."

"I couldn't afford the rent," Michael says quickly. "Not without working most nights, and then I won't be able to keep my grades--"

It's amazing how easy it suddenly seems. How Michael's somehow so close that Alex only needs to lean forward an inch and interrupt him with a kiss. It's light and chaste, but Michael's lips are warm and soft, and as impossible as it may be, Alex thinks this might be all he needs. He's a moron for not realizing it sooner.

"I'm not asking for a flatmate. I don't need someone to split the rent and utilities. I'm saying," and Alex allows himself one breath for courage, before forcing the words out, "move in with me. Live with me. For real, Michael, not as a business arrangement, not as payment. Just... stay. Be mine."

"You'd cover the costs? Just like that?"

"I did when I was married," Alex replies and it surprises a fast smile out of Michael. "If you're really worried about it, first thing you design that gets built, you can pay me back out of that commission."

That gets the reaction Alex hoped for: a real smile that stays on Michael's face, even though he ducks his head and tries to hide it. "Might be waiting a while," Michael says, the smile still there, still Michael: unexpectedly sweet and surprisingly self-conscious. It's a genuine reaction, something Michael would probably hide if he could, and that makes it all the more precious. It makes Alex feel lucky that he's the one standing close enough to see it.

For that smile, Alex would attempt a million impossible things.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

oxoniensis.livejournal.com

I'm really quite boggled that you can take a genre I'm not keen on, and a fandom I don't know, and make me so enthralled. You had me gripped from start to finish.

From:

Prison Break Fic: Impossible Things (2/2)

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