[Michael rests his chin against the top of Eleanor's head with a sigh, and wraps his arms carefully around her as if it's something precious. He can count the genuine hugs they've shared on one hand. It makes the horrible twisting in his gut settle somewhat, even if that wasn't all of it - not even close. She doesn't even know what he did. He's not sure he can handle telling her right this moment, but he'll need to do it soon.
He makes sure his voice is even before he replies. He's felt scraped raw these past two days, but he is just so sick of crying. It's embarrassing and it gives him a headache.]
I really do love you. I'll figure out how to do this right one of these days. I promise.
[Maybe it's for the best that, before that earnestness can catch up to him, the entire moment is shattered.
There's an analytical part of Michael's mind, born from millennia of training and experience, that hasn't just died in the past two or three years. He sizes Alex up at a glance: the ruined hands, the burns, the limp, the fear. All signs that read beaten, but not broken yet. That's an easy job, the best job. Broken humans grow dull, but those with fear left in them will still scream and cry and struggle like the day they died. If you let them, they'll run until that leg gives out underneath them, and Michael always let them. It was so much more satisfying.
He can picture it exactly. He can picture the burns. Guilt and newfound squeamishness curdle together in his stomach. And isn't it abominably selfish, that one of his first reactions to the kid he torched is "oh no, I bet his burns look gross"? That's awful! He's awful.]
No! [He yelps, jerking upright and back away from Eleanor, out of that precious fleeting hug, in the same stumbling motion. His gaze is firmly fixed anywhere but on either human, not even really on where he's going.] No, sorry, I'm - I'm going. Was just leaving.
[Alex is still blocking the front entrance, so Michael doesn't even attempt that way. Instead, he practically bolts for the door in the back of the pharmacy, scattering the medicine stacked on the counter and slamming the door behind him in his haste.
Belatedly, he remembers that the pharmacy does not have a back door. This is a supply closet. An empty, dark supply closet.
He sags back against the nearest wall, and removes his glasses to scrub at his face. Fine. Whatever. Who cares? Alex needs to be in the pharmacy a lot more than he does; he'll just stay in here until he leaves! It probably won't even be that long! Even if it is, fuck him anyway.]
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He makes sure his voice is even before he replies. He's felt scraped raw these past two days, but he is just so sick of crying. It's embarrassing and it gives him a headache.]
I really do love you. I'll figure out how to do this right one of these days. I promise.
[Maybe it's for the best that, before that earnestness can catch up to him, the entire moment is shattered.
There's an analytical part of Michael's mind, born from millennia of training and experience, that hasn't just died in the past two or three years. He sizes Alex up at a glance: the ruined hands, the burns, the limp, the fear. All signs that read beaten, but not broken yet. That's an easy job, the best job. Broken humans grow dull, but those with fear left in them will still scream and cry and struggle like the day they died. If you let them, they'll run until that leg gives out underneath them, and Michael always let them. It was so much more satisfying.
He can picture it exactly. He can picture the burns. Guilt and newfound squeamishness curdle together in his stomach. And isn't it abominably selfish, that one of his first reactions to the kid he torched is "oh no, I bet his burns look gross"? That's awful! He's awful.]
No! [He yelps, jerking upright and back away from Eleanor, out of that precious fleeting hug, in the same stumbling motion. His gaze is firmly fixed anywhere but on either human, not even really on where he's going.] No, sorry, I'm - I'm going. Was just leaving.
[Alex is still blocking the front entrance, so Michael doesn't even attempt that way. Instead, he practically bolts for the door in the back of the pharmacy, scattering the medicine stacked on the counter and slamming the door behind him in his haste.
Belatedly, he remembers that the pharmacy does not have a back door. This is a supply closet. An empty, dark supply closet.
He sags back against the nearest wall, and removes his glasses to scrub at his face. Fine. Whatever. Who cares? Alex needs to be in the pharmacy a lot more than he does; he'll just stay in here until he leaves! It probably won't even be that long! Even if it is, fuck him anyway.]