Dear M-- - JoCarthage - Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: 2008 [104,657]

Chapter Text

September 2nd, 2008
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Alex chucked the orange at the wall. It spattered with incredibly satisfying violence. He yanked up his BMT trainee uniform’s sleeves where they hung over his wrists and chucked another. Another. Another.

Another f*cking screaming MTI, another goddamn panic attack.

He reached into his bag for the beets.

All the veggies were old, past-due, never going to be served to trainees, never going to be made into food for starving, hungry high school kids sleeping in the backs of the trucks they got working with their own two hands.

He chucked the beet so hard it split as red as a burst black eye against the wall, leaving a satisfying smear of purple-scarlet on the concrete.

Beet. Beet. Beat.

He shook his head, getting out the apples.

No one got why he kept getting himself assigned to kitchen duty. It was usually a punishment assignment -- cooks ate last, cooks worked longest, cooks had the latest hours and the earliest uptime.

But cooks could take the bad food out to the back of the barracks after they stone-faced their way through another dressing down from another f*cking screaming MTI and, well, if that’s what it would take for Alex to make it through BMT, it’s what he was going to f*cking do.

Two years here, getting trained. Two years over there, getting shot at.

Then --

He grabbed the old, moldy bread, stomping it into the grainy Texas soil, thick gravel mixing with the oily greys and greens of the mold running through it.

Who even f*cking knew if Michael would even be in f*cking Roswell when he got back? Would even want anything to do with him, after --

He dug out the big guns -- six massive watermelons he’d hauled here after every meal for the past 2 days, knowing he’d need them, need them more later than anyone needed them now. He heaved one over his shoulder and threw it as hard as he could, out across the open pavement, arcing, arcing -- and missing the wall by a foot, smashing into the gravel beside it and bouncing to red, slimy pieces across the pavement.

The next one hit at eye-level.

Alex felt the strain of it in his arms and upper body, the near-pain finally enough to give him room to think, to feel through what he was thinking.

He could write him a letter. Write it to Maria, address it to M--, get through this -- he could do it. He could get through this. 4 years was just 20% of his life. He could get through this if only --

Curly hair. A soft laugh. Warm hands, hot thighs; too-small waist, too big eyes.

He let the watermelon drop, watching it bounce off his foot with barely a flinch.

He would have Michael when he was done. He knew it. He would know love anywhere, for all he hadn’t had a lot of experience with it. But he knew he'd seen it in Michael’s eyes.

He just needed to figure out a way to tell him.

--

Sent: September 4th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

This is the first letter they’re letting us send home and you’re the only one I’m writing. I miss you so much I could hardly breathe, can hardly sleep for it. I can’t wait to touch you again. I will come back for you. Four years from now, my contract is up. Even if you hear nothing from me, I’ll see you at Room 407, the Rodeway Inn in Santa Fe. I’ll be there, whether you’re there or not. September 4th, 2012.

I only get a half-sheet of paper, so please, please give this to who it needs to go to.

All my love to Mimi,

Alex

--

Sent: September 6th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

Ok, was a little vague in that last letter. Sorry about that. I was just -- anyway. That letter might have been confusing. I just missed hanging out with you in your powder blue truck, and your besties, the Evanses.

I’m on kitchen duty a lot here but it’s been a week since I last had punishment PT, so that’s pretty nice. Turns out I already knew all of the customs and courtesies from, well, I bet you can guess, so I don’t get a lot of punishment detail. It’s nice to be eating full meals again -- well. Anyway.

I get to start receiving mail this week. But every single piece of mail is read. I miss you a lot and want to see you as soon as I’m allowed.

Alex

--

Sent: September 8th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

I got my dog tags today. I think you know how I feel about that. They’re talking about pushing me to Officer Training School, but -- you know how I feel about that too.

God, I’m sore. All that running on the track wasn’t nothing on running over broken ground here. At least I passed the fitness test on the first day. Benefits of all the punishment runs.

It looks like I tested well enough on my AVSAP to get into one of the enlisted intelligence roles, maybe career field 1A8X2. It’s a flight crew role, lots of office work and lots of short-notice deployments. My uncle Peter -- Mom’s brother, who was in the Air Force, the one who introduced her and Dad -- used to say that there are old pilots, and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I’m going to avoid being bold as much as I possibly can; it seems like the best chance to get out of here in one piece.

I hope you’re getting these, I know it will be a few days before you can reply, 5 days to get to you, 5 days give or take to get back to me, but God, I miss you.

Alex

PS: I can only write one letter a day, and that’s only if I don’t get in trouble. But know I’m thinking about you every day.

--

Sent: September 9th, 2008
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Your letter got to me just in time. I’m only in town one day a week, and that’s only if I’m lucky, since I got the job at the ranch.

I had no idea when I was going to hear from you again.

God, it feels good to be holding something that touched you.

I’m not sure if you’re allowed to send more than just the two letters, but -- when can I see you? There’s got to be, like, weekends off? Or are you done soon? I wanted to write you back as soon as I got the letter so I haven’t had a chance to get to the library to look any of this up.

No matter what, I’ll drive to San Antonio. I’ll come to you, just say the word.

Love you and stay safe,

M--

--

Sent: September 14th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

You can not just drive here. I definitely don’t get weekends off. But there’s a graduation weekend on October 4-8th, 2008 and family can come. Then I get my transfer orders; I think probably to Florida, f*ck my life. During the graduation weekend, there are visiting hours and if I don’t get in trouble, I’ll be able to show you around the base. Maybe you and Mimi could drive down, stay the night in San Antonio, and see the ceremony on Sunday? I have to stay on base until I transfer, but I can eat lunch with you.

That sounds awful, drive 8 hours each way to just see each other for lunch? And Mimi needs to keep the bar open; maybe we can find another time? Maybe I’ll get a base nearby? Cannon AFB’s only 113 minutes from Roswell. And I should get some leave around Christmas, unless I get ordered to stay.

Is -- could we plan on that? I don’t want to ask you to drive all that way, just to see me for a few hours. It seems like letters take about 10 days round trip, so we're going to be out of synch. Is it ok? We can just answer the letters as they come. if I keep writing? It -- it helps a lot. Writing to you. Knowing you’re there.

You signed the last one, saying something. I haven’t said it yet. I want to say it to your face the first time I do.

But still: I’m yours.

Alex

--

Sent: September 15th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
Dear M--,

I should have asked how you are. How’s the ranch job? Are they treating you well? Is Max ok? Were you able to get into the community college classes we talked about? I heard they’re starting some online ones, if you wanted to give that a try.

Ok, enough nagging, I just -- I like to think you’re in a good place and I like to know how you are.

Yours,

Alex

--

Sent: September 21st, 2008
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Maria brought me your letter. We’ll be there and I’ll bring them. The three of us are going to start driving right after closing, so we’ll be there at 10am. I checked the schedule and I went to Sarge and got everything we needed to visit. There’s paperwork you need to file to have us on base -- remember, there’s 3 of us coming. Include everyone’s full legal names. I’ve included a copy of the forms you need to file and have with you whenever you’re with us.

I talked to your recruiter, as soon as you get to your new base, you can get access to a phone. Call the Pony, tell them your new address. Then you’ll be able to request a block leave.

Stay safe Alex. They send their love,

Mimi

PS: M. made me unseal this to write -- “I’d drive 16 hours just to see you from across a stadium any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Getting to hug you and talk with you is just an added bonus. Stay safe, Alex.”

--

Sent: September 25th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear Mimi,

The letter got here a little faster than usual and it was so good to hear from you! I’m so glad to get to see you soon. Thank you for driving all that way, and keeping the Pony closed on a Sunday.

I really appreciate you looking up all those details. A lot of kids from military families know the drill, but there’s a lot of stuff Sarge never covered for me. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.

Thank you,

Alex

--

Sent: September 26th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

Oh, we’re going to see each other in only a dozen days. I can’t wait, I miss you so much.

I’m guessing you couldn’t get off the ranch last week. As soon as my paychecks start coming in and I’m on base, I’m going to get one of those indestructible Nokia phones and a phone plan, so we can talk.

Or -- should I? Maybe it’s better using letters, like this. Gives us time to think. I -- you mentioned not knowing if you were ever going to see me again. And I know how I left, I get how you thought that. I, maybe sometimes I need the space. The distance, to think about things. To get the words right.

But I’d get the words wrong over and over and over again if I could just see your face.

I miss you so much.

Yours,

Alex

--

Sent: October 1st, 2008
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I want to hear all about that career field and your brilliant scores. I will see you at Christmas and your graduation. I'm greedy like that. You’re right, I didn’t get let off the ranch -- two of the Foster’s spoiled kids got drunk and rode the tractor into the side of the barn, so all the ranch hands have been spending every wink of sunlight patching it up so the cows don’t freeze when the temperatures start to drop. Mimi read me your letter over the phone, that’s how I got her to add the PS.

I am so f*cking glad I’m going to be seeing you in a week. I have no idea what I’ll wear, but I’ll be there with bells on (does the Air Force allow bells?).

Max is … Max. His Dad got him an internship with Sheriff Valenti, so now he thinks he wants to be a cop. I think he read too much Dostoyevsky in Ms Randall’s Great Novels class and thinks he’s gonna be some Porfiry Petrovich; bad news, Max, there’s no detectives in a Sheriff's department. Just deputies.

Anyway.

Love you,

M--

--

Sent: October 1st, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

There’s all these ceremonies on graduation day -- the airmen run, the coin ceremony with the MTIs. It’s a lot of pomp and circ*mstance and, I don’t know if you should come.

I just heard from my Dad. He’s coming. I couldn’t stop him. I tried, I did try, you have to believe me.

I tried.

I completely understand if you don’t want to come. More than understand, f*ck.

I’ll make sure you have a pass in case, but god, I wouldn’t want to come if he was here and I had a choice.

You need to stay safe too.

Yours,

Alex

--

October 3rd, 2008
DeLuca House, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael peered into Maria’s closet, hands tucked into his hole-y jeans: “I don’t think any of your Dad’s stuff is gonna fit me.”

She hooked her sharp little chin over his shoulder: “Just try it on.”

He rolled his lower lip over his teeth, biting down until the pain told him it was ok to stop. He knew he couldn’t do anything like hug Alex or kiss him or spin him around in circles like something out of a romance movie when he saw him, but Mimi had promised him he was allowed to see him at his BMT graduation ceremony and -- he wanted to look better than he usually did.

They didn’t know where he was gonna be assigned, which base -- whether it would even be in the United States or someplace Michael had no way of reaching.

And he intended to follow. He wanted to be where Alex was; maybe not full-time, since he had people who needed him in Roswell; but for a few weeks, to get him settled.

Alex didn’t know how to move; he didn’t know how to use trash bags to fit everything he needed into them, how to get a library card without a permanent address, where the food pantries were. Michael didn’t know those things about anywhere but Roswell, but a little Google-fu at the library would solve that problem for both of them.

Everywhere had libraries.

He traced his hand over the silk shirts and embroidered vests in Mimi's closet, still in their dry cleaning bags; all Maria had left of a Dad who’d gone out on the range one day and just, not come back.

“Could I --” He plucked at a black shirt, embroidered in gold across the shoulders. It was a lot more Alex’s thing than his, but if Alex couldn’t wear his own clothes, then Michael would just have to wear them for him. He’d been through a lot worse than wearing some Johnny Cash country-goth stylings.

“Sure,” Maria said. “Hat off, shirt off, I’ll help you get the suspenders working.”

“Suspenders?” Michael said, shrugging his heavy jacket off. It caught on the thumb of his left hand and he felt his knees go weak with the pain. He thought he’d covered just fine, but then Maria’s big eyes were staring at him.

“Mikey?” She asked, voice quiet as she helped him undo the button-up cuff on his right side. “What happened to your hand?”

Michael frowned, trying to think. What did she know about Alex’s home life? Would she call him a liar, keep him from talking to Alex, stop passing him the mail when it came in?

But it came to him, so broad and so clear -- if he lied about it, he was just -- just protecting another abuser. Another f*cking peach of a man who thought he could do to him because he didn’t have anyone to stop them.

“Jesse Manes took a hammer to me.”

Maria gasped, rose-painted nails going across her lips as Michael felt bad; he felt bad anytime he told people what had happened to him, whether it was the foster Dad with the drunken rages or the sleeping-in-the-truck thing -- it was all a lot of drama and not a lot of help.

But Maria reached out, fingers fitting under his palm, lifting, letting his left hand rest on hers. Her hand was small and warm and for a horrible, terrifying moment, he missed Alex so much he thought he was going to cry. He was the last person who’d held his hand, who’d comforted him over this, and it drove him right back to all of those feelings, those memories, feeling someone’s soft skin on his, on those battered nerves and bulging veins and twisted bones.

“That’s f*cked up,” she said. “Want me to put dry yeast in his beer if he’s there?”

Michael frowned. “What would that do?”

“Make him sh*t his pants.”

Michael’s eyes lit-up. “Can we do that right before the ceremony so Alex won't have to see him?”

Maria shrugged. “I don’t know why not -- I’m sure there’s concessions stand and we can ask my Mom to get him one or something. It only takes a little.”

Michael tilted his head to the side as he worked on his buttons. “You sound like you’ve done it before.”

Maria’s grin was nearly wicked. “How’d you think Flint Manes ended up leaving prom early?”

Michael shook his head. “You’re a trouble-maker, you know that?”

Maria’s eyes glinted: “I prefer to think of it as a direct action activist against the military-industrial complex.”

“Whatever you say, Deluca.”

--

Sent: October 6th, 2008
From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Dear M--,

I’m not sure if you’re coming and I selfishly want to see you there, but not if he’s going to hurt you, and I know you didn’t get that letter until today and who knows when you’ll be able to reply and just -- please stay safe. I’ll find a way to see you, no matter what you do.

Yours,

Alex

--

Sent: October 6th, 2008
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I don’t know if they’ll forward your letters from BMT to your next base, but in case by some magical chance you get this before the 8th, just know -- I’ll be there. I will. He can’t scare me away from you.

I love you,

M--

Chapter 2: 2008 [105,251]

Chapter Text

October 8, 2008
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Michael tugged on his suspenders, trying to get them to sit properly on his shoulders as they waited in the family line outside of the Lackland Air Force Base stadium. Maria had told Mimi just about immediately about Jesse and Michael's hand and she’d packed an entire box of baking yeast, letting it ride in the cupholder where he could see it the whole way, tucked right in front of the green book Maria consulted before each gas stop. It was old, the 1963 printing, but Mimi said it had never steered her wrong and figured it was better safe than sorry.

They’d driven in shifts all night, getting there at 9am after a quick stop at Starbucks. Michael had the first shift and then he'd against the window in the first quiet sleep he’d gotten in months (the other ranch hands liked to play the radio to drown out the sound of the highway, and it messed with his sleep something awful, so many unknown bodies around him in the bunkhouse). There was a spouse briefing on base at 9:30am, but it was only for people who were married. He and Maria had shared a look over her tray of four coffees, considering how far they would take this if they needed to.

Something to discuss when they were out from under Mimi’s watchful gaze.

Michael wanted to focus on the fact that Alex was just through that long concrete tunnel, just on the inside of the stadium, doing the final airmen run before the coining ceremony.

But his eyes wouldn’t stop scanning for Jesse. Every cap, every uniform, every pair of glacial eyes looked like the senior Manes and made Michael's stomach hurt.

Mimi was scanning too, the same look of seriousness on her face that Michael could feel dragging on his own. Her eyes caught on someone further back in line and without a word, she grabbed the two coffees -- hers and Jesse Manes’ regular order, carefully spiked with yeast.

Then she was off, massive purple shawl fluttering behind her, calling out: “Sarge! So good to see you --” and then she was gone.

Michael forced himself to keep his eyes forward, his head down, Mimi’s father’s black range rider hat tight over his curls.

“She’ll handle him,” Maria murmured, tucking her arm around Michael’s waist. “She never makes promises she can't keep and she promised he wouldn’t make it into the stadium. Alex’s real family are the only people who're going to see him today.”

“Do you think we’ll really get to be with him until 8pm?”

It had been the subject of much debate during the drive -- the Air Force Family FAQ website had said that Alex’s Military Training Instructor (MTI) could impose an earlier curfew, could keep them from seeing Alex at all, and they'd have no way of knowing.

Michael knew how much Alex hated arbitrary rules, but he hoped, hoped in the kind of way that made his heart crunch in his chest, that Alex would have kept his head down, stayed safe, and they would get the full 10 hours together.

The line inched forward into the stadium, the massive dark hallway only lit by the Texas sun on the field on the other side. Maria jiggled him a little.

“So,” she said, “The spousal briefing.” She kept her voice low, in case anyone around them was a narc. “I know when I first got Alex’s letter, we talked about this, this beard thing.”

Michael tensed a little and she squeezed him gently. “I’m not trying to back out; I’ll be there for Alex. But I want to make sure we both agree on what we’re doing.”

Michael nodded, breath catching in his chest. Maria sighed, turning to look up at him.

“Michael, chill out.”

He looked down, blinking hard, working his jaw, mind swirling.

He felt her fingertips on his cheek: “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

“What if you change your mind,” he said, voice hoarse. “What if you get tired of it or move or -- I don’t have any other options. I don’t have a Mom who can bail me out, I don’t have Dad who can get me internships.” He held out his shaking hands. “What I’ve got is what I can get with these two hands. That’s what I’ve got, ‘Ria.” He swallowed hard, taking a nose breath until he could think clearly. “So, whatever you need from me, whatever ground rules you want to set, I’ll follow them. I’ll follow them because I don’t have any other choice.”

Maria’s eyes had been getting wide. She tugged him forward a little bit, so they kept their place in line, the weight of the stadium seating heavy above their heads. She took a slow breath and said. “I don’t like having more power than you in this. It f*cking sucks, the situation we’re in. It just blows.” She looked down at the carefully swept concrete. “How about -- I promise to do what’s best for Alex. You know I love him.”

Michael nodded; Maria had always had Alex’s bestie back in high school, against Valenti and his crew, against the teachers who never enforced the no bullying rules, against the sh*t his own mind threw at him. Over the summer, he’d found Alex at Maria’s more than a few times, ice-pack to his ribs and cup of tea in his hands. Mimi had let him in the front door, just telling him to put his muddy boots in the pantry before going to Alex. When Alex had disappeared -- and Michael still didn’t know what Jesse had done to convince him to sign away 4 years of his life to the Air Force but it had all happened over one weekend and then Alex was gone -- Michael had gone to Maria first. She had had no idea where he was either, and before Maria had gotten his first letter, Michael’d nearly ripped the town apart trying to find him. He had no idea how Alex remembered that weekend, signing up, shipping out. It haunted him, thinking that maybe he could have said goodbye if he hadn’t been in lock-up for f*cking with Valenti’s new rims. The thought that maybe Alex had left because he’d gotten locked up had haunted him on no small number of nights.

He forced himself back to the present. “I think we need to let Alex tell us what he needs.”

Maria nodded, frowning a little. “You ever notice how sometimes, Alex doesn’t talk? He doesn’t always have a good sense of his best options?” She rolled her shoulders back, adjusting her hair over her shoulder. “He’s always making the best choices on the information he has in front of him, I believe that, but he’s never had a lot of practice with things going his way. So sometimes he just chooses the least-bad option because he doesn’t know anything better is even on the table.” She moved them forward in line again. Her next words were delicate, careful: “So there might be times when we might need to help him.”

Michael frowned. “I’m not sure when that might be, but you’ve been his friend for forever. You know better than me.”

She whispered as they walked another step, now through the long tunnel and into the light: “Michael, he signs his letters to you ‘Yours.’ You’re just as much an expert in Alex Manes as I am.”

Michael felt a little flush spread across his chest. In all these weeks of subterfuge, of working together, he’d never been sure what Maria thought of them, as a couple. It made him feel warm to hear the approval in her voice.

“Alright,” she said, voice clear and strong. “We’ll both try to figure out, with Alex’s input, what’s best for Alex. I’ll keep helping, you’ll keep staying out of trouble, and together, all three of us can get him through this alive.” She took a long breath. “Just so you know, since he’s going to get Top Secret clearance, I’m going to get interviewed. I hate to ask it, but I think I need to keep reading the letters, at least until he gets his clearance. Maybe mark with a star anything you don't want me to read? They might ask me things from them. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Michael nodded, chest twisting. He said: “I think you should write him too. I don’t think anyone will notice different handwriting, and he needs to hear from people other than me.”

She gave him a smile just as they stepped into the bright southern morning light: “That’s a great plan.”

--

Alex didn’t know whether to scan the stands or not as he stood in strict formation while the MTIs worked their way through the assembly of Airmen, handing out their challenge coins. If it was just his Dad, he wanted to run back to the kitchens and hide out for as long as he could. If it was just Mimi and Maria, he was going to be so, so grateful they were there.

And if Michael had come -- he held his breath, forcing his heart to calm down.

Finally, he couldn’t stop himself any longer and he looked up. Family after family stood in the stands, watching and waving to catch their airmen’s eyes.

One quadrant, scanning every row: no one.

Another quadrant, scanning every column: no one.

A third.

Nothing.

And then he saw Mimi’s hair and a black cowboy hat and Maria in a bright purple blouse. Something hard uncurled in his chest, like a muscle that had become so tense it had nearly turned to bone, but now filling with blood and oxygen andlife. He could feel his heart slamming under his breastbone, the air in his lungs as he drank them in, watched and waited and -- there. Maria nudged the cowboy beside her and Michael looked up, eyes finding Alex’s across the crowded stadium.

Only 8.5 weeks of drills kept his body in parade rest when he just wanted to sag, or better yet, break formation, climb into the stands, wrap himself around Michael and never let go. They held each other's eyes until the MTI came to his row and handed him his challenge coin. Then he found him again. He didn't look away until his row of trainees was dismissed; and then he walked with the biggest steps he could. The MTIs directed them through an exit on the far side of the stadium from where Michael and Maria and Mimi were sitting. Once he was out of sight of the MTIs, Alex booked it, trying to get to the exit he knew they had to have used.

Alex pushed pass hugging families, kissing couples, airmen he'd carried and who'd carried him across fields and over hills, men and women and people's he leaned to shoot and shout and exist with, surrounded by the people they loved. Jose, who'd cried every night for the first week, had twin toddlers clinging to his knees; Kim, the woman who was in her 30s and had beat them all at the first push-up challenge had buried her face her husband's neck. There were uniforms and eyes everywhere and Alex just needed to find Mimi and Maria and Michael.

He finally found them at the thin edge of the massive crowd, backs against the stadium wall, scanning for him. He swallowed, feeling Air Force-employed eye on him.

He walked up to them, back ramrod straight.

"Hey," he started -- then Mimi swooped in, her shawl fluttering around her arms as she swept all three of them up in a big hug. In the jumble, Maria and Mimi maneuvered Alex and Michael into the middle, both of their arms around them, Mimi’s voice low and clear in Alex's ear:

“Make it quick boys.”

And then Michael’s arms were around him, and Mimi and Maria were holding them even tight. Michael’s feet stumbled over his polished boots, Michael’s hair was in his mouth, the smell of him was everywhere. Alex leaned against Maria behind him, hand finding and squeezing Mimi’s wrist in a silent thanks, as Michael tucked his face into Alex’s shoulder and just breathed for a moment.

Then Alex felt something slip into his pocket and he pulled back to see Michael giving him a damp smirk. “I heard Airmen aren’t allowed to put their hands in their pockets, so I guess you’ll just have to see what it is later.”

Alex dove in again, holding Michael close for another long minute before pulling away. He hugged Maria and then Mimi for long moments, back tightening when Mimi murmured: “Your Dad was here, but he won’t be joining us today.”

Alex tilted his head in question but Mimi shook her curls: “The less you know, the better, sweetheart.” She reached over to adjust his cap. “Not going to let him mess up a day that should be special.”

Alex pulled back a little, looking around. “Are -- you're ok with this? With me being here?”

He knew Mimi hated what the military did to too many people, had heard her and Maria discuss it over his head while he was camping out on their couch.

But she shook her head: “What’s done is done. It’s a big deal, making it through BMT. Even if I could end all wars, I would still be proud of you that you set your mind to something and then did it. I’d rather you were an airman during peacetime, but we’ve never been at peace your entire life. And that’s on me and mine.” She shook her curls. “I’m not going to blame you for something you had no hand in creating.”

She took a breath, shifting tone as the ocean of families flushed around them. “So, Michael and Maria and I were betting on whether you would be able to stick around with us until 8pm. Maria figured you would have an earlier check-in time for bad behavior.”

“Yeah?” Alex said, nudging Maria before pulling her into another hug. It felt incredible to be with people he could be soft around, after more than 2 months of constantly being on guard.

Maria answered: “Michael was sure you would be able to stay with us the whole time, but I don’t know if that was wishful thinking on his part.”

Michael raised his hands, side still pressed against Alex's, Alex living in his crooked smile. “What can I say, I’m an optimist when it comes to Alex.”

Alex grinned: “Well, as it happened, I do have the whole afternoon free, all the way until 8pm. So whatever you two bet Michael, you better pay up.”

Something more serious showed in Michael’s eyes: “Nah, if anything, I owe them. I couldn’t be here at all without them.”

And for a long moment, Alex turned to the two women, making firm, clear eye-contact: “Thank you. To both of you. It -- it means the world. What you've done.”

They each nodded back. Then, forcing himself into a lighter register, Alex smiled: “Are you all ready to see the base?”

The hours felt incredibly long, and never long enough, the first real, unstructured time Alex had had in months. He managed to convince Michael there was no way he could help him move into wherever the Air Force sent him, but they would keep writing. Mimi wanted to make sure he knew how to get all of his TriCare appointments set-up, to make the most of the benefits he had as a military member. And Maria enjoyed meeting his squad mates, who'd teased Alex for weeks about his mysterious pen pal "M--."

--

October 20th, 2008
Fairchild AFB in Spokane, WA

Dear M--,

God I miss you. Thank you for your letters, they all got forwarded. I just got writing privileges after the first round of survival training. I can write you every day after this, but maybe just once or twice a week? I need to sleep too sometimes xD.

I can’t wait to see you again. Only another two months. We can do this.

Thanks for the keyring you slipped into my pocket at graduation. I put my barracks room key on it. It was fun finding it in my pocket after you all left.

Ok, more about my day. Let’s see. I’ve been practicing being in a flight crew, learning the different technologies we’ve got. Next up is survival training which is going to be r o u g h.

I can’t wait to see you, I confirmed I’ve got three days of leave. Can you meet me at the Rodaway Inn outside of Tuscon, December 23? I’ll be stationed at Davis-Monthan from Thanksgiving until after the New Year. I can take a taxi there from the base.

I miss you so much.

Yours,

Alex

--

December 23rd, 2008
Rodeway Inn, Tucson, AZ

Alex pressed his lips together as he heard the keycard in the lock. He didn’t know what he looked like; well, he knew what the mirror showed him -- more definition in the arms, no real hair, no piercings, pain-filled eyes like usual -- but it was so different from how he felt inside. What he’d been the last time Michael had seen him alone.

The door opened and the first thing he saw was a black cowboy hat. He stayed sitting on the bed, letting Michael see him in his fatigues, letting him see the circles under his eyes, the way his hands sat palm-up on his knees.

Michael -- Michael looked good. He looked so good. He looked like sunshine and warmth, like a kiss under fake stars and a hundred -- a literal hundred -- letters written in the last 2 months. The mail clerk had started to threaten caps on personal letters, and "M--" had become the by-word for romance on Alex’s training base mailroom, the standard to which all over long-distance lovers were held.

Michael looked so good, setting his high school backpack on the carpet.

Alex felt like sh*t.

“‘Lex?” Michael asked, shifting his hat off his head, “You ok?”

Alex shook his head, eyes brimming over and Michael took a quiet step forward, second-hand boots trickling with rain, tracking smudges of red dirt on the beige motel carpet.

“‘Lex?” Michael repeated, closer now, and Alex couldn’t look up, couldn’t see those gorgeous golden eyes, couldn’t see him standing over him, smiling or frowning or fist upraised or --

Alex made a broken glass sound in his throat and grasped for Michael’s thigh, pulling him close enough to bury his face in his stomach. He smelled like home. Alex choked back a hard breath, and another, coming faster and faster as his push-up hardened fingers traced shapes in the outside seams of Michael’s jeans. Michael’s hands came unfrozen, clipping along his shoulders to trace through his hair, and Alex let out the first real sob he’d had since that day in the shed.

“C’mere,” Michael said, pulling him closer, stepping between his thighs, wrapping his arms around the back of Alex’s head, enclosing him completely in his body, and it should have felt claustrophobic, it should have felt impossibly small, the space between his work-hardened forearms and his too-thin stomach, but -- it wasn’t.

It was perfect. Exactly enough space to get a full breath, exactly enough space to just hear his own breathing and none of the yelling of the MTIs or the trainers his survival courses or the whining of the boys in his unit -- almost all boys, no one old enough to drink in his team.

Alex could feel Michael’s shirt getting wet and he could hear clips of memories, of every time he’d gotten sh*t, gotten hit, for crying, even when it was the hitting that had made him cry in the first place. But there was some impossible, perfect part of him that knew Michael would just hold him through it, not take it away from him until he was done.

He hiccuped and Michael gave a half-laugh, tugging his ear: “Want to make this more comfortable?”

Alex jerked a nod and Michael leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead before reaching down to tangle his fingers in his hand, so warm and solid and his, and tug him up to the top of the bed. Michael sat high up on the bed, legs apart, boots on the slick patterned cover. Alex didn’t know if he wanted him to sit between his legs or straddle him, but all he wanted to do was be wrapped up in him, get as much body contact as possible, and so he just sort of laid down, head on his thigh, body curled around his leg, fingers not letting go of the grip he had on his left hand, fingertips tracing over the raised scars as Michael traced lines up and down his back. It took long, long minutes for Alex’s breathing to return to normal, for his body to stop feeling so hot and so cold at the same time. To look up, cheeks heated, at Michael’s smiling face.

“The hat’s that bad, huh?” he asked and Alex broke into a laugh that ended in a sob, muffled against the thick work denim of his thigh.

“It’s not the hat; the hat is hot as f*ck.”

“Is it the jeans? I got them second-hand but Maria said they made my ass look fine.”

Alex closed his eyes, tucking his hand under Michael’s hip to feel: “Your ass would look fine in BDUs, don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Michael snickered and ran the back of his knuckles down the side of Alex’s neck. “So, what is it?”

Alex shook his head, pressing his mouth to Michael’s thigh: “I just feel so stupid.”

“Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t.” Michael said simply. “You’re brilliant.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”

“You are.” Michael said stubbornly. “Has someone been telling you different?”

“Just me,” Alex said quietly, “I’m --” he took a breath, covering his face with his hand, “I can’t believe I did this. To you. To us. To me.”

Michael’s palm slid to the side of his face, gently turning him until he could see his concerned eyes. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific.” His voice was careful, worry carefully buried, but Alex felt worse -- why couldn’t he get anything right?

“Joining the Air Force. It’s going to be another 3 and a half years of this. Of f*cking hiding, of secret messages like you’re Cyrano de Bergerac, of motel rooms and no college and just --”

“Hey, hey, hey, Alex --” Michael started, but as Alex tried to look away, Michael just slid down the bed, pulled Alex on top of him so he was cuddled in the middle of his chest, bracketed by Michael’s strong arms, body balanced. “I’m with you, ok? I’m here. I’ll be here. I’ll keep being here. It’s not your fault and you’re doing the best you could with a sh*t hand. I just want you to stay safe, to get out, to be kind to yourself, and to, f*ck, to not die Alex, ok? Ok? That’s it. Don’t die; come back to me. Everything else we can work out.”

“But college, Michael, you were --”

Michael’s wrecked laugh was even harder to hear through his chest, but Alex was so f*cking glad to be touching him. “I wasn’t going to go to college because of my family problems, Alex, not yours. And who knows, when you get out, you’ll have the GI Bill and maybe I’ll have saved up enough and --”

Alex closed his eyes. “You think I’ll live to the end of this?”

And Michael froze, hands unmoving on Alex’s hips. Then he gripping him, hard, and Alex remembered he’d spent the last 3 months wrangling 700lb steer and living with men who spoke with their hands and he saw a hardness in Michael’s face when he said: “I’m not f*cking kidding, Alex. Whatever you have to do to survive, you do it. Don’t die; come back to me.”

Alex nodded, body softening. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had put his life ahead of everything else. Anything else. He slid his knees on either side of Michael’s hips, hooking an arm up under his shoulder, holding on tight as he pressed his face into Michael’s chest. “Ok.”

“I’m going to need to hear you say that to my face, ‘Lex.”

He pulled up, knowing his expression was a little aggrieved, and pressed his lips to Michael’s, feeling the soft-plush-push-press of them as he whispered: “Alright. I’ll live; and I’ll come back to you.”

“Good,” Michael grinned, hands coming up to frame his face. “So, you want to try that hello again?”

Alex grinned back, leaning in to press a hot kiss against his mouth, moving to settle more firmly across his hips, feeling Michael’s returning press up against him. He pulled away to say: “God I missed you,”

“You too, love,” Michael said, carding his fingertips through Alex’s hair again. “Every f*cking day. Also, we can’t be Cyrano, because that would mean I have a big nose, and I’m pretty well-proportioned in the nose department.”

“Pyramus and Thisbe?”

“That’s not bad,” Michael said, pressing a wet kiss to his mouth. “Oh! Before I forget: I brought presents?”

He tumbled out from under Alex, scrambling to grab the bag and bring it back to the bed, where he unceremoniously unzipped it entirely and up-ended it.

Out tumbled three wrapped boxes and a jangling pair of keys.

He held out the first box: “From Mimi.” He held out the second box. “From Maria.” He held out the third box: “From Mr Ortecho.” And then the keys: “From me.”

Alex co*cked his head, folding his legs under him to mirror Michael’s crossed-legged stance on the sunk-springed bed. “What are the keys to?”

Michael co*cked his head, giving him a smile: “Our place. It’s just an old Airstream I got for nothing from Sanders, but it’s ours.”

Alex’s eyes got big.

Michael smirked: “I even put you on the deed. I’ll need to get your signature, but it’s, legit, joint property.”

Alex’s heart slammed against his chest. “I -- I don’t know what to say, Michael.”

Michael shrugged: “Say you’ll never stay with Jesse or your brother when you come home. We can only poison him with yeast so many times before he stops taking drinks from us. You can come to Maria’s, you can come to Mr Ortecho’s, but you’re never going to have to stay in that house again as long as you live.”

Alex climbed into his lap, toppling him back over with a happy thump, feeling the old springs give and groan beneath them. He worked his fingers into Michael’s hair as he preened under the attention, shoving the keys into his pocket with his other hand, before pressing kiss after kiss on Michael’s face. Michael kept chasing him, trying to connect with his lips, but Alex kept kissing his eyebrow and forehead and cheekbone and ear, until Michael was a wriggling mess in his arms.

“Careful of the presents!” He warned as Alex sat up to carefully move them to the bedside table.

“I’ll get to them later,” he promised. “For now, I’d like to unwrap my present.”

Michael’s eyes went wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Alex nodded, smoothing his hands down Michael’s chest. “f*ck yeah.”

--

Sent: December 26th, 2008
From: Rodeway Inn, Tucson, AZ

Dear Alex,

You just got into your taxi back to base and check-out isn't for another hour and I miss you already. I miss the smell of your skin, the way your sleep with your mouth half-open, the quiet hush of the space you make when you're soft and quiet with me.

It's a 7 hour drive home and I'll be thinking of you every minute of it.

Love you,

M--

--

Sent: December 26th, 2008
From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tuscon, AZ

Dear M--,

I'm writing this from my barracks room bed. I've got your keys on your keychain and I'm pretty sure I'm never washing this shirt again.

I'm on 12hr shifts, covering for the guys with families, between now and until after New Years, then some more training, then some new base and my first operational unit, I don't know where. I might get my orders sooner, but I don't think I will.

I wish I knew the next time I could see you. But I'm glad we're writing letters, not using the phone. I love having something you touched in my hands, getting to see where you smudged a line or got some taco sauce on it.

It makes it feel a little bit like you're beside me, all the time.

And I'll be missing you in my bed every night until I see you again.

As always, I'm

Yours,

Alex

Chapter 3: 2009 [106,749]

Chapter Text

January 24th, 2009
Fosters’ Ranch, Roswell, NM

Michael tucked his shoulders tight against the Fosters’ closed pantry door, swooping his finger around the rotary phone’s dial, calling Maria’s number; he was all out of minutes for the month on his emergency cell-phone and Mrs Foster was giving him a break. He had his Saturday afternoon try-out to be a range rider on the ranch today, not just a seasonal hand. He’d rescheduled it from last month to after the holiday, to make sure he could be there for Alex. Mrs Foster insisted on feeding all of the candidates a hearty meal before the try-outs and she’d told him he could use the phone for 2 minutes.

Maria picked up on the first ring: “Mail isn’t until Friday, you know the base transfer slowed it down --”

“I know, I know, that’s not what this is about.”

“Ok,” Maria said, voice slowing down, “What’s it about?”

“If -- if I mark an envelope with three stars, can you not read it? I get what we said, about you needing to read it for any clearance interviews, but, sometimes, there might be stuff we just want to say to each other, ok? And, anyway, if you get interviewed, you can always read Alex’s replies later and I can tell you anything I wrote.”

There was a long pause and Michael’s eyes carefully followed the hands of the clock. Fifteen seconds later, he heard a sigh.

“Yeah, that works for me. You know it’s not that I want to--”

“No, no,” Michael stuttered, “I know. And you know how much of a lifesaver you are, ‘Ria. I just -- I want to be able to say some things, just between us?”

There was kindness in her voice when she said: “Of course. Yeah. 3 stars it is.”

“Thanks, ‘Ria. I gotta go.”

“Stay safe, Michael.”

Michael heard the pantry door open, yellow flowered curtain tapping dustily against the window in the door. He hung up the phone, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Everything ok, Michael?” Mrs Foster asked, drying her hand on a washed out faded cream hand towel that was more holes than fabric.

He nodded: “Yes, ma’am. Just calling my friend, checking in on her.”

“A lady friend?” She said with a sly smile, and Michael returned it. She’d been kind to him ever since Max had gotten him this job, treated him like everybody else, regardless of his hand or his living situation. He’d also seen her treat the African American ranch hands the exact same as the Mexican-American, Native American, and white ranch hands, which he couldn’t say for all the ranchers in Roswell. So he felt safe enough saying:

“Maria DeLuca, Mimi’s daughter? We went to school together.”

“She’s dating one of the Manes boys, right?” She shook her head, lines on her forehead getting deeper. “Their Daddy came around, sniffing to buy the ranch for some government project. He mentioned she was dating one of his brood, with some none-too-charitable words about her family. We sent him packing.” She twisted her mouth. “Bad blood.”

Michael swallowed, jaw working. He’d had no idea Jesse had been on the ranch. He’d just need to keep his head down even more then. “We don’t really do a lot of girl talk --” he started, then he found himself wracking his brain for what he and Maria could plausibly have in common; he said: “I’m helping her with the rancheria nights. Her Spanish isn’t so good, so I help her translate the posters.”

“Hmph,” Mrs Foster said, as if that one phrase could sum-up anyone with substandard Spanish living and working in New Mexico. She opened the door, gesturing him back through the kitchen, to the dining room on the other side. “You better get another helping before those bigger boys eat all the stew.”

“Thank you, Mrs Foster.”

He was almost to the door to the dining room when she called out: “It’s Alex, right?”

Michael froze, feeling his face go through a tornado of different emotions before he could force it still and neutral.

“Ma’am?”

She walked past him, snatching a cornbread biscuit from their drying rack on the way out. “Maria DeLuca’s boyfriend, it’s Alex Manes, right? Not Flint, or the other one, the nice one -- Greg?”

Michael nodded, heart pounding, fear almost filling his mouth so he couldn’t speak. But he managed: “Yes, he was in our year.”

She nodded, then nudged him with her elbow. “Grab one of those muffins while they’re hot. And good luck at the try-outs, Michael.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he managed to mumble before he took his place at the depleted table.

--

Sent: January 28th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

It’s been a hell of a weekend -- in a good way though. I got the range rider job on the ranch! Not just seasonal work! I’m an actual cowboy now. I had to do a formal try-out with Mr Foster, taking care of a lost calf and lassoing a steer. But I did it -- and I’m the only girl on the ranch here but the guys are ok with me. It’s nice, having steady outdoor work. He wasn’t sure about my hand, but the other guys vouched for me and said I had the grip for it. I knew I could do it and I knew you’d be really proud, so I did it!

Anyway, enough bragging.

Hmm, let’s see, I cooked beans and rice for dinner. Thrilling. Max came over to the ranch on Sunday with Isobel to say hi; I’m glad we got to talk a little bit about my family, last month. It’s good to have someone else know who they are to me, even if most people we went to school with don’t. It means you’ll know what I mean when I say Max was being really Max about my job, and Isobel even more Isobel than usual about my hair. They mean well, but I was glad when I had to go in for supper and they drove off in that new pick-up their Dad bought them to share. But even with all that, if I’m in trouble, I know Max will have my back.

Like you said when we met up in Tucson, the Air Force sent someone around to interview all of us who you listed for your clearance. They talked to Max and Isobel and Michael and Mimi and your Dad and some of your teachers and Sheriff Valenti. Nothing to report, just a boring talk with a random gringo dude from Cannon AFB.

Onto the good stuff: when I was last at the library, I listened to the new Pink! album on this website, YouTube. It’s pretty weird, they’re just letting anyone upload anything now, but it’s -- it’s really cool. I hope you get it on base.

I didn’t get a lot of studying done, with all the practicing lassoing. I don’t like to run the engine to power the lights after dark and I have to get up with the chickens now (apparently). But there’s a new librarian who doesn’t remember me from when I lifted that textbook, from when my foster dad wouldn’t let me get a card, and this is -- I’m really excited to get to reading it on my Sunday off.

It’s a thing with the Fosters, Sundays off. They have their sons do the feeding and the wrangling on Sundays, but it’s not like the stock market is open and it’s not like there’s any buyers coming or anything like that to be done, so, it’s -- nice. It’s quiet.

Man, if you were here, just the two of us.

Ok, I read up on the regulations on what you can and can’t receive and while I can’t send dirty mags, here’s what I can do -- send you a letter about what I want to do.

If it’s too embarrassing just don’t read this part, ok?

***

.

.

.

.

.

.

You’ve been warned, Alex!

.

.

.

.

.

.

Ok, for real now. Sheesh, this feels embarrassing. But also, maybe, nice? Anyway.

You’ll come here and see me when you’re in Roswell next. And you won’t have seen the Airstream before, so you’ll be looking around, trying to figure out if it’s mine, and I’ll come over and grab your arm and spin you around and just, kiss the heck out of you. I’ll bring you inside and you’ll run your hands through my hair, and you’ll taste -- just so good, Alex. Just so good. And then we’ll kiss more and you’ll be in my space, pushing me back, and I’ll be pressing back against you, and it’s kind of like wrestling but fun?

Then I’ll walk you back to the bed, which is all nice and soft with a quilt I’m gonna buy with my first no-longer-under-the-table paycheck because these Goodwill blankets are scratchy as hell, and I’ll lay you down there, and you’ll just be trying to get your clothes off as fast as you can and honestly, so will I. I’ll take off my shirt and you won’t be able to look away from me and then before you can even get your button undone, I’ll be down on you and covering you and just -- all that skin and quiet and time, Alex.

All that time. Just for us.

Ok, your turn! What would we do next?

Love,

M--

PS: Use *** to let me know when the private stuff starts!

--

Sent: February 4th, 2009
From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ

Dear M--,

Wow. That’s so cool you got the job. So very cool. Sorry Max was being Max :P. I hope Isobel’s doing well, I know you were really worried about her. Are you still parking the Airstream at the Elks Lodge parking lot in downtown while you fix her up? What’s the difference between a steer and a bull? The Fosters -- it’s a beef ranch, right? Or is it dairy? Tell me everything, it’s really cool you’ve got steady work. It makes me feel better knowing you’re safe.

What you were saying about the regs, that’s true, and I know some of the guys get pictures (not that I need one, I know what you look like. Every last piece of you). I double checked with my wing leader, on behalf of one of the other guys who’s a known horndog, and he said Lu couldn’t get kicked out unless he was advocating illegal activities or in an illegal relationship. Writing it in a letter can count as “telling” I guess.

Good thing we’re just fine, huh?

***

So, Maria, here’s what I would do.

You’d be covering me, hands on me. And you’d feel so, so good. So soft and hard and wiry from all that ranch work, hands rough from it but gentle for me. I’d bring you in closer and grind up against you, just, two bodies moving, just two heartbeats together. And you’ll get your clothes off and it would be all of that skin, and I’d get mine off, and you’d ride me, like we did in the truck back before BMT, soft and sure and there, and all mine. And I’d be all yours. And then we’d get cleaned up in the little solar shower and probably waste too much water, but I’m good at fast showers now. Not Navy showers, but still; not a lot of time to ourselves here.

And then we’d get back on the bed and it’s a narrow one, right? I looked up pictures of different kinds of Airstreams and there’s so many different versions of the insides of them. So I’d sit up behind you, and you’d be between my legs, back against my chest, and you’d tell me all about that cool textbook you’ve been reading on your Sundays and I’d tell you about the coding I’ve been learning, and we’d just get to be. With each other. For a while.

Then we’d eat some beans and rice and maybe some peppers we’d get at the market and we’d go to sleep, just, quiet, just the two of us. No yelling MTIs, no braying bulls (or steers -- do cows bray or is that donkeys -- anyway), no worries for a little bit, just us.

I’m yours,

Alex

--

Sent: February 5th, 2009
From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ

Dear M--,

sh*t, I don’t know how to write this. There’s nothing wrong between us, don’t worry about that please, but I just found out my training group is moving to Kunsan. South Korea. On 2/15. We’re going to finish our training there, in a week. By the time you get this letter, I won’t have any free days.

It’s called an OCONUS TDY, an Outside of the Continental United States Temporary Duty Station. I’ll be there for at least 6 months. Then, I don’t know.

It’s been such a mess. We’re supposed to get so much more notice, but since we’re all fresh out of BMT, they kind of just move us around. We were a group that was supposed to go straight to Kunsan -- and I’m really glad we didn’t, or else we couldn’t have seen each other over Christmas -- but we couldn’t, because they had black mold in the dorms and were fixing them in Kunsan, so we got slotted over to Davis-Monthan. I thought we would be here for the entire training.

But, just like an hour ago, they told us to pack up and get ready to leave in 10 days.

As icing on the sh*tty cake, one of the guys in my unit runk and punched an LT last week and got our entire unit confined to base, so even if you could get the gas money to drive the 7 hours and 12 minutes to get here, even if you had the gas money for it, we wouldn’t even get a night together. I wanted to f*cking smack Rodriguez.

I spent the entire presentation sitting in the back, trying to think of ways to see you, at least hear your voice. But I can’t ask to leave base overnight, because of f*cking Rodriguez. I don’t have spousal paperwork, which would help me make the case for needing leave. The rental car insurance is stupid expensive if you’re under 25, so even if I could leave the base, and could get the leave, it would cost so much.

I broke my rule, about not calling; I called the Pony as soon as I got out of the meeting. But no one picked up. I’ll keep calling, just -- just so you know what’s happening. It’s Thursday today, and I should -- maybe I can hear your voice Sunday? Just, just for a second?

I f*cking hate this. I f*cking don’t even get to kiss you goodbye and just -- sh*t.

By the time you get this, they’ll have started forwarding my mail, so I won’t see your reply until I get there. It’s two weeks, each way, guaranteed. But, when I’m there, I will buy a local SIM card. And I can leave you messages, even with the time difference.

Ok, let’s focus on facts. We can do that:

• Kunsan is 16 hours ahead of Roswell. So if you call me at 6am when you get up, I’ll see it at 10pm. But sh*t, those calls will be expensive. I think we should stick to the mail, as much as it f*cking sucks. You can call the base phone if you really, really need to, and leave a message, or if it’s an emergency and I’m available they’ll come get me. It’s: +82 31-5782-1110
• I can leave the base a bit, but a lot of Airmen get drunk and act wrong, so we might get confined to base. But I’ll get a chance to see another country and tell you about it. (I’d give that all up for a kiss goodbye)
• I’ll be done here in six months. The whole unit will be done with our training by then/ I’ll have leave by then, a week, maybe more. No matter where I go, I’ll have 2 weeks leave to get settled. I’ll come to you. I’ll find a way to pay for the flight to visit, even if my next base isn’t in the US. We can see each other then.
• We’ll make this work. Please tell me this will be ok.

There’s -- there’s something I wanted to say to you. Something you said to me in one of your first letters, and I didn’t say it back in December, I thought -- I thought we’d have time. A long weekend, in Tuscon or ABQ or someplace, someplace -- sh*t, someplace romantic. Not the back of a piece of paper, all crumped all.

I know you know what it is and I know you know how I feel. And I want to say it to you, to your face, where you can hear me, see me, and know I mean it.

Just, know, please, please know: no matter where I am,

I’m yours,

Alex

--

February 6th, 2009
Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Maria drove to Foster’s Ranch as soon as she got off the call with Alex. Her hands were shaking. Somehow, it felt so much more real, knowing Alex was going to be outside of the United States. It felt -- like he was so much closer to being at war.

She found Michael in the bunk house, glaring down the men as they stared at her. She asked him outside. She held him as he collapsed against her, eyes bright and shining, hair smelling like hay.

She tried to keep her voice even, even as her voice shook: “Alex will call on Sunday at noon. I’ll come get you --”

He pulled back, whispering in the twilight, jaw set: “I can drive there, I can drive to see him, it’s only 7 hours to Tucson --”

“He says he wrote it all down in a letter, it should get here soon. But he can’t leave the base, some kind of punishment, and he’s booked solid until they leave on the 15th. He -- he really, really wants to hear from you. On Sunday. He’ll call at noon. That’s something you can do for him.”

She took a breath: “He just has to survive one enlistment, then you two can build a life. He thought he was making the best choice he could with the information he had available. Our job is to help him understand his options, get him context he can’t get because he’s too caught up in it, and remember he’s ours and they took him from us and they don’t get to keep him. Ok?”

Michael gave a shaky nod, eyes overflowing with the motion. Maria yanked her chunky sweater over her thumb and dried under his eyes.

She put her hands on his shoulders, gripping tight so he knew she was serious: “You’re going to come to the Pony on Sunday. When?”

“11:30 so if he calls early I’ll be there.”

She nodded: “And you’re his friend, saying goodbye.”

He nodded again, “because we never know who might be listening.”

“Damn right.” She glanced down at the hoof-churned earth between them. “And then you can have dinner with Mimi and me.”

He started to object: “You’ve got the whole Sunday off, ok? Right?”

“Yeah, but --”

“But nothing. You need a support system too, ok? Come over. We’re having lasagna out of a box and wine left over from that wedding brunch the owner’s daughter made us host at cost. You’ll be back before lights out, I promise.”

Michael glanced back, and then shuffled back a step. He didn’t need their cover getting messed-up by anyone gossiping that Maria was stepping out on Alex.

“Ok, but I want to help cook or clean, I don’t want something for nothing, ‘Ria.”

She felt a smile: “I wasn’t going to let you freeload, Guerin. Don’t worry about it.”

She sent him back inside and kept that smile fixed until she knew he couldn’t see.

She cried the entire way home.

--

February 7th, 2009
From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ

Dear M--,

Ok, so we’re going to get to talk on Sunday, tomorrow. And I will be so glad to hear your voice, and I know you won’t get this until I’m either gone or nearly gone.

But I wanted to tell you what I was going to do, if we had had a chance to say goodbye to each other.

***

We’d meet at the gates of Saguaro National Park. I’d take a cab from base, and you’d pick me up. We’d get a campsite, right under those huge, towering cacti. You know they’re hundreds of years old, right? And even when they die, they’re home to all of these animals -- birds and bats and lizards and things.

We’d camp in the back of your truck, put a tarp over the top so we’d stay warm or have a campfire, whatever you like.

We’d eat PB&J, with the crunchy peanut butter you like.

We’d turn out all the lights and kiss and kiss, and then peel back a corner of the tarp and just stare into the perfect infinity of the stars.

(I’ll have different stars to see in Korea, but we’ll be looking at the same moon, the same sun.)

Once we said goodnight to the stars, we’d zip our sleeping bags together, legs intertwined. I’d kiss you and touch you and you’d laugh, give me that secret smile, the one that lights up your whole face. I’d make you feel so good.

In the morning, we’d eat apples and more peanut butter and I could show you the brochure they gave me about Kunsan, tell you about the food and the language and the people. Make it be a little like so you were there with me, so you could imagine it too.

And we’d be out in the backcountry, with no one around, so we’d unwrap the tarp and I’d take you apart under the sun, in front of the sky and God and everybody to see.

You’d laugh when you came and I could keep that with me, remember that sound, no matter where I went, what happened to me.

And then, once we’d cleaned up, we could maybe go to the Desert Museum, kiss behind the mesquite bushes. They have this walk-in aviary -- there was a brochure for it at the base exchange, tacked up on the community board. It looked so bright and colorful, so much better than all the camo and stuff around me all the time.

Then we’d go back to our campsite and watch the sun set, and even though the sunsets are going to be so much different in South Korea, I’ll get to see them through your eyes, knowing you’re there with me.

I’m still waiting to say the thing I know you know, because I want you to hear it from me and know it to be true.

I’m yours, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

Alex

--

Sent: February 8th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I love you. I just got off the phone with you and I wanted to say it -- I love you. I love you no matter where you are. I love you so, so much.

I looked up Kunsan AFB on Mimi’s computer on Sunday afternoon before family dinner and it seems cool! Lots of cool food and stuff, you should try bibimbap and tell me if you like it. It kind of looked like huevos rancheros with rice, so I think you’d be into it.

Not a long letter since I need to clean the dishes and then get back to the ranch, but I wanted to write what I can’t always say. And I wanted this to be there for you as soon as it can get there.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent: February 16th, 2009

From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea

Dear M--,

It’s gorgeous here. We arrived and I only got to see a tiny bit of the city as we flew over it, but there’s turquoise buildings just like at home and the ocean is huge and there's so many people everywhere! It’s really, really cold right now; somehow it feels colder than it does back home. But I have a big, thick jacket.

They took us by the Camp Humphries commissary and it was incredible. They had this ready-to-go sushi, which I’ve never tried before and am going to try to be awake to try again. And all these fresh veggies and it’s all a really, actually decent price.

And the apartments are great. I have my own room, with a shared kitchen and bathroom. There’s a game room on the floor below with pool and vending machines, though with that kitchen, I think I’m going to try to learn to cook. One of the guys here, he’s a bit older, but Unaccompanied like me -- that is, he’s not traveling with his family. His name’s Jimmy and he’s 25 and from Houston.

There’s -- there’s something incredibly freeing, being on a different continent than my Dad. The knowledge that I cannot possibly see him around any corner, that he doesn't have any way to get to me is just; I was thinking about it a lot on the flight, how much time I spend worrying about him popping up.

It’s just really good to be someplace settled for 6 months, someplace good.

I miss you so much.

Yours,

Alex

--

Sent: March 5th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I feel bad talking about how cold it’s so much worse down at the elevation you are, but there's a cold snap and I feel like I am dying. No heat in the bunks and I’m still fixing up the Airstream, working in the chill all day -- I melded myself into the chair at the library, the good chair -- did you spend a lot of time at the library? I thought you all had books at home, so maybe not, but there’s this good chair, big high arms so you can sit on it sideways, back curved just right so I can curl up in it, right under a heating vent.

I thought about taking the week off, until the storm is over, but I don't get paid for time I don't work, and the truck needed a big repair, so I'm pretty much wiped out. I'll be able to get ahead this summer.

Anyway, at the library I used that old black cowboy hat so I could take a nap and warm up Sunday. And the good librarian was there, so she didn’t get on my case. It was really nice.

You being there would have been the only thing to make it better. Sheesh but I miss you.

Ok, being positive -- I found a new book collection someone donated to the library. Tons of great stuff on astronomy. I’m attached a photocopy of the stars where you are, according to the book, with all of the names on them. You can tell me if it actually looks like that where you are?

I’m kinda jealous you're up somewhere with a different sky. I can’t remember seeing a different sky than the one we slept out under in the truck. Always the same sky here.

I miss you and I love you,

M--

--

March 19th, 2009
Kunsan AFB, South Korea

Dear M--,

I looked up the weather and it looks like it got warmer back home -- I hope you got a good coat, I’m worried that you’re so cold. It’s been a few weeks and I got to go exploring a bit with Jimmy and the others. I didn’t buy any of the tourist stuff; I’d rather just learn, you know? Korea is so, so different. It’s like living in Blade Runner, but so much more colorful. Everything is fast and the language, it’s kind of like Zuni. Kind of like listening to running water.

I was on my way back from the city -- which people here spell Gunsan, it’s only the AFB that uses the old spelling -- and the guy next to me is looking up Juicy bars on his phone; his brother trained here and he’s really into the idea of paying women for sex, women he doesn’t even have enough shared language with to negotiate a pizza order, so how could they possibly consent? It’s really gross.

It’s against base rules for him to go to the Juicy Bars, but I have no idea how well that’s being policed. It gives me the creeps. It’s one of the reasons so many guys lose money on deployments like this, they spend all their money in bars and on toys. But I would never go to those bars, and like I said, I’ve been learning to cook, so I’ve actually saved up some real money. Like, enough money that I can fly home to see you in August and we can stay at a motel for a whole week, money. Maybe even used-car down payment money. It’s something special, knowing I could be independent when I leave the Air Force. That I could take care of us.

Anyway, there’s good things and bad things about every place. My training is going really, really well. They’re telling me about taking classes online at a real school, then doing Air Force ROTC for 22 months and then commissioning as an officer. But I’m not planning on that; I’m coming home to you. I remember my promise.

Yours,

Alex

PS: I can’t wait to see you in August.

--

June 2nd 2009
Kunsan AFB, South Korea

“Alex, you’ve got a call.”

Alex was awake, perfectly and entirely awake in a way he’d realized the first day at BMT only the boys who’d known what it was to sleep unsafely got. He was sitting up, checking the wall-clock, heart beating brass down his bones. 1:55am; he’d had 90 minutes of sleep. He grabbed his cover, shoved his feet in his boots, and followed Jimmy down the hallway to the little watch room.

The watch sergeant was a pissed-off looking 35, but handed him the phone as he squeezed into the tight space with him and Jimmy: “You have 5 minutes or I report it. You’re not supposed to get personal calls.”

“This is Airman Manes.”

“Alex! Oh god, Alex -- “

“Maria -- what’s going on?”

“It’s Michael -- he got kicked by a bull --”

“A steer --” he heard, muffled in the background, then a groan of pain.

“I think it broke his leg, he can’t stand without falling, and he won’t go to the hospital and it’s been hours and I don’t know what to do,” Maria sounded near sobbing and Alex tried to understand through the howling wind of his mind what was going on.

“Michael -- Michael’s hurt?”

“Yes, Alex,” she near-shouted, “And he won’t go to the doctor!”

“No doctors!” Michael was sounding slurred, like he’d been trying to self-medicate the pain away. Alex felt nauseous and his heart tripped; he could smell the whiskey through the phone.

“He can’t afford the doctor,” Alex said, voice infuriatingly even, closing his eyes and turning away from the desk sergeant who was watching with undisguised interest. He covered his face and thought through his paystubs; he couldn’t pay for a trip home and a medical bill, but Michael needed to be able to walk to work, to live. It was an easy call. “I’ll send money. As soon as the bank opens, I’ll send money.”

“I don’t think it’ll help,” Maria gasped into the phone, “He says he still won’t go.”

Alex closed his eyes, feeling something hard come down across his heart. “Call Max Evans.”

“Max -- why would Max Evans help?”

“He’s Michael’s brother; he’ll be able to convince him. He got him the summer job at Foster’s, he knows how to talk Michael down..”

“He’s -- what?”

Alex shook his head, damning the Evanses for the hundredth time for how they left Michael high and dry, over and over and f*cking over again.

“Just -- call him. He’ll know what to do. If he doesn’t, call me tomorrow.”

“Can’t you talk just to him?”

Alex looked at the watch sergeant. “I don’t think I can, Maria.”

There was a choked sound. “Oh.” Then a deep breath. “Ok.” She sounded steadier. The voice on the phone got a little further away, like Maria had turned her face towards Michael. “He says to call Max.”

“f*ck,” Michael slurred. “You’re a f*cking narc, Alex!”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Maria --”

“Yeah?” He heard her close to the phone again.

“Tell him,” he looked the duty sergeant straight in his pale gray eyes, “I’m sending enough so he can heal for two weeks and then back to the ranch. And thank you for calling me, Maria. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Maria said, and in the background Michael slurred: “Hey, wait tell Alex I --”

And Alex hung up the phone.

The sergeant accepted the phone with a lazy reach. “What was that all about?”

Alex adjusted his uniform. “My girlfriend’s friend got hurt.”

The man rolled his eyes: “What was she expecting you to do about it? It’s not like you can go home.”

Alex’s breath caught in his chest; but he had a lifetime of older white men saying ugly things to him and this was nothing f*cking new. “She needed advice and I gave it. It’s what people who love each other do.”

“And you’re sending her your paycheck.”

Alex shook his head, easing around the man’s bulk with a wry smile: “At least I’m not spending it at Juicy Bars or on fake-ass Samurai swords.”

The man narrowed his eyes. Bullseye, Alex thought. It wasn’t a good idea to antagonize the older men on base but f*ck if he cared at 2am. He jerked his head at Jimmy and they started walking back to their barracks.

“Is your friend gonna be ok?” He asked and Alex felt himself become like stone. “He’s my girlfriend’s friend,” he repeated. “He works at a ranch and a steer kicked him in the leg. She thinks,” his voice cracked and he got it under control, “she thinks it might be broken.”

“That’s a tough break,” Jimmy said, “I mean -- bad luck.”

Alex closed his eyes, hand trailing along the many-times-painted wall, finding every bump and fist-hole-sized patch job. “Yeah, it is.”

“Why’s it your responsibility to pay for his medical care?” Jimmy asked voice neutral.

Because I love him, Alex thought. Because he was going to go to college before my father broke his hand and he wouldn’t let me help him then either, not that I could have. Alex gritted his teeth. Because if I can’t be there, at least my paycheck can.

He forced a smile on his lips: “Like I said to the sergeant -- it’s not like I’m spending it anyplace else. Why not help someone I grew up with, someone who’s like family to my girlfriend?”

Jimmy shook his head. “You’re too nice for your own good, Alex.”

Alex thought of hanging up on Michael before he could say ‘I love you.’

“That’s really, really not true.”

Chapter 4: 2009 [108,770]

Chapter Text

Sent: June 4th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Sorry for freaking you out with the whole steer thing. Max figured out he overreacted, it was just a bad bruise. He was walking the next day. He tried to reverse the PayPal transfer, but it kept coming through -- god you’re stubborn. He went right back to work.

Anyway, the sunsets are beautiful out here, as always. Blue and grey right at the end. I miss you a lot.

It’s so weird he and Max are related; I didn’t know that and I’ve known Max since elementary school. Michael’s so open sometimes and so closed off other times. It’s hard to get my head around sometimes. Nothing like you, you’re always an open book to me :D.

Stay safe,

M--

--

Sent: June 4th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I wanted to give you an update. His leg is a lot better, and he’s real sorry you had to use your flight home money for it. He’s gonna pay you back as soon as he can.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent: June 18th, 2009
From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea

Dear M--,

Please tell him to not worry about it. With the extra cash I saved not flying home this week, I was able to sign-up for extra summer classes. I should be able to get started on my AA a lot faster now. I still miss you so much, it’s like there’s weights on my chest.

Also, I got my clearance! It was pretty fast, looks like they might need our team for something.

Yours,

Alex

--

Sent: July 4th, 2009
From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea

Dear M--,

I tried a new drink today, one of the guys was holding a 4th of July party. It’s called a Manhattan. I don’t know why. It looked nothing like the city. It’s -- I mean, I liked the cherry on top. I liked the whiskey, and I think you would too.

We heard where our next assignment was going to be.

The guys said we had to celebrate our unit getting picked to go, that it meant we were the best, and the thing is, I just wanted to call you. To tell you. And by the time you get this, I would have. I did. I will have done?

English is hard.

God, I wish you were here. I wish I could hold you tonight, tuck my head under your chin and just -- let the world swirl around us for a bit.

I think you’d like it.

Yours,

Alex

--

July 5th, 2009
Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

“The Wild Pony, our Monday night special is the sarsaparilla spritzer, how may I help you?”

“Maria?”

Maria cupped her hand around the receiver, ducking down behind the bar to get away from the stomping boots and smacking pool balls and the drunken laughter.

“Alex? What --”

“We got our orders.” Alex said, voice crackling over the international connection. It was $3 to connect and $.50 a minute, and Maria could see the dollars ticking down out of her paycheck, but Alex wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.

“Iraq?”

“Yeah.”

Maria felt like someone had stomped on her chest; she forced herself to sound calm: “You’ll be at Qayyarah Airfield West, in Kurdistan. It’s mostly safe there, Alex. You’ll be fine.”

There was so much noise, but Maria could make-out: “I -- I can’t say where I’ll be.”

“I know, that’s why I told you. So you know I know.”

“Can -- I’ve got a month before we go, can --”

“I’ll make sure we have a good going away party for you. Sunday. Call at noon.” She took a breath. “How’re your online classes going?”

“Good, I couldn’t get into the English class so I’m taking more math. It’s not as bad as when Mr Miller taught it.”

She gave a wet laugh, “It couldn’t get much worse. Remember when he measured your paper with a ruler, trying to dock you points for formatting?”

There was a ghost of a chuckle: “Yeah, and he had to give the points back because I was right.”

Maria swallowed, blinking her eyes closed, feeling her lashes get damp. “I’ll make sure everyone here who loves you knows.”

Alex choked: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I was waiting to do it in person, but --”

“Alex.” Maria interrupted. “What did you promise?”

"What?"

"In Tucson, what did you say?"

Michael had told her, in the quiet over dishes. She heard Alex take a long breath. “I’ll live; and I’ll come back to you.”

“When I see you, say it to my face, what you wanted to say.”

“Ok." Another breath. "Ok. I’ll call Sunday?”

“Noon, right on the dot. I love you.”

“Thanks, Maria.”

--

August 8th, 2009
Qayyarah Airfield West aka Q-West

In the stillness of a desert night unlike any desert night Alex Manes had ever lived through before, he craved a body next to his. He craved it like he’d craved touch and food and sanctuary, like something he’d gotten so used to and had no idea how to live without. It felt -- it was deep in his stomach, across his arms, in the space where his legs kicked against the metal ridges of the set-it-up-yourself single-sized cot. It was so small, this space in the big tent, just sheets of white plastic between him and every other member of his new unit. He knew it was big enough for him, for him to sleep in, to fall into, but it was also -- not enough. Not enough space for how he wanted to be.

Then there were the bombs. Far off, but they were there. They were less like a sound and more like a feeling, a shove inside his chest, over and over and over again. The sound of planes, dropping down, climbing up hard. The sweep of the searchlights from the guard towers over the old palace, the old airfield beside it.

70 miles south was Mosul. He'd flown over it, a couple of times this week. It was -- Mosul was a city, first and foremost. A city, kind of like Phoenix, but full of buildings that were much, much older. The signs he'd seen pictures of in the briefings were half in English, half in Arabic -- because Arabic was written right-to-left, the logos would just start on the right, end in the middle, then the English would start on the left and end in the middle.

There were so many familiar smells on the base. Coffee and heat coming off of parked cars, dust and diesel -- it smelled like Michael, parts of it. The smell of bodies in thick clothing, to protect them from the sunshine and the chill.

His intake officer had been here in 2003, had three tours here.

Alex got up in the full dark, getting fully dressed with his kevlar and lacing his boots, then wrapping his coat around him, the thick warm one he’d brought to Kunsan. He put his keys in his pocket, the pressure of them against his palm stinging and good; they were rarely far from his skin now. He knew it was late and he’d have to be up early. He just couldn't lay down and listen to other men breathe for another minute. He worked his way outside, walking down the dirt path between the big tents until he found a bit of shadow and sat in the dirt, taking out his keys and pressing the teeth into the tight muscle of his palm. He heard the crunch of boots behind him and he tensed his jaw, ready to stand and salute and apologize -- but then someone just flopped down in the dirt beside him.

“First night?” It was his intake officer, Captain Kitty Kelly, the one who’d shown him and all of the other new arrivals the camp.

“First week; close enough.”

She nodded. “Nothing but time will make it better. At least the mail comes through regular.”

Alex stuck his thumb in the latch of his keychain, digging the metal in a little. “I have -- my girlfriend writes me. She,” and he felt a smile creeping across his face. “She works on a ranch and at her Mom’s bar. She can’t write every week, but she tries really hard.”

She smiled. “Good. It’s good to remember there’s a world out here.”

He swallowed. “I’m from a place like this, in the desert.”

“I’m from Tampa, but this place grew on me. It’s a beautiful country.”

Alex nodded. “I -- can I ask you a stupid question?”

She co*cked her head. “Sure. You’re, what, 19?”

“Yeah?”

“So everything’s new and shiny to you. You should ask as many questions as you possibly can.” She tipped her head back. “I wish I’d asked more. So sure, kid. Shoot.”

“If I work with women who wear the full face coverings, how do I tell them apart?”

She huffed a laugh. “That’s what you want to know? Not how to get booze or get rich quick or whatever idiot thing your unit is planning?”

Alex frowned a little, looking up at the unfamiliar stars. “I just want to do my job, protect my team, and get home in one piece. But I -- this is their country. I want to know how to be respectful, and everything we learned is about manners when interacting with men, nothing about women. I figured you might know.”

Her smile faded a little, to a look of consideration. “Well, you won’t be getting off base. Airmen don’t go beyond the wire at ground level much at all, particularly not guys as fresh as you.” She held up her hand. “But let’s say you end up at Al-Udeid next and go into Doha or take classes in that new Education City thing they’re setting up or something. You’re right, there is a trick to it. And I’ll tell you, and answer any other questions you might have, both because I think you deserve to know, and because that’s one of the better questions I’ve had anyone ask on their first tour.” She smiled a little. “The trick to talking to telling women apart is to look in their eyes.”

“What?”

The intake officer shut her eyes, shaking her head, hair still in a tight, blond, regulation ponytail. “No matter where you are, I don’t think a lot of them will talk to you, but you’re quieter than the other men, so they might get the hang of being around you. Most of the women don’t cover in Mosul, and those who do usually cover just their hair. You’ll get used to telling Egyptian from Iranian from Iraqi hijab styles, if you have the eye for that sort of thing.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I would?”

“You took notes during the tour, made yourself a little map. Most people stare at me, fish-faced; but you took it seriously. It shows you care about details. Being able to tell, it’s a skill, just like cleaning a gun, being able to tell where people are from by how they dress. People who take notes tend to be better at it than people whose lives are, say, a little more gross muscle movement focused.”

He gifted her with a half of a smile, a grimace that she seemed to take for what it was; not everyone could be chipper after their first week sleeping on a cot.

“Ok, you were saying about their eyes?”

Kelly nodded. “Ok, so, even the guys who can get the hang of talking to women here, they usually chicken the f*ck out about talking to women wearing niqabs --”

Alex quirked an eyebrow and she answered: “The face-coverings.”

She sighed, cricking her neck back and forth. “It wasn’t a thing here, in the ‘80s much. I’ve seen the pictures in General Schwartzkopf’s autobiography. But fashions change and religious feelings change and when you’re being invaded, sometimes you want to wear your culture a little more publicly.”

Alex glanced around, voice low: “Sort of like the American Indian Movement led to more people changing their names to native American names, naming their kids less Anglo-sounding names?”

She glanced over at him, assessing. “Yeah.”

She took a breath, reorienting. “So, if you meet someone, who is willing to talk to you despite all the,” and she waved to his uniform, haircut, boots, “And she’s wearing a niqab, the trick is to look her in the eyes. You can tell a lot about a person’s feelings through their eyes. You can’t see her body language under the bulkier abayas and such, but if you look her in the eyes, you’ll be able to tell.”

He nodded, frowning, trying to impress this into his memory.

Kelly quirked him a half-smile. “The women, they can always tell each other apart. Everyone will have different shoes or a button or eye-liner or eyeshadow or a particular design on their abayas or niqabs. They can track the details because they’ve practiced; so, practice, and you’ll get the hang of it.”

Alex shook his head. “I think you’re right, I don’t think I’m going to get a lot of chances to interact with civilians in this tour.”

Kelly co*cked her head. “Well, you could roll it that way. But you don’t have to. You can volunteer to liase with the Iraqi government, work with their coders. We have allies on the inside and the more the government works with us, the faster we’ll win.”

She gave him a bright, fake smile: “That’s what we’re all here for.”

Alex pasted on the same kind of fake smile. “Sure, yeah.”

She tilted her head: “But you need sleep. You should go try to get used to that cot, Airman.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and levered himself to standing. “Alright, thank you Captain.”

“For sure. Goodnight, Airman.”

He saluted and she returned it. Then he went back to his cot, keys held soft in his palm, tucked under his chin, trying to fall asleep between two narrow plastic walls.

--

Sent:August 9th, 2009
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

I’m really sorry for not writing you when I first arrived; I think my mail is all messed up, I haven’t seen anything from you yet.

It’s been -- hard. I’m not with the same unit I was training with for the last year, Jimmy got sent to [redacted] I talked some with the intake officer, but mostly I’ve been -- trying to figure out how it works here.

You know my career field, 1A8X2. You can read what we do. I can’t talk about it, except to say I’m learning a lot more in a week of being deployed than I did in a year of classes.

God, I miss the commissary and the fresh fruit at Kunsan. I miss the Crashdown. I miss --

Ok, let’s see if I can do this with the three stars. The folks reviewing the mail here, they’re a lot more picky about details. If I call from the little pod where they’ve got the phones set-up, there’s someone else listening on the line, to make sure I don’t talk outside of school.

And hey, I got one of those generic USO care packages -- a bunch of chocolate bars and some Ritz crackers, some car magazines the other guys really liked, a nice hand-written card by some volunteer in Detroit. So hopefully the mail should get through soon.

I’m just -- I’m feeling it, I guess. It’s really loud here, packed together, and the feeling of being watched is, it’s a lot. If anyone has an old pair of earbuds, they’ve been out of them here forever, and if you can slip them in an envelope, that will get to me a lot faster than they’ll restock. I’d love to listen to some music, hear something other than planes and shouting guys and the very occasional gunfire.

I should know when I’ll be back stateside in the next week or so.

I’m yours, always.

Alex

--

Sent:August 9th, 2009

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m really sorry for not writing you sooner. I -- I was hit pretty hard, you getting deployed so fast. I hadn’t realized how much I’d had my heart set on seeing you before you left. Do people really call it the sandbox, or is that just on TV?

I’ve read a lot of USO pages about how to be a good Air Force spouse, if that’s an ok way to talk about it. I’m supposed to encourage you, not tell you when things go wrong, make sure you know you’re loved, make sure you know what normal looks and feels like.

And -- I can do that. I can tell you about the calves I helped birth and how little and wobbly they were; I can tell you about seeing coyote pups running around the edges of the land we’re working on and how business-like and professional they are. I can tell you I love you.

I can tell you about how Max got into the Sheriff’s Academy and Isobel has started to build her own events business. I can tell you how proud of them I am, even though I’m kinda dreading seeing Max in a uniform.

But, I remember I used to get these little handwritten cards with those Giving Tree trees at the supermarket, when I’d get some jacket or something from a family wanting to give to someone who was less well off than them. I remember seeing all these “buck up!” “it’ll get better!” things and they just made me feel -- feel like I had a gag around my mouth. It felt like, if everyone around me was cheery, I was bad and wrong for having uncheerful thoughts about a sh*tty situation.

So, can you, tell me what you need? What would help? I want to be there for you, and if what you want is chipper, I’ll do my f*cking best.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent:August 23rd, 2009

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I got your letter and of course, I went to Walgreens and got you 3 different little earbud sets that should work with the computers there. They’re all tucked into this envelope. That’s really exciting you’ll know when you get to come home.

I read that most Air Force deployments are like 4-12 months, with most being 6 months, so that means you could be back to a state-side location in December or maybe February? It’s supposed to be 5:1, time at home vs time abroad, but who knows how likely the Air Force is to keep that ratio.

And then you’d only have 2.5 more years to go, that’s nearly halfway done.

I looked up all of the bases you could be at and if we’re really, really lucky, you’d be at Cannon. But even if you’re all the way in Florida, I can come and visit, you’ll have enough saved up to fly here sometimes. It’ll be a lot easier.

Ok, I know you’re writing back today or tomorrow, and I’ll see it in two weeks. Until then, I love you.

M--

--

Sent:August 23rd, 2009
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

f*ck that USO bullsh*t. I want you to be real with me. If something sucks, tell me it sucks. If you need something tell me. If I need something, I will tell you. That’s what I want. I hope that’s what you want too.

Let’s see, the mix of connection to reality and distance from it is really weird. Like, we’ve got American Idol and NCIS and Dancing with the Stars here, but the news is always a bit wonky. Everyone knows there’s only one major airfield people are using in Iraq but we can’t say what it is. We’re not allowed to guess what the news means for us, but everyone talks about it all the time. I made a new friend, Charlie. They’re only here for a quick tour, but they’re cool. They’ll be gone by Thanksgiving.

I learned to sleep on the cots here. I know that sounds like something a baby might be proud of, but not being able to sleep is a real bitch and a half. It makes it harder to do my job, it makes it harder to have time to get to know other people while I’m doing my job.

The intake officer has been really cool. She basically adopted like 5 of us, calls us her ducklings, makes sure we know how to request leave and understand Permanent Change of Station (PCS) orders, and understand bases and how performance reviews work. It’s pretty great, really gives me a sense of where I am in the world.

I know there’s a lot going on at home, and not just calves and coyotes. I want to know about it. Did the range rider job stay through the summer? How’s the Airstream? How’re you?

And, I can’t really get my imagination to work out here, it’s so loud, but, if you can, tell me what we’ll do. When we see each other again. It’ll be in February 2010 and I’ll be in Warner-Robins AFB, in Georgia, starting 2/25, for at least a year, learning a new technology and helping train the next group. I get 2 weeks to move in, so I’ll spend 1 day moving in and 13 days with you. So, a year at Warner-Robins, then I’ll probably be deployed again for 6 months or a year, then finishing up either 6 months or a year, probably somewhere stateside. Unless I get stop-lossed, but that can only be for another year.

Then I’m done.

How’re classes going? You were going to sign up at Eastern New Mexico, right? Since the scholarship fell through?

I’ve never wanted to live in Georgia but I would take it in a bare moment. I can’t wait to see you.

I’m yours,

Alex

--

Sent:September 7th, 2009

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I told the Fosters I need 2 weeks in February and they are really happy to give it. I’ll see you in Georgia on 2/11. We’ll get to spend our first real Valentines Day together. So, are you a chocolate man or a flowers man xD?

The Airstream is good, just saving up for some new tires so I can move her. The Fosters said I could start parking her on a back corner of their land, so I can save on parking fees. They’re really good to me, Alex. I don’t know what I did to deserve it.

I tried to sign-up for classes, but with what happened with the economy, they doubled all the fees. And that’s not even counting textbooks. I’ll be saving up and trying again in January, so for now I can work more hours and get some good saving done.

I’m -- well, you said you wanted the truth, so the truth is, I miss you like my heart’s split in half. Like there’s this long, thing red string tying between us and I can feel it stretching and flexing every time the planet moves. I miss you like I miss breathing when I dunk my head in a stream to clean off when I’m out on the range. I miss you like I could die from it.

Ok, but you asked for what we’ll do. Here’s what I’m thinking.

***

We’ll meet at a motel, say, the Best Western in Warner Robins, GA. I’ll get there the day before you land, stock-up the mini-fridge with everything you’re missing -- fruits, veggies, snacks, anything, Alex. I’ll even bring something for Manhattans, but I’m hoping that was just drunk you being silly (I miss seeing silly you).

So, you come in the door and you look good. You’re just off a flight, carrying one of those massive military backpacks, and you just want to nap. Well, congratulations, you can nap. We’ll just take off all our clothes and go to the shower, because you probably want the smell of plane off of you. I’ll have nice soap, a soft cloth, and I’ll help you get clean, and you’ll do the same for me. I could wash your hair, if you want; and I can teach you to wash mine. I’ll have tooth brushes, all the good stuff, so it feels like a little home for us, for 13 days.

Then once you’re warm and dry, we’ll snuggle up under the covers. I’ll hold onto you, or you’ll hold onto me, or we’ll tangle together like octopi -- do you know there’s 3 legal plurals for octopus? Octopi, octopuses, octopodes. English is weird, man.

And this is the important part -- it might take you a really, really long time to relax. Maybe you’ll want to talk or maybe you’ll want to pretend you're ok or maybe you’ll sleep like you’re ok, but I’ll be able to feel the tension in your back. But I’ll wait. I’ll be there. Whatever it is, whatever it takes. You’ll be carrying it, the pain, the waiting. I know you will. I know I am. And I’ve been working on figuring out how to carry that, but I get to ride horses and touch cattle and honestly, and they're big dumb animals but they're soft, I’m not sure who’s touching you softly right now. I get to be with good animals, good-enough humans. I want that for you too, but I think the only thing you’re caressing is these pages, the only thing you're touching lightly is your keyboard.

So maybe it will take you a while. A little bit, or days, or the whole time.

But there will be a moment, and I know it’s coming even if I don't know when, when you’ll relax. You’ll fully, completely relax; those lines above your eyebrows will soften, your jaw will loosen, and your shoulders will get easy. And then I’ll know I did my job. Then I’ll know your body knows it's safe, at least for now, at least with me.

I love you,

M--

--

October 12th, 2009
South of Mosul, 35,000 feet above Iraq

35,000 feet above over the winding Tigris river, Alex and Charlie crinkled the wrappers of USO candy, over and over, as they watched their monitors for signs of hidden bases. The Eden river’s waters were muddy, but all they could hear was the roar of the engines. Charlie yanked Alex’s headset off his ear and shouted:

“Where are you from?”

“Roswell, New Mexico,” Alex shouted back, glancing over at the other air crew who were ignoring them, and remembering to bace for alien jokes.

Charlie’s face brightened, blue eyes widening as the plane jerked with the windstream. “I’ve been there!” So much young excitement, Alex was thrilled just to be there for a second, just to see someone so happy in this hard place.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “It was a cool road trip with my Dad and my sister.” She closed her eyes, leaning an elbow on the console. “Bright sky, big sunsets, red dirt?”

“Dumb alien signs, cowboys, bigots and drunks --” Alex shouted back.

Charlie narrowed her eyes, taking this as a challenge: “Stunning mesas, 15,000 years of Native American history, kick ass Mexican food --”

“Racists wearing 10 gallon hats, hom*ophobes at prom, addicted teens driving into trees --”

“Cowboys! Cowgirls! Cafes with silly names and -- there’s a UFO Museum there, right?”

And Alex froze, about to say Yeah, and you’ll never bet what I did in there. And he swallowed it back, hot and burning on his tongue. Charlie was nice and all, brave for coming out to him, but -- just because someone shared space within an acronym, doesn’t mean they’ll always be their best selves and have his welfare in mind.

He gave a half-smile and yelled: “I still love people back there. My -- my girlfriend is there.”

And Charlie’s eyes sort-of half-hooded. “A girlfriend, huh?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, mind slipping into the side passage where he kept all of the details he was prepared to give out. “High school sweethearts.”

“Dawwww,” Charlie said, voice saccharine and somehow too, too sweet over the noise. “That’s adorable.”

“Yeah,” Alex shouted back, “She is.”

Charlie tipped her head onto her shoulder, slight-out-of-regulation hair brushing against the canvass shoulder straps. “What’s she like?”

“Oh,” Alex said, glancing down to make sure there were no signals to record. Then he looked out the window to the bright sky beside them, hoping the glare made his expressions harder to read as he felt emotions flickering across his face. “She works on a ranch as a ranch hand. She -- she’s black and my father’s a bigot. Caught us together and broke her hand with a hammer.”

“Holy sh*t, Alex,” Charlie said, eyes massive: “Holy sh*t.”

He nodded, shouting: “You’d think having four Diné sons would have given him enough people of color to hate, but, apparently not,” he shrugged. “She’s brave and strong and she does well enough. Her Mom works in a bar, and she’s saving to buy it from the crappy owners.” He closed his eyes. “She writes me all the time. That’s why you’ll see me disappear as soon as mail time comes.”

“Not emails?”

He shook his head hard: “We can, we do, sometimes, but there’s not a lot I can share day-to-day, and she doesn’t have a computer right now. And,” he patted his chest pocket where he was keeping Michael’s most recent letter, the one where he’d promised to hold him until he felt soft. “It means something, more. To have a letter her hands touched, you know?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, looking at him hard for a moment, “Yeah. I could see that.”

She was quiet for a moment, then brightened up again; nothing seemed to keep Charlie down for long.

“I’ve got some pretty stationary my sister sent me; you want some for your next letter? I’ll trade you your computer time when we get back down, since you’re not gonna use it.

Alex grinned and yelled back: “Sure.”

--

Sent:November 5th, 2009
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

It’s nearly Thanksgiving and f*cking everyone is talking about it and I’m the only Native guy on base and jesus, it f*cking sucks. It f*cking sucks so much. I want to just, like, be away, but it’s the food in the mess, the decorations in the offices, all everyone wants to talk about is who gets to go home and who doesn’t and who wants to see who and who has to cover for who and it sucks.

Anyway.

Sorry.

Please tell me you don’t love Thanksgiving?

Yours,

Alex

--

November 19th, 2009

Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I f*cking hate it; we should never celebrate Thanksgiving every. Turkey tastes like angry napkins, cornbread is better with chili peppers anyway, and gravy is sh*t.

Let’s go camping every Thanksgiving forever.

Love you,

M--

--

Sent:November 20th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Also, it’s gorgeous here. I miss you. I got a little side job to save up for Christmas presents. I’m helping out on cars at the junkyard. Isobel has a new MacBook case on her wish list and Max needs some lessons at the shooting range to pass his next annual test, since he’s a sh*t shot right now. It’s not fancy work, but the pay is tax free and easy on the wallet.

So, some couples are all about guessing what to get each other for Christmas. But, the thing is, I’d rather know? I can guess for you, but if it was ok, I’d rather we just tell each other.

Love,

M--

PS: I want you home, but barring that, can you make me a mixtape? Just tell the the songs you want me to listen to, I can make a YouTube playlist.

--

Sent:December 4th, 2009
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

I never even thought about just telling someone what I want for Christmas. What a f*cking brilliant idea.

Can you make me a guitar pick? There’s always a guitar somewhere around here and I could put it on my tags when I’m in the field. With our initials maybe?

I want to make sure you get your present on time, so here’s the playlist:

Kings Of Leon - Use Somebody

Santigold - Lights Out

MGMT, "Kids"

Shinedown, "Second Chance"

Linkin Park, "New Divide"

Green Day, "Know Your Enemy"

Owl City, "Fireflies"

Muse, "Uprising"

Linkin Park, “Shadow of the Day”

I used that website you told me about, made a play list out of them: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUf_75Sh4J4z3tGWQXaKchqpzTEIuNja4

They do have so much music! But they didn't have everything. One of my new friends, Charlie, showed me this one and I think you'd like it a lot: bootiemashup.com/bestofbootie2009

I’m yours,

Alex

--

Sent:December 18th, 2009
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

One guitar pick, carefully packed and included!

I’m going to be greedy and ask for something else. Can you bring me something small, something from another country? Something that you’ve carried around with you. Maybe you could pick out a cool rock, and carry it around with you?

The only catch is: I want to have it from your hands. So if that means I get my Christmas present in February or June if something changes, that is fine.

Just as long as I get it from you.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent:December 24th, 2009
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

Christmas is never easy for me, and I don’t have a lot of good memories of it. So I’m probably better suited than most to living through this part.

But it’s hard. Seeing all this holiday stuff, all this family stuff everywhere.

At least I don’t have to be at my Dad’s house.

I’m sad I’m not with you, but I’ve got that pick you sent; thanks for drilling a hole in it, it’s on my keychain now.

I’ll see you in February. At the Best Western. I’ll write more if I can, but I’m going to try to go and sleep some until my next shift; it's been 12 x 12s -- 12 hours of working, 12 hours off, but it's not really off, since it's so loud here right now. I'm wiped.

I hope you’re warm and loved and comfortable.

I’m yours,

Alex

Chapter 5: 2010 [111,807]

Chapter Text

Sent: January 1st, 2010
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

Happy New Years. No fireworks on base, obviously. I’m honestly not sure I’ll ever enjoy fireworks again, after being here. It’s so cold at night. The other airmen, they think it’ll be hot all the time; but you and me, we know from deserts. We know what it’s like here. I just -- I can't wait to see you when I get to Georgia. Just 6 weeks. We can do it. I know we can. I just -- I wish I could hold you tight.

Next year, we’ll kiss at midnight on New Years Eve. I promise.

Yours,

Alex

PS: I forgot to tell you, but I just had some crazy luck -- Charlie's friend is PCSing to Robbins-Warner and she'd agreed to let him use her truck to make the move, but he wants to buy an F-150 or some sh*t, and she was trying to sell her car while she's over here, and I asked if I could rent it and she said I could. I've got a truck! I mean, it's still hers, but I've got something to drive while I'm in Georgia; I won't be stuck on base. I can't explain how good it feels, knowing I won't be trapped. And maybe I can meet you in the middle sometime, so you don't have to drive all that way.

PPS: There's something I need to say to you. I meant to say it in Tuscon, and I didn't want to say it in a letter. But I'm going to say it.

--

Sent: January 1st, 2010
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Happy New Years, love. I hope you’re having a good night, but God, I miss you. There’s a whole party thing at the Wild Pony tonight, but I just volunteered to go range riding. I didn’t want to see everyone kissing at midnight without you there. So I’m writing this by a nearly full moon, wrapped up in like 3 jackets. I’ve been riding Buck, this sweet little gelding. I think you’ll like him. He’s so easy to ride, I nearly fell asleep in the saddle. Have you ever gone riding?

Love,

M--

--

Sent: January 13, 2010
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

I've never been riding; maybe you can show me xD.

The training I’m going to Georgia for a year for actually looks pretty cool. I’m not planning to go to OTS after this tour, obviously, but it was cool to get some of the training I would need if I switched over to commissioned. A real chance to protect the guys in my unit, keep some other dirtbag LT from pushing us all around.

It’s getting louder here. I can’t really tell you why, but it’s -- it’s louder. It’s harder to sleep. Do you -- do you have stuff that like, makes you think about bad times? Like, you go to sleep, you wake up, your shoulders won’t stop being tense? You can’t turn your head for the crick in your shoulder-bad? I just, I’m not trying to get sympathy, I know I have it good, 3 hots and a cot, a safer job than pretty much anyone in the Army gets, but I just -- it’s hard, sometimes, right? Remembering?

Anyway, that will be someone else’s job in 2 years. I’m just going to keep my head down and get through this. Then we’re going to have a kickass life together.

I’m always yours, see you in a month,

Alex

--

Sent: January 27th, 2010
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I can’t wait to see you in three weeks. I double-checked with the Fosters and I can still have the two weeks off in February. They even gave me a couple of days of travel time and gave me the name of some dairy farmers they know in Georgia, in case I need anything.

It’s -- it’s really something to have folks care about me, even if they don’t know why I’m traveling.

I’m so f*cking excited to see you. Mimi wants to know what present you’re bringing her, but even if you just bring the clothes on your back -- or not :D -- I’ll be so f*cking grateful.

Sheesh, Alex, I miss you so much.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent: February 11, 2010
From: Ramstein Air Base

Dear M--,

I’m on my third-to-last connection before getting to Georgia. I’m going to land at the base at 5pm, pick up Charlie's car, and drive straight to the Best Western. I think I should get there around 6pm? I’ll see if they let me do early check-in.

Ramstein is massive. I wonder if I’ll ever be back here; the flight I was on was nearly all injured guys, getting transported for better medical care. Some of them were younger than me. It was hard to see.

I know you won’t get this until you get back home, but I wanted to tell you -- the entire time I was on the plane, doing that insanely steep take-off they do from the AFB there, with all the noise and rattling and dust, I just put in those headphones and played the songs I put together for your playlist on this old iPod Charlie gave me as a going-away present. Just, over and over again, imagining you were playing them too.

I know you’re driving out, I hope you’re safe.

See you soon.

I’m yours,

Alex

PS: I sent this one as an email too, so you'd have all the details. You probably won't even see this until you get home, but I wanted you to have it, all postmarked from Germany and stuff.

PPS: I can't wait to see you, to talk to you. I feel like I've been waiting forever.

--

Sent: February 11, 2010
From: Fuller State Park, Meeman-Shelby Forest State Park, near Memphis, Tennessee

Dear Alex,

I have a theory about the highway between home and where you are. Google Maps says it will take me 21 hours to get there; Max says he did the road trip with Isobel last summer, since Liz was long gone and his wanderlust was just bursting out of his too-tight denim seams. He said it’s all pine trees, just, once you cross into Arkansas, it’s 500 miles of pine trees.

But every one of those damn trees will get me closer to you. In the tiny blip of time I spent dipping up into Tennessee while trying to find this campground I picked out with Isobel, I counted two hundred and twenty three trees.

It’s a long way from me to you, right now. I’m camping out. I gunned it through Texas, seeing if I can make this whole thing stick with just one overnight, camping out. I'll get there a few hours before you land, unless I hit traffic. I’m taking a route that will be an hour or two longer, but it lets me check off another state off my list.

I’m keeping count, all the states I’m traveling to to see you. Last time it was just Arizona. Today, it was Texas -- so much Texas -- a quick hop into Oklahoma just to say that I was there and then leave again, Arkansas and Tennessee. Tomorrow, it’ll be Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. Maybe I’ll take the Gulf Coast route on the way back, add in Florida and Louisiana. I wonder how many states I’ll see before we can be together again for real and for good.

I borrowed Mimi’s car, did I tell you? Gets better mileage than my truck, though it means I’m sleeping in Max’s old tent from high school. It still smells like Stetson Black by Coty or whatever his god-awful richie-rich teenaged cologne was.

I hope you don’t mind how I smell when I get there.

Anyway, I’m writing you from a campsite, feet kicked up on my backpack, stars just -- just everywhere, Alex. Just everywhere. They’re so gorgeous out here, in the moonlit skies after the moon’s taken a siesta behind those constant pines.

I was thinking about that, as the radio shifted from talk to country to rap as I flew past Dallas, back to country again long before I got past the city limits. I’m not spending any money I don’t have, but if I have a little bit left over after our 13 days together, I think I’m going to take myself to the Johnson Space Center. I’d love to see how they’re getting to see the stars.

Did I ever tell you what I was going to major in, if I got to go to UNM? You’d think it would be astrophysics, with all the stuff I did in the Astronomy club in high school, all that time borrowing Ms Chadi’s telescope to fulfill the assignments. God, I’ve never wanted to steal something as much in my entire life as that telescope. But she’d bought it herself, no way the school would cover those costs, and I figured -- some day. And then you joined the club, and I think it was just to see me, and you would look at me, let me look at you, in the back of that truck, looking up at the sky.

So, pining for the stars, pining for you, ignoring the shrieking cicadas, it’s all a mix and a half. A big ole mix of somedays.

I want to save the batteries on this flashlight, so I’m going to give this a rest. It’s an 8 hour drive tomorrow and check-in is at 4pm, so I’ve got to be driving by 7am so I've got time for lunch.

But 509 miles and three more states and gas and all those f*cking pine trees -- it’s nothing, Alex. Nothing at all.

Because at the end of the road, I get to see you again.

I love you from here until the furthest star NASA has ever counted, and all the way back again.

M--

--
February 12, 2010
Georgia, USA

Michael had hit traffic coming through Atlanta, shoulders winding tenser and tenser. He'd gone through a drive-thru for lunch to make-up time, getting full on the dollar menu and all the water he'd filled his bottles with at the campsite. Now he was edging the speed limit, glancing at the clock. 4:55pm. Alex was probably still in the air, slipping down out of the sky. Michael felt better than he had in the entire time Alex had been in Iraq. It's not that bad stuff couldn't happen on American soil -- every bad thing that had ever happened to them had happened on American soil -- but it eased something in his chest, knowing he could get to Alex, if he needed to. He could go get him, get him free, get him safe.

He saw a sign for a Kroger's and crossed two lanes of traffic to make the exit, Mimi's truck wavering with the quick movement in a way his own truckneverwould. She'd asked him to pick-up some spare barrels of whiskey while he was in the South and given him cash for it, said he was saving her hundreds of dollars in shipping fees and as long as the truck came back gassed up, she'd call it even.

Michael wondered if that made him a smuggler; he decided not to worry about it.

He worked his way through the grocery store, getting some basics they could cook in a microwave. He looked long and hard at the desert section, but decided to skip it; he could take Alex here if he needed to. He wasn't sure what sweet things Alex liked and he didn't want to, like, overload on chocolate if Alex was a vanilla man (Michael would bet one of Mimi's barrels of whiskey that Alex wasnot a vanilla man, but hey, he wasn't here to judge.) He got nice soap and tissues and he gritted his teeth and got the store manager to open up the sex products case so he could buy condoms and lube.

5:30pm and he was out, grocery bags full and trying to remember what he and Maria had practiced for check-ins. SinceLawrence v. Texas in 2003, civilian sodomy laws were no longer enforceable. But Georgia's legislature had kept the law on the books and if anyone figured out Alex was in the Air Forceand what he and Michael were doing in that motel room, it could mean a dishonorable discharge for Alex.But that's not the real fear, Maria had said; and Michael had agreed. Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson hadn't needed laws when they killed Matthew Shepard.

So Michael would be Alex's foster brother, if anyone asked. Michael was visiting, helping him get settled in a new state. And they'd have to keep very, very quiet.

It was a risk, being together anywhere. New York City and San Francisco and Seattle had their fair share of violent bigots. But it was a risk both Michael and Alex had decided was worth taking; or, at least, Michael hoped Alex still thought it was worth it.War changes people Mimi had said, and he'd tried his best not to hear it.

He pulled into the Best Western parking lot, parking at the front door, and swinging himself out. Michael had bought the room online, and he smiled and took off his hat for the young woman at the check-in desk, sliding over his ID and card; better his than Alex's. The softer the footprint they left, the better. If at the end of this the only evidence Alex and I were together is in our memories and the letters, that will be fine.

"How many keys?"

"Two -- thanks."

"Breakfast is 6am - 9am and complimentary -- the waffle-makers are new and the orange juice is local," she twinkled at him and Michael smiled back.

Then he slid on his hat and headed back to the truck, loading up on groceries and his duffle bag before heading to the room.

Once the door was closed, he took a long, careful breath, then reaching out with his powers, he felt through the room for anything weird: cameras, microphones, who knew with something this close to an Air Force installation. Foreign spying, domestic blackmail, he didn't want any part of it. But it was just a regular old motel room like he'd stayed in in between placements in foster care; except this one smelled clean and well cared for. Then he unfurled, uncurling his powers, letting them flow through the room. With one tiny part of his brain he opened-up the minifridge and stored the perishables, taking over the top drawer in the dresser for the shelf-stable items. He pulled the sheets and the comforter off the mattress, whirling them through the air, getting any musty or funky smells out of them before settling it back on the bed, folding the edges in as hospital-tight as Alex would like it. He gave the bathroom towels the same treatment and flicked on the heater, noting it didn't smell like burning; probably meant this room was in regular use, if the heater didn't get a chance to collect dust.

Last of all, he unzipped his bag, flicking his few sets of clothes into the closet and the drawers, settling his toiletries in the bathroom, refolding the towels. Finally, he took off his hat, settling it on the corner of the TV and slipping his boots off, stuffing his socks inside them. He carpet was worn and soft beneath his bare feet and Michael took a long moment to breathe in the air, his powers still humming strong under his skin. Then he folded them back into himself, buttoning himself up. He imagined this was how Alex felt all the time, pretending he was so much less than he was, just to survive. He wished he could tell him.

But he couldn't. He couldn't put Alex in the way of whatever government agency was probably hunting for him and Max and Isobel right now, couldn't put in him that kind of danger; the Air Force was doing a good enough job of that, Michael didn't need to help. Alex had been to two other countries since he'd touched Michael last, not counting transfers; Michael had no idea what kind of state he'd be in when he arrived. But he was ready, ready to be whatever Alex needed in his first few hours on home soil.

He checked his phone: 5:45pm. Just enough time for a quick shower. But first:

Michael: I'm here and safe.

Maria: I'm glad. Thanks for telling me.

Then Michael stripped down efficiently, stepping into the water before it was even close to warm. He figured speed was more important than comfort as he worked some of the travel smells off of his skin; not nearly fast enough, because he was in the middle of rubbing conditioner into his hair when his phone buzzed as loud as a cicada. He shoved the plastic-y curtain aside, using his powers to keep the soap out of his eyes, reading the screen:

Maria: Room #?

And Michael's heart clenched; there's only one reason she'd be asking. Alex is here.

He shoved a towel around his waist and dashed out of the bathroom, leaving the shower running as he flung open the door and -- there he was. Alex. In his uniform and boots and his bag, leaning against Mimi's truck, looking down at his phone.

Michael whistled, the same high, sharp sound he used to get Buck's attention on the ranch. Alex's eyes snapped to him and, oh, Michael was pretty sure he'd melt if Alex gave him that look at closer range; he was barely staying standing seeing it from a distance.

Then Alex's face closed off and he shouldered his massive duffle, walking with steady steps across the gravelly parking lot towards Michael. Michael couldn't see anyone watching, but he backed up anyway, holding the door open with a hand as Alex slipped inside. Alex caught the door handle and closed it, throwing the bolt and the security chain for good measure as Michael watched, dripping on the comfortable carpet:

"Hey, Alex," he said, voice impossibly soft.

Alex turned and just -- buried himself in Michael's arms, letting the warm air of the room move around them. His hands slid around Michael's ribs to grip tight, almost too tight, at his back and Michael grabbed him back, hauling him in close, not caring he was getting all that camo soaking wet, not caring his hair must look a mess, not caring when Alex dropped his bag or the damn towel fell off, white and crumpling around their feet.

He began to run his hands up and down Alex's spine, giving him shape, giving him context, trying to breathe as slowly as he could, since Alex's fast pants were ricocheting off his collarbone, his body rocking a little with it. Alex pressed a kiss to his trap muscle, a big, wanting kiss, but then his mouth just stayed there, just breathing, and Michael's fingers found themselves trailing along the short hair at the nape of his neck, just, enjoying the touch, enjoying the chance to see what had changed, what had stayed the same.

Alex's breath slowed down but he showed no signs of moving on his own, so Michael decided to try again:

"Hey, love," he murmured. "Want to get showered off? There's probably some hot water left; hotels are always loaded in the hot water department."

Alex cracked a laugh and nodded, wiping his fingers under his eyes. "It's just so good to see you, Michael. I -- I missed you. So much."

Michael tangled their fingers together, tugging Alex towards the shower; but Alex held firm.

"First, I need to say something."

Michael paused, stomach flipping. He -- when he'd gotten Alex's letter in January, he figured he'd known what he wanted to say. There had to be a reason Alex kept signing his letters "yours" and not "love"; there had to be a reason he hadn't said it yet when Michael had said it a dozen times, every time,in their letters. Maybe it just wasn't something he knew how to say; that was ok, Michael knew he meant it. He wouldn't have come all the way here, wouldn't have -- Michael forced his brain to quiet down but he kept his grip on Alex's fingers.

"Ok, I'm here."

Alex swallowed, looking to the side. "I know. I know you are. And I -- I know. It hasn't been easy. Being apart so much, having to play all these games just to communicate --"

"Just to survive, Alex, I know it's not you making us do all this stuff --"

"But it's still rough. And you've -- you've been amazing. Your letters, they're, they're like the strings holding me together when we're out there. And I, I can't tell you how many times I've traced those words, over and over again in my letters. Wanted to just tell you,make you know how I feel." Alex licked his lips and gripped Michael's hand tighter: "And I didn't. I still didn't. I didn't tell you in the letters and I didn't tell you in Tucson because -- I'm kind of f*cked up, Michael. I -- I don't remember hearing anyone say that to me, other than my Mom, and sheleft. And I've never said it to anyone else, it's -- it's not something I was allowed to think, allowed to feel, for a long, long time. No matter how much I tried." He swallowed again, big eyes bright with it. "So I didn't know what it feels like, would feel like. I didn't know if that was the right word, if there was -- anyway, I got all wrapped-up about it. All kinds of f*cked up about it."

He set his jaw: "But I was sleeping on one of those awful camp beds at the base, and I thought about -- I thought about how I felt about my Mom. Before. I thought about that feeling, physically, what it felt like. Warm around my heart and stomach, like I'd eaten really good chili; soft around my shoulders, like I was getting held; and a little like dancing, like being rocked back and forth. And then I thought about you, and I felt all that. All that and more. So, then I knew." He gave a dry huff. "But I couldn't tell you. Because I didn't want to say, 'Dear M--, I love you.' I wanted to say: 'Dear Michael, I love you until the ends of the earth, until the seas run dry, from the farthest comet to the deepest valley on the abyssal plane, I love you until my heartstrings stop strumming and my tongue dries up, I love you like plants love the sun and I need you like we all need water.'" He brushed a stray droplet off of Michael's shoulder, movement soft and slow.

"And I love you, just you, everything about you, Michael. How hard you work and how much you love, how protective you are and how free to try to make sure everyone around you can be. I love you for all of the hard things and the soft things and the best things and the worst things, and just, everything. I love you, Michael."

Michael's eyes were overfilling but he blinked and kept his vision clear, feet planted and naked as he day he was hatched. "I -- I love you so much, Alex. I love being with you and learning about you and seeing how you grow and change and how you stay the same, and I love getting to take care of you and getting taken care of by you. I love all of those complex pieces in your corkscrew brain and how fiercely you love. And I knew, Iknew how you felt, Alex. The words, the words don't make the feeling. They represent it. It's like how a wedding is a public statement of a private commitment; saying the words just makes it official, not true. But I've known you love me for years. So if you've been torturing with yourself with the idea that I didn't, you should knock it off, because Idid and Ido." Michael took a long breath, before cracking a slow smile. "The room's pretty warm, so I'm happy to keep standing here and talking in my birthday suit, but," and he reached over, plucking at the heat-wilted collar of Alex's jacket. "If you're up for it, I think you'd be a lot happier if you took a shower."

And Alex closed the distance between them, hand making a wide, confident sweep from Michael's ribs down his hip, to rest easily against his flank: "I think I'd be a lot happier if I took a shower with you."

Michael smirked: "Now, that's the damn truth."

And this time, when he tugged, Alex let him pull him into the bathroom, strip him out of his uniform, appreciate and mourn the changes in his body, and finally, finally, finally get to herd him into the water, let him wash some of the tension and dirt and shame and worry off of him, until Alex Manes was laughing and silly in his arms again.

Once they were clean and smiling in that crowded little shower, there was a moment, a long moment. It had been -- it had been long minutes that their bodies had just been bodies. The things they lived in, used to get where their brains wanted to go. But with the smell of planes and older brothers' cologne washed off, their bodies remembered. They remembered they were something else too, had their own language, their own curves and edges and ways of connecting.

Michael had no idea who started it, but it took raw seconds between them kissing and Alex pressing him back against cold tile wall, wrapping Michael's hands tight around the silver safety bar behind his hips and muttering: "Hold onto that tight for me, love," as he sunk to his knees.

Michael didn't know if they had Gods in his home world, but he felt like one, right now -- and like he was looking at one, as Alex pressed kissed along the curve of his hip, hands trailing and dancing, relearning and enjoying his entire body. The touch of his lips to his co*ck, well, Michael was so blissed out at this point he hadn't known he could feel better, but oh God, he did. The heat and suction, the touch and truth of it rang through him, like he was a cracked bell and someone had found his frequency.

Alex's hands were clever and his mouth tight and Michael managed to gasp -- "Almost --"

And Alex gave a pleased hum and curled his free hand around where Michael was holding tight onto the silver bar -- then he pulled him in deeper and Michael lost it, eyes whiting out, mind floating out, only tethered by Alex Manes's hands on him.

Once he could breathe again, he fumbled Alex up to standing, muttering something like, "What, what do you --" and Alex turned, pressing his entire back against Michael's front, so his spent co*ck was covered in sensation. Then he guided Michael's hand around to his front and leaned his forearms against the wall. Michael's breath hitched and he pressed in even closer, chin hooked over Alex's shoulder so he could watch his every expression, catch as his eyes drifted closed at Michael's first touch on his co*ck, his mouth falling open as he found his grip and his speed. They'd never tried this position before and Michael loved it, loved getting to feel Alex's back arching against his chest, getting to see his face as he chased his pleasure, getting to hold him up and hold him tight as he came, shaking in his arms.

Then Alex turned with a laugh, kissing Michael, and smiling like he'd seen the sun for the first time in years.

--

February 24, 2010
Warner-Robbins, Georgia

Alex tucked his face into Michael’s shoulder in the early morning light, trying to get as many of his good smells as he could in their last hours in this room. It had been an incredible 2 weeks -- incredible because it was the first time in years he'd felt like himself, welcomed as himself, and because of how wonderfully, blissfully, unexpectedly normal it was. After 2 days of living off of Michael's last-minute grocery trip and barely leaving the motel room, they’d gone grocery shopping; he’d learned that Michael was by default a couponer and a bargain shopper and Michael had learned Alex would eat nearly any fruit he put in front of him, as long as Michael took a bite first.

They went for long drives through the countryside, holding hands below the line of the windows. They bought some home-brewed whiskey and barbecue from a little no-name shack on the side of the road and spent the night cuddled up on each other, giggling about how bad the whiskey was and how good the pork. They found Mimi's whiskey barrels and loaded them into Michael's truck. Alex confirmed his on-base housing in a few phone calls, and that was his entire move done; everything he owned was in that one duffle bag he'd carried on his back into room 208 that first day.

The never spoke about leaving, didn’t talk about when they’d have to get into separate trucks, drive in opposite directions. They couldn't.

Alex reached up, smoothing a curl out of Michael’s eyes, meeting his sleepy smile with a kiss. Alex had tried, as hard as he could, not to even think of leaving. Not to think of the end of things, of this one thing, this one, perfect thing.

“Who would you want to give you away?” Michael murmured.

“What?” Alex asked, lolling his head on Michael’s bare shoulder, enjoying the warm-smooth-slick of him against his cheek.

“If marriage gets legalized, and if we decided to get married, who would you want to give you away?” Michael wiggled just those last few inches closer to him, pressing his body in a long, warm line to Alex's sated one. “I always figured Max and Isobel could give me away; I figure they’re the only ones who have claim on me other than you, so it makes sense that way.”

“I,” Alex started, voice a little rough. “I,” and he tried again; he let himself bury his face in Michael’s work-hardened biceps, let himself press his face to the smooth, close, good-smelling skin there. Lips muffled by closeness, he muttered: “I guess I’d never thought about it.”

“Yeah?” Michael asked, gently trailing his fingers up Alex’s neck, rifling through his still sweat-slick hair. “Never thought about getting married?"

“I never really thought it would be a possibility.” Alex’s chest felt tight, his breathing going weird. “I mean, I’m good, with you. If we never can. I’m -- I’m still yours.” He took a long breath. "I love you, no matter how anyone else sees us."

Michael pressed a kiss to his hair, speaking quickly: “Oh, love, of course you do, and I’m yours. Of course, love,” and Michael was gently nudging him up, pulling Alex across his chest until he could either slide his knees on either side of his hips or end up in a puddle, arched over Michael’s stomach. Alex settled in, feeling better already for all of the new skin contact. Michael traced his hands up Alex’s arms, up the sides of his neck until he was cupping his face, fingers tight and there. “Sorry to worry you, love, I was just talking. Just having some silly fun."

Alex leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips: “I get it, I know. It’s just -- it’s not something that’s ever been an option for me. Not with how to the laws are, have been.”

Michael nodded, a little too hard, worry still creasing his eyelids. “Yeah, no, I see that. Sorry,”

“No, no, I wasn’t -- I wasn’t trying to say it was a problem. Just trying to explain why I was weird about it.” Alex forced himself to take a breath, a deep one, that moved his stomach out, that filled him all the way up to the underside of his ribs.A singer's breath. “To answer your question: no one. I think no one would give me away. I’d give myself to you, fully, and completely. That’s how I’d like to do it. All of me, to all of you.”

Michael blinked, then blinked hard again, and Alex leaned down, kissing a line up his cheek and over his forehead, to settle again on his mouth. “If it ever becomes an option, and we both want it, I’d marry you in a minute, Michael Guerin.”

Alex had to request a late check-out, voice breathless and half-muffled. He carried the barely-smothered sounds of Michael's giggles with him long into that first night apart.

--

Sent: February 24, 2010
From: Bremen, GA

Dear Alex,

I’m writing you one postcard for each place I stop to get gas on the way back home from Georgia. I thought you’d like this one -- the kitten on the front looks like it snores too :P.

Love,

M--

PS: 1/10

--

Sent: February 24, 2010
From: Leeds, AL

Dear Alex,

How many of these towns have you been to? It seems like the Air Force just bops you from one place to another, but since you’ve got a car now, you should get out. Leeds is actually really kinda nice, for a pretty piece of nothing in the middle of nowhere. Reminds me of home.

Love,

M--

PS: 2/10

--
Sent: February 24, 2010
From: Fulton, MS

Dear Alex,

I can’t believe I found a postcard of Kyle here -- or maybe his long-lost, Sasquatch brother. I hate him so much.

Love you though,

M--

PS: 3/10

--

Sent: February 24, 2010
From: Byhalia, MS

Dear Alex,

I’ve got to take a walk; it’s been like 8 hours of driving and my cheeks are going numb. Why my cheeks? God, I have no idea. I mean, my pinkies goes numb, sure, that makes sense. Obviously. But my cheeks? sh*t, that can’t be normal.

Love,

M--

PS: 4/10

--

Sent: February 24, 2010
From: Fuller State Park, Meeman-Shelby Forest State Park, near Memphis, Tennessee

Dear Alex,

This is the last one for today. I bought an extra big one, and am writing extra, extra small, because I wanted to tell you about what I just saw. So I’m in the same campground as I stayed in on the way out there. It’s still hot and wet and kind of noisy, with all the crickets and cicadas and whatever these watery places have. But I swear to god I just saw a jaguar. Like, something is slinking around my tent and --

Coming back to write this, because I don’t want to scare you if you read these out of order, but it’s definitely a cat. 100%. A big ass cat, but still, like, a housecat. She’s purring right beside me, on the other side of the tent window.

I guess she thinks I run hot too.

Love you,

M--

PS: 5/10

--

Sent: February 25, 2010
From: Fuller State Park, Meeman-Shelby Forest State Park, near Memphis, Tennessee

Dear Alex,

It’s an early morning, since I want to try for Houston, which is about 9 hours without stopping; but I've got an extra day from the Fosters and I don't know the next time I'll be by here. The cat’s still here. I gave her the last of my gas station sandwich; she didn’t like the bread, but she made off with the ham as quick as she could. Do you like cats? Want to get one with me, when we can?

I hope you have a good first day of training.

Love you,

M--

PS: 6/10

--
Sent: February 25, 2010
From: Arcola, LA

Dear Alex,

I made it all the way into Louisiana before I needed gas again; took a straight shot down through Mississippi. These state borders are so tightly packed around here. And they’re all so funny shaped, since all their borders are designed around waterways. You ever think about how people on other planets would design their borders? It’s something I like to think about. We’re at the edge of one state and another behind our backs and it’s -- it’s all still just the same land, right? Stolen land, but the same on either side of any given border.

Love you,

M--

PS: 7/10

--

Sent: February 25, 2010
From: Port Arthur, TX

Dear Alex,

I took another little detour down to Port Arthur -- I'd never seen the Gulf before. It's so beautiful. Have you ever seen it? I want to take you here. Maybe if I can get time off after the summer? I found a campsite around here, I'm going to crash and see the Space Center first thing in the morning.

Love you,

M--

PS: 8/10

--

Sent: February 26, 2010
From: NASA Johnson Space Center, TX

Dear Alex,

I can't even tell you how cool it is here. I got to touch a rocket! Something that had touched space! I hope you like the postcard, the Mars Odyssey is my favorite obiter.

Love you,

M--

PS: 9/10

--

Sent: February 26, 2010
From: Tatum, NM

Dear Alex,

I'm getting gas to make sure Mimi's truck is ready to go and I wanted to send you a postcard from a little closer to home. I thought you'd like this picture of the Mescalero sands.

Love you,

M--

PS: 10/10

Chapter 6: 2010 [112,449]

Chapter Text

Sent: March 3rd, 2010

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I miss you. A lot. I love you.

We've got months before we can see each other again, so I was thinking. You’re in Georgia for a year. You’ve got your next leave in August (maybe) for a week (maybe). And since you’ve got things you can’t talk to me about in your Top Secret Training, and there’s only so many times I can write ‘I rode around and managed cattle,’ I was thinking we could play a game, like, a word game, send each other riddles. Something to think about when we’re apart, when you’re studying and bored or when I’m riding and bored.

I don’t know if you’ll be into it, but I’ll start.

What’s something that’s soft to touch, hard to forget, and touching itself right now?

Love,

M--

PS: Did you get the postcard from the Johnson Space Center? Here's a little sticker they had in the gift store; I thought you’d like it.

--

Sent: March 12th, 2010
From: Warner-Robins AFB, Georgia

Dear M--,

That little derpy alien head sticker is amazing; I stuck it to the back of my iPod.

I think I've got all of your postcards -- the last to arrive was number 3; that cryptiddoes kind of look like a Valenti. It's got the macho cowboy swagger sh*t going on. I love you for sending all of those, they're amazing; all the other guys are jealous of my letters <3. To answer your questions in the order I got them:

I have been to the Gulf before but I would love to see it with you. I would love to get a shelter cat with you. I haven't been to nearly any of those towns but it's a good idea, getting out. And Idon't snore (though that kitten is adorable).

We might need to start using those *** again if you’re going to send me sexy riddles :D.

I put my answer in the PS.

Ok, my riddle is: what is long and hot and has a thick line running over it?

I love you,

Alex

PS: to answer your riddle: I think it’s your lips.

--

Sent: March 27th, 2010
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I hope it’s the road back home to you, because if anything else has a thick line running over it, I’m going to be really curious.

Things have been good here. I had to take one of the trucks to get repaired at Sanders’, where I was picking up a few extra shifts before Christmas. Sanders kept asking how I was doing. He wasn’t creeping, I don’t think, but he kept asking, asked if they were keeping me right over at the ranch. I kept thinking about if he was going to like retroactively narc on me, but I can’t be truant anymore and I can’t be locked up for running away all those times now I'm 19. I just can’t, and I know it, but I freaked out a bit, just a bit, for a little bit in the truck there. I wish I’d had you with me, you could have just, like, put your arm around my shoulders and glared at him. Once you’re out, we can take turns glaring at rude people for each other.

Ok, other news. The Pony is doing well, obviously. Lots of drinking this time of year. Some nob-for-brains threw a football at the sign and jingled the neon loose, so I went and fixed it. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was nice to do something good for Mimi. I don’t get to see her much when I’m working on the ranch. Oh, and she loved the whiskey we brought, said we did a good job.

I don’t want to burden you, but I don’t want you surprised when you see her next -- she’s been fading, kind of in-and-out. Kind of, things are hard for her, hard to figure out how to express it, but she doesn't like, always connect with the world as it is. Things are different for her, sometimes she takes her queues from TV shows or movies, sometimes she’s just sort of lost -- and then she’s in the thick of it, yelling at assholes and pouring orders like there’s never been a change. It’s hard, is all, guessing where she’s at, what she’s gonna need.

Ok, my riddle for the week. What’s black and white and full of everything I feel for you but can’t say?

Love,

M--

--

Sent: April 14th, 2010
From: Warner-Robins AFB, Georgia

Dear M--,

It’s either these letters or your diary, and I don’t think you keep a diary. So, these letters it is.

I wish I’d been there to hold you after that guy -- is it Sanders? That’s the only mechanic I remember -- freaked you out so bad. I’d just wrap my arms around you and hold on until you felt better again. Then I’d take you out for milkshakes and let us forget the rest.

That’s hard to hear about Mimi, but good to know. Can the doctors figure out what’s wrong? I want to be sure we’re not missing anything. I talked to one of the guys about it and he said sometimes diet can help a lot? Though, it’s not like you can tell Mimi what to eat. Ugh, this is hard.

Anyway, I love you and I want to see you.

Love,

Alex

PS: 30 white horses on a red hill, first they tamp, then they champ, then they stand still. What are they?

--

Sent: April 20th, 2010
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I went back to the mechanic place, and -- it was weirder than I thought. It turns out Sanders knew someone who’s related to me. It was weird. He’s weird. Not creepy bad, but I’m just -- I’m still thinking about how I feel about it. Like, there’s not a lot of people like me here, around here, but if there was, I still don’t have a lot of experience talking about myself, who am I, how I see things. And things are harder than I expect them to be, over and over again. And I want to do better, right? And be able to talk to someone who knows so much about me, about mine, about what I need and want out of the world. But then, it’s not just -- it’s not just that. I’m just really suspicious, right? Really worried about sharing things.

I feel like everyone things I’m this open book, this thing that is inside out in front of everyone all the time. Comes from how I grew up, every little bit and piece of myself on display constantly, out in the world, in people’s files and court documents and whatever. And now, it’s like I’m rebuilding my own sense of privacy, rebuilding my own sense of how things should be. How I should be treated, right? I know you know this. I know you know how hard it is to do this all alone out in the world.

I wish you were here. I wish I could talk to you about all of this. Maybe when you come home. Love you,

M--

PS: I've read TheHobbit too, you know. It's teeth. Just for that, you get a silly one: what's black and white and red all over?

--

Sent: April 30th, 2010
From: Warner-Robins AFB, Georgia

Dear M--,

That sounds really hard, and weird. I wish we could talk about it more; we will, once we're in the same place again. I miss something new every week I think; this time it's how you always cleaned out the shower. Like, I get it's from the Airstream and the ranch and living in a small or shared space, but it's just a detail no one would know about you than me. I like to think I'm getting a PhD in you, in what you like, what you don't like. Who you are.

Now, the riddle you gave me is really hard because there'sso many dumb answers. Is it a penguin covered in ketchup? A newspaper? A zebra after a cage fight? Ok, so one for you: I like coffee but I don't like tea; I like cars but I don't like tires; I like classes but I don't like trainings; I like Roswell but I don't like Tatum; I like lions but I don't like tigers. What do I like?

I put the riddle first because I have some hard news. I don't get the week off in August; they're bumping me up to another training round, really pushing OTS hard. I'll be able to get more of my classes done; I should have my AA in the next year or so, I think. I worry I'll get stop-lossed and have to spend another year. At least if I was an officer, I'd get more control. But I'm not going to. We're getting there, love, we'll get through this. Just, we'll see each other for a week starting New Years Eve, ok? Will that work?

I love you,

Alex

--

Sent: May 15th, 2010
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I hadn't realized how much I had my heart set on seeing you in August. Oh man, that's tough news to hear. If I had the money I could fly there for a weekend, but the summer season is picking up and I want to try to save as much as I can so I can take some time to take classes in the Fall.

Whether I see you in 2 months or in 7, just know: I love you. You're mine and I'm yours and we're each other's and I love you until the end of time.

Love,

M--

--

December 31, 2010
Atlanta Eagle, Atlanta, GA

If you’d asked Michael, back in high school, if two years after graduation he’d be standing outside of a queer club in Atlanta, waiting for Alex Manes to rock up in black skinny jeans -- well, he would have found it pretty probable. Not the city, of course, but the man? Sure.

Michael would have bet on Alex being a part of his life ever since that first day at the Emporium; he'd always try to get as close as he could. Not matter how long it took. It had been Alex's idea to meet at he club; he'd told Maria he wanted to really celebrate, to make sure they got to be a couple around other people sometimes. Michael got the feeling that surviving 7 months of having no one around him know about this part of his life had been wearing Alex down and he wanted company letting his pride flag fly a little. Michael totally got it, though it was going to be tough having to spend a few hours wearing clothes after not seeing each other since the Best Western near the base.

Just like the last visit, Michael’d gotten them a room in his own name, this time near the kinds of bars that had pictures of men holding hands on the websites and good reviews on Yelp from people with rainbows in their profile pictures.

It wasn’t that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell didn’t apply in Atlanta; but it was a massive city. The likelihood anyone who knew Alex, who knew he was in the Air Force, would be here, would see him, would recognize him out of his uniform? It was tiny.

Still, Michael was clenching his fist around his flip phone so hard the plastic was creaking with it, his elbows tight against his sides as he leaned against the white painted brick wall, scanning the crowd of bears and otters and twinks, leather daddys and folks who looked like they'd just got off of work.

Michael didn’t know if he’d ever seen so many queer people all in one place. There were -- there were so many of them.

Of us, I guess.

It was a new thing, for him, caring about labels. All the labels had ever done was make his life harder, make him easier to track, to catch, to hurt. He’d never gotten much good out of them.

But here, sitting here with his ass against the wall, and a river of men in tight shirts and people in dark shades and women in overalls, all churning and laughing around him, he wondered -- maybe. Maybe, if a label brought some kind of community, some kind of protection, not just another target on his back.

A man sidled up to him, and Michael tucked his chin into his chest, flipping his phone open, pretending to text. The guy had big shoulders, kinky hair, and a bright white smile.

“Waiting for a friend?” he asked, and his voice was lower than Michael would have guessed.

Michael nodded, keeping his eyes down.

The guy settled beside him, moving himself out of the flow of people but also keeping a respectable country distance between their elbows -- not the non-existent city personal distance. Michael’s elbows always knew if he was in a city or the country, on account of how many people brushed him in cities. It got his hackles up. That’s why his back was against the wall. But this guy seemed to get that.

“First time?” He asked, and Michael flicked him a smile.

“Yep, just in town for New Years.”

He took a breath; it wasn’t like he had a lot of practice, but he -- he wanted to say it. “I’m meeting my boyfriend.”

The word tasted sweet, like recognition, like homecoming -- like evidence he could keep someone and be kept in return.

The guy gave him a bright smile. “I’m here with my girlfriend. She’d bi and where we live, there’s not a lot of people like her around. So we come into the city, go dancing at the clubs, even ones like this with tiny dance floors and intense fog machines. I don’t mind dancing with the guys, and she loves dancing with the ladies, and then we get to go home together, and I can -- I can see the weight come off her shoulders a little, you know? And bisexual folks, they can catch it both ways out here, but this club is cool. They even have a drink on the menu: Bisexual Blasts. It's whiskey, bitters, simple cherry syrup and ginger.” He smacked his lips and Michael couldn't help but smile a little at his sheer, clear enjoyment.

Michael nodded. “That sounds good. And -- I know what that’s like, not really having a place anyplace,” he took a breath. “That’s me too. I’m -- I’m bi too.”

The guy nodded. “Cool. And your boyfriend?”

“He’s gay, but it’s like how it is for your girlfriend -- where he lives, where he works, he can’t really --”

“Be out? Yeah, that’s a rough situation.”

The guy’s eyes perked up as a tall, broad-shouldered woman with colorful cornrows to her waist sashayed up, grinning. The man slapped the wall and swung himself to his feet to wrap her up in a big hug. As she was tugging him into the stream of the crowd, he paused, turning to meet Michael’s eyes: “Happy New Year, to you and your man. You both deserve to be free for a bit.”

“Thanks --” Michael started, but then he was gone.

Michael found himself grinning, just a little: that was his first time telling someone who wasn’t Maria about Alex, even a little; his first time telling someone other than Alex or Maria that he was bi. His cheeks were starting to hurt how much he was smiling. That had gone a lot better than he’d expected.

Now, Alex just needed to show up.

He checked his phone: 9:05pm. Alex was only 5 minutes late; it was no big deal.

--

Alex was around the corner, trying to breathe. It'll be fine; no one you know is there. Michael will be there. It'll be fine.

He'd parked a few blocks away, to give himself a bit of fresh air and some distance. He'd nearly made it to the club; just one more corner.

God, I wish I could text him. Alex felt like there must be somethingfundamentally f*cked-up about him that he was having an anxiety attack in an Atlanta alley about going into a queer club that he'd picked out.With his own boyfriend.

But all he could hear were belts coming out of loops and the sound of ice in a tumbler; boots on the hallway floor.

He closed his eyes, and thought about Michael. He'd been afraid, as the months stretched out, that he would forget things; how he smelled, how he tasted, the feeling of his curls over Alex's knuckles, the weight of his thighs.

While other things had faded, none of that did. He'd taken to using it, carving Michael from his memories when his training got hard or the other guys at the base pressed his buttons too hard. He thought about that now: Michael's hair, golden in the morning sunlight; Michael's laugh, muffled under the blankets; the feeling of Michael's palm in his.

He held those thoughts, those memories, those joys in his palm, under his skin; and he pushed himself away from the wall.

His heart-rate calmed down as he took long steps towards the thickbump-bump-bump of the club's bass, evening out some.

A minute later, he saw Michael and he wasgorgeous. The rainbow lights spearing out of the club window flickered through his hair, making him look like he was made of shimmering glass. He was looking down at his phone, pretending to text. Alex enjoyed looking at him, just for a minute, just for long enough to fall in love all over again. Then he worked his way through the crowd to come and stand in front of Michael. He saw him pause, eyes traveling from his black boots, up his skinny-jean-clad legs, his plain black shirt, and then to his face -- he got to see the exact second Michael realized Alex was wearing eyeliner.

Michael nearly launched himself off the painted brick wall, folding himself into Alex's arms, tucking his face deep into his shoulder. People, strangers were milling around them, but for the first time in Alex's life, he couldn't find anyone staring; couldn't feel their judgement prickling on the back of his neck. If anything, the folks around them -- they felt protective, somehow. Like they were watching out for them. He glanced around them one last time, holding Michael close, before carefully letting his eyes close and letting himself sag into Michael's embrace.

After long, long seconds, Michael pulled back and murmured: "Love the look," and Alex grinned, primping his hair a little.

"You too," he said, tracing his hand down the buttons of Michael's black Western shirt before slipping his hand into Michael's, shoulders tight against his. "I want to hear all about your drive, but you want to dance first? I seem to remember promising you we'd kiss at midnight on New Years Eve."

Michael grinned, joining the line with Alex: "I'd love to." Alex looped his arm around Michael's waist, pulling him close and tight and something rough and uneven in his heart just -- smoothed out, at the easy way he leaned into him, in this time, and in this place. They moved back to holding hands as the line moved in front of them, but that sense of warmth never drifted away.

Once they got inside, Alex’s eyes swept the club, unable to stop himself from looking for threats. He wished he could blame this on Iraq, or even on the fetid crush of BMT; but no, this was an old, a much older need, a crutch, a thing he’d learned to do anytime he entered a room his father might be in. Blue eyes, military bearing, clenched jaw he catalogued everyone who fit the bill.

But the only men here who fit that bill were just as likely to be wearing fishnet shirts or be shirtless and covered in deeply out-of-regulation tattoos and piercings as they were to be wearing the jeans-and-t-shirt get-ups that he and Michael sported.

Even as he swept the room, even as he couldn’t stop his heart from pounding entirely out of rhythm with the pulsing techno music, he’d kept Michael’s left hand in his. It was sweaty and slick around his scars, Michael’s squeezing fingers belying his confident smile; Alex knew he wasn’t alone in this being a new experience, wading through the too-sweet smells of the fog machines on their way to the tiny dance floor. But Michael was here and they were together and Alex could crush down his fears for as long as he had Michael near him.

Alex took a deep breath as the music changed, dragging Michael over to a flaking black painted wall, the spare bit of unused space there.

"This ok?" he asked, and Michael nodded, grinning under his hat.

Michael sort of shuffled up against the wall and then Alex turned his back, leaning against him beginning to sway. He could feel Michael tense, but then he dragged his arm over his shoulder, pressing Michael’s hand against his heart. He started to move, letting the too-too loud music start to regulate his heartbeat; he let Michael’s ever-present warmth ease away any shaking he might have brought into the club.

With a soft squeeze, Michael let go of his hand and slid his palms to his hips, adding a bit of his own weight to the shape of Alex’s body, out-of-synch bodies finding a shared tune. Alex closed his eyes, tilting his head back until he was resting on Michael’s strong shoulder, and then the music shifted and Michael closed those last few inches, and this, this was familiar, Michael’s front against his back, his breath in his ear, and it was suddenly so warm, so safe, so home that Alex felt his eyes prick with it.

“I’m so glad you came,” he shout-whispered into Michael’s ear.

“I’m glad you asked me to,” he heard him rumble back, nearly felt, but that might have been the base beat thrumming around them.

Alex twisted in his arms, throwing his arms over Michael’s shoulders and sidling closer, one small step at a time. He pressed his lips to Michael’s jaw and said, voice nearly drowned-out by the cheers and groans of the crowd as the DJ shifted the song, murmuring: “I always want you with me; I know I’m far away all the time, but I always want you where I can touch you, hear you, be with you.”

Michael buried his face in his shoulder, and Alex could feel his shoulders hitch, just a little. “I always want to be with you too, ‘Lex. Always.”

Alex tangled his fingers in Michael’s hair, ducking down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “We’ll make it work; I promise.”

Michael pressed in even closer, just hugging him in the teaming, steaming mass, bodies still and so, so close. “I know love, I know.”

The tune changed, something slower, softer coming on, like the quiet between them had filtered all the way over to the DJ. Michael slipped his hands behind Alex's neck, letting his forearms rest there, body close, finding their shared rhythm easily. He leaned down to whisper in Alex's ear: "It's like, there's the conversation we need to have, about our lives, what we've been doing, everything we couldn't say in the letters. But there's also something, like, that our bodies need to say to each other. Something about trust and closeness and safety."

"And pride," Alex said, pulling back and looking Michael hard in the eye. "I don't want to hide you, Michael. To hide us. I -- I know we had to, last time. But, I wanted to make sure you know, to makesure you remember, that I love you in the daylight -- or," he laughed a little, glancing around, "maybe in the neon. But close enough. I love you where other people can see us, Michael. It's just, sometimes --"

"Alex," Michael said, voice quiet, right up against his ear. "Were you worrying about that? All this time?"

Alex stared at the floor, feeling his cheeks heat. He wanted to deny it, but the truth was, he had been. Every month he didn't see Michael, it seemed like the memory got poisoned a little, until he'd spent weeks berating himself for not finding a way to make sure Michael knew he didn't think of him as a secret.

"Love," Michael said, "love, look at me." And Alex looked up, unable to resist the easy love in his voice. "Love, I know you want us to be together. You've, you've gone through so much to make sure we can, to protect both of us. I get that. Really. I know we can't write about it, but, we're partners. Trust that. I trust you. Look, Alex," he said, and then the DJ kicked up the beat and his next words were drowned out. Michael narrowed his eyes, then jerked his head towards the back.

Alex followed him as Michael moved them through a warren of rooms, seeming to sense the layout -- Alex wondered if this used to be a house -- to a smoke-filled back patio with tables and chairs and a chainlink fence around it; all occupied, but there was a bit of wall they could hold up together where it was a little quieter. Alex pressed himself against Michael's side, some small and loud part of him rejoicing in getting to touch Michael in public. At being this version of himself as loudly as he could.

They got distracted for a second, figuring out the best way to cuddle together against the cold and out of the way. Then Michael started again: "Like I was saying, I trust you, Alex. And, look, I know you've been focusing on your training, and your classes, and I'mdamned proud of you that you've gotten so close to your AA, but, love, I think you should, like, try coming here sometimes without me too."

Alex frowned. "What?"

"Look, maybe I'm reading it all wrong, but there's -- there's a part of both of us that we can't live out loud right now. But, like, I can talk to Maria about it whenever I want to, and more importantly, I get touched." He graced a hand down Alex's side and Alex preened into him, body loosening at the touch. "You deserve to be touched. It's -- dancing here, it's not cheating. It's not necessarily sexual. It can be about community and place and belonging. It can be about skin hunger, and, I think you're maybe wrapping up your own feelings about being a secret onto me."

Alex narrowed his eyes: "Has Mimi been talking about psychology with you?"

"Maybe," Michael said, "Or maybe I went to the library to try and therapize myself and learned words like 'projection' and 'repression' and 'self-care' and God knows I don't know how to manage most of that, but when you're telling me you're worried that I'm upset with you about us being a secret, when I understand and have understood for years how this has to be between us, maybe it's less about me and more about you?"

Alex huffed a laugh, ducking his head into Michael's shoulder. "I'll take under consideration."

Michael wrapped warm arms around his body, holding him tight, as Alex tried to get enough space inside to think about what he'd said. He shelved it, and muttered to Michael: "I know it was my idea to come here, and I'm really glad we did, and I'll consider coming back on my own, but -- you want to get out of here?"

"Absolutely," Michael said, "but first, one thing," and then he was moving slowly, slowly enough Alex could pull away, but with his intentions as clear as the neon lights around them. And Alex leaned into him, leaned closer, and in full view of the back patio of the Atlanta Eagle, in front of strangers and industrial fog machines and spinning lights, they kissed and they kissed and the kissed.

--

They took Alex's car back to the Motel 6, eyes on the road, and hands wrapped around each other's. The fireworks started as they drove over the freeway overpass; Alex flinched and Michael tucked that away, one more sin he'd lay at the Air Force's door, one more unearned burden Alex would have to carry. He just returned his tight grip and murmured: "The motel is right by the freeway; probably too loud to hear most of the fireworks."

Alex had nodded tightly and kept his hold on Michael's hand the whole rest of the drive.

--

Michael lay back on the creaky motel bed, arm tucked behind his head. Alex was breathing hard, face smushed into his shoulder, body bare and joyfully out of breath, Michael's breath warm and fierce against his damp skin. Times Square was muted on the TV; 17 minutes to midnight.

Michael heard himself ask: “I was thinking about what you said before, at the club. And, like, I never feel like you want to keep me a secret; I know we both have to keep secrets. But do you ever worry about this, what we have, getting erased, because of what we have to do?” He frowned, “I’m, that’s not what I was thinking about. When we were --”

“I figured it wasn’t.” Alex said, voice mild. Michael felt Alex’s fingers trip and trail up his chest before sinking into his curls, fingertips moving softly against the so, so sensitive skin. “What made you think of it?”

Michael looked up at the ugly ceiling tiles. “It’s just -- I’m ‘M--,’ right? A hundred years from now, sometimes finds our letters, they won’t -- they won’t be evidence of queer people living under fire, they won’t be evidence that people resisted Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. I mean, the interracial part is still important, you and Maria I mean, but --”

Alex hitched himself up on his elbow, pressing his lips behind Michael’s ear: “You know I keep all your letters?”

Michael nodded, a little bubble of pride moving up through his chest. “Me too, love.”

He’d seen the little shoe box Alex had been using to keep his letters, tucked into the bottom of his bag; he had something similar, an old apple box he’d picked up behind the grocery store, carefully weather-proofed with duct-tape so even if the rain got into the Airstream, the letters would be safe.

Alex leaned closer, kissing his temple, then trailing his lips across Michael’s hairline as he spoke: “So, one day, when we’re living together, we’ll put them in order, paper skin to paper skin, envelope to envelope, like they were never out of order. Like they were never apart. We'll put little index cards for the years, little notes about what was going on in the world. Top 10 lists, elections, that sort of thing.” He pressed a kiss to Michael’s forehead. “And I’ll write a forward, an introduction, put it right on top of that whole file, so no one in the entire world will be able to look at it, see what we had to do to survive, to protect each other, and doubt anything we put in those letters. I’ll write us a song and put in a timeline and --”

Michael arched his neck back, capturing Alex’s lips and kissing the words right out of them. He felt Alex turn, bracing his hands on either side of his head on the flat pillow as he eased over on top of him, sweat easing the way. Against his mouth, Michael whispered: “I’ll write the history too, I’ll write it down, so no one can forget.”

“So no one can erase us.”

Michael nodded, pressing his forehead to Alex’s. “Never,” he said. “I never want to forget this.”

Alex smiled, kissing him as he slid his arm under his head, bracing on his elbow to get even closer. “I’ll never let you forget, because I’ll be there to remind you, every day.”

“Soon.”

“So soon, Michael. It’ll be so soon.”

There was a feeling in Michael’s chest, a fearful flutter, that Alex wouldn't ever really get free, not of his legacy, not of the military; but he couldn’t take the glimmer out of Alex’s smile, so he just leaned up to kiss him, hands wrapping around his back, and holding him as close as he possibly could.

He checked the alarm clock: 11:58pm.

"Hey!" Michael said, and Alex startled a little, propping himself on his elbow to stare down at him. "You've got to kiss me for midnight."

"I'vebeen kissing you, all night," Alex reminded him, sliding his fingers in between his curls. "I'll be kissing you," he said, and leaned in closer, pressing his mouth to Michael's. "As long as you want, anytime, anywhere you want, love."

Michael knew in his heart that it was a gentle lie, but he loved Alex for saying it, for promising that, in this liminal time, in this moment. Anywhere. He slid down a little, hitching his leg over Alex's hip, enjoying the long line of heat between them.

"I love you anywhere you go, however long you're there, I'll wait for you," Michael murmured in between kisses. "I'm yours."

"And I'm yours," Alex said.

The ball dropped on the TV, the fireworks went off over the heads, muffled by the roar of the midnight freeway, but the Alex and Michael just held each other closer, trying to build as much joy and love and safety in the world they held between their own good arms as they could, in the spare hours they had together.

Chapter 7: 2011 [115,972]

Chapter Text

Sent: Jan 8th, 2011

From: Warner-Robins AFB, Georgia

Dear M--,

I’ve been looking at my hair all day. In the passenger window; the window of a cafe; when my fingers brush it when I sweep off my cover when I walked into my base housing. And every single time I do, I catch myself smiling, just a little.

I just keep thinking about you washing my hair. My forehead pressed to your shoulder, how relaxed I felt. It was like you said, when I was first in Iraq, that we’d see each other and there’d be this moment when I would just, relax.

And it took me a week. A week of you and touch and softness, but that last night, in the shower, I got there.

I keep thinking about how careful you were when you combed it out dry, ran the handheld showerhead over us, warmed up the shampoo in your palms before rubbing it into my hair from my crown down to my ears and in a long, warm line down the nape of my neck. I couldn’t remember another time my mind was this quiet. Nothing in my body was tense, nothing was hurt, nothing was flinching. I could just rest.

Then you gently rinsed the shampoo off my skull, trailing your fingers through my hair until it was free of suds. Then you repeated it with the conditioner -- but it didn’t feel like a repeat. It felt like a second service, a whole moment of worship, a chance to go over the grooves and lines one more time, make the shape of everything so much clearer to me. I felt like I was the block of clay and with every touch, you were shaping me back into myself; with every wash of your hands, every loose-handed touch, every caress, I was becoming more and more what I always am on the inside.

And the thing was, I don’t have a lot of hair. I can’t, right now. I haven’t ever been allowed to follow my Mom’s brothers’ and their fathers’ tradition of keeping it long, of learning to calm myself braiding it in three strands, body, mind, and spirit, body, mind, and spirit, over and over and over again until the braid was done, the way my cousins did. She left when I was too small to learn, and Dad would never let any of us grow our hair out.

But you didn’t treat me like I was worth less, part of a person because I’d never gotten to grow my hair out; you treated my bare inch of hair with as much love and respect as if it had been waist length.

And love, oh, I tried to do the same. I tried to bring the same care to every one of your curls, never letting a tangle turn into a snag, never letting my fingers or comb or touch hurt. Just, patience and working through it and enjoying you, enjoying the soft sounds you made when I ran my fingers up the back of your neck, enjoying the feeling of you wrapping your arms under mine and holding on for dear life.

We cuddled afterwards, trading off who was the little spoon just like always, just, holding onto each other as the clock wound down on our time in Atlanta. We did a lot of stuff. But every time I touch my hair, I think about that feeling of total release, letting you wash what remained of my hair, and it made something soft and free fly in my chest.

I love you,

Alex

--

Sent: Jan 15th, 2011

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

As I fell asleep that first night in the campground in Memphis, curled on my side in my sleeping bag with Max’s sleeping bag on top of it to keep me warm, I slid my fingers into my hair, trying to figure out the exact place your fingertips had been when you kissed me goodbye.

When I was driving Mimi’s truck those last 10 hours home, I kept finding my hands wandering to every place you’d held onto me, counting the curls you’d made so carefully with that wide-toothed comb you’d brought, just right for my hair. And for the first few days, I kept my hair under my hat; I didn’t want any of the dust or grime of the ranch to get into it. I had to wash it again after Buck shied and I fell off into a heap of hay, but I didn’t want to lose the exact curls you had wound around your fingers, had taken all that time to gather together and form. I just wasn’t ready to let go of that. Not yet.

Did they tell you where you’ll be stationed, when your training is up in a month? Last I heard they were still playing silly buggers with you between Hurlburt Field in Florida and Mildenhall in England, right?

Anyway, it’s late and I’m exhausted; it was my day off, but Mimi needed my help at the Pony, fixing some broken bar stools. It was so late when I finished, she let me crash at the apartment above the bar overnight. So I’m going to sign off here before Mimi comes to check on me again before she closes up and say: I love you, Alex.

Love,

M--

--

Sent: Jan 31st, 2011

From: Warner-Robins AFB, Georgia

Dear M--,

They told me; it’s Mildenhall.

I -- I wish I had a choice. I wish I could be at Cannon near you; I wish that so much. I’d take Hurlburt Field in Florida if it would keep me in the continental US.

God, I am going to miss you so much. And I can’t even say goodbye in person. They’re having me ship out on the 6th.

Ok, things I can control:

• Charlie needs her truck back when she gets back to the states in a month, since she’s going to work for some contractor with that big brain of hers, so I’ll leave that in storage with my NCO friend, since he has a house here.
• All of my stuff still fits in my duffle, so packing’s no problem.
• The mail should take like, about as long as from Iraq? I’ll be based in Mildenhall but probably flying, well, all over. The whole point is that Mildenhall is great for refueling and then getting, anywhere the planes need to go.

They told me to expect a year at Mildenhall; if I save up, I can come back for 2 weeks, so please start thinking of where you want to meet-up, maybe in August? Ugh, that means I’m missing your 21st birthday and Christmas and -- so much. I’m missing so much.

I’m so sorry, love.

I love you,

Alex

--

February 4th, 2011
Atlanta Eagle, Atlanta, GA

The line to get into Atlanta Eagle smelled like sour beer and old corn nuts in the early Spring Atlanta heat, but Alex -- he needed it. He wouldn’t see Michael for another six months, not until the summer season at the ranch was over. And it wasn't just missing Michael so much he could barely breathe; it would be months until he could tell someone who he was, even with just a glance, even just through the place where he was dancing.

It felt wrong. And weird. To be here, to be at a queer club, without Michael there holding his hand.

He wasn’t here to cheat, he knew that. And he would tell Michael about it, about coming here, to dance, to be around other people who looked and loved and longed like him; but he couldn’t do it in writing and they didn’t let themselves have phone calls where too many people could overhear, where they might find themselves missing each other so much, longing so much, they couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stop themselves from saying what they needed to.

Alex was hurting. He was skin hungry. There were hearts up all over the base for Valentines Day and he was 1,313 miles from the man he loved, and he didn’t think, deep in his heart, that Michael would begrudge him a few hours of noisy, anonymous writhing.

He checked his phone: 8:45pm. There was no cover before 9pm, and there were only a few more folks in front of him. He shifted, feet feeling strange outside of his military-issue boots, hips resting oddly in the too-tight skinny jeans. He took a breath and started counting leather halters; then rainbow flags; then men cuddling, leaning against each other in line, laughing and tucking their faces into each other’s shoulders. Small men and big men, sweet men and grouchy men; there was a wide range.

Alex shuffled forward, fingering the $10 in his pocket. He’d left his military ID in the car, tucked his dog tags with Michael’s guitar pick into the wheel well. He was starting to feel the bar’s base beat in his chest, thumping and thrumming, pulsing and needy, and he forced himself to roll his shoulders out, to get some looseness back. Maria would make such fun of me if I go in there and dance like a robot, Alex thought with a half-smirk. Maria always danced like she was just about to take flight, soaring out over the crowd, a free wild bird. And he always felt like a bit of olive drab next to her, but maybe a bit brighter for the closeness.

Alex handed over his cash to the bouncer, accepting his once-over with neutral the same neutral eyes he gave the most foul-mouthed, misogynistic men in his training group. And then he was inside, the bass thumbing in his chest, the fog machines going full blast.

It was a Friday night, deep in the heart of Atlanta and he wanted to dance. He wanted to move and feel ok, just for a little bit. He found a bit of space on the dance floor and began moving, began letting himself move. He felt it in his feel, his knees, his hips; he felt the too-loud music begin to crack through every shell he’d been pasting on, trying to get through this transition whole. Finally, he cracked, body moving in one shared, heaving rhythm with the crowd, mind finally opening up from the clenched fist he’d been holding since he’d found out where he’d be living for the next years. A few songs later, Alex was jumping, scream-singing along with dancers of a wide range of genders and ages, grinning at the chorus, sweat running rivers under his clothes and just -- feeling it in him. A few slow chords echoed over the sound system and Alex’s heart flipped, watching the slow rhythm draw couples together.

He swallowed and pulled himself off of the dance floor, winding through the dark, crowded rooms and wood floored corridors to the back patio, enclosed by a head-high chain link fence. It was still just a smokey, still just as packed, but at least here Alex didn't have to watch a dozen men holding each other softly in the lowlight while he swayed alone.

He found the corner he and Michael had tucked themselves into and held himself there, taking in each breath of the cool, wet night air and letting it trickle with the smoke over his tongue as bodies moved around him. One breath, two, three, four --

There was a CRACK and screaming, shouting, the sound system snapped off with a scream and --

“RAID!” a deep man’s voice yelled, and the other men on the patio began scrambling up chairs and tables, vaulting the fence.

A leather-clad man burst out of the back hallway, hustling Alex and the other men near him towards the fence: “There’s cops in the bar, they’re putting everyone on the ground, they’ve got batons and they’re taking IDs, get out --”

Alex cleared the fence in two hard jerks and ran. He sprinted as fast as he’d ever run from his father, as fast as he’d ever run from a drill sergeant, as fast as he’d ever run to Michael, he ran over pavement and bricks, over asphalt and cracked cement. He ran until he could taste blood and long after, running until he couldn’t hear the sound of sirens or whistles, screams or shouts. He forced himself into a jog when he turned a corner into a residential neighborhood, little white and yellow houses with little green yards; a few watchful dogs easing their bulks up against crooked fences, a few vacant lots. Alex ducked under a broken fence into an abandoned lot, all tall grass and broken beer bottles. He hunkered down, mind on high spin, body still flexing like he was still running.

It took long, long minutes to stop breathing so hard he could taste blood; even longer to let himself sit back, stop crouching. His ears kept searching for the sounds of sirens; of the boot steps of a cruel man.

The quiet of the city night rose around him, the flicker of the streetlights, the crisp sounds of insects in the grass. He leaned back on his palms, careful of the rusted out cans and sparkling glass. And he finally let himself cry, silent, ugly sobs in the tall grass.

--
Sent: February 14, 2011

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

It’s not your fault. Please don’t say sorry, I hate to think you’re hurting over this. I want you to tell me all the awesome, wonderful, kickass things you're going to do in England. England! You get to go to the home of punk rock, with all those weird castles and, hey, I looked it up on a map, it’s pretty close to Cambridge. Maybe you and your big brain can go take some classes there, show the Brits whats what.

We’ll get through this. We’ve only got 20 months left. October 2012, that’s when you’re free and you can come home to me and we’ll make all the memories we possibly can, to make up for this.

And we can see each other in the meantime -- I asked the Fosters and I can have 2 weeks in the middle of September; they think they’ll have enough extra help by that point, since one of their boys is finishing college and coming back home, that they won’t need me.

I know you’re probably not going to get this until you get there, but please know this: I love you. I’ll keep loving you. There’s no place you can go, nothing you can do, that will stop that for me.

I’ll see you in October.

Love you,

M--

PS: I think it’s time for a new game; but I don’t have any more riddles. How about history trivia? I’ll look them up at museum websites from around where you’re living and ask you questions and then you have to find the answers and tell me where you found them. Ok, how long have the Friday market days been held at Mildenhall?

--

February 15, 2011

Roswell, NM

“I -- I think not telling him is an act of love,” Michael said, head drifting over the edge of Isobel’s couch, a bottle of one of her nicer ciders dangling between his fingers.

“Yeah?” she said, leaning back from painting his toe-nails all sorts of strange colors. He’d see them wear off after weeks of hard riding in his boots, the dirt that got in through the seams wearing them down. He’d make sure none of the guys on the ranch saw them; but it made her happy; and he needed to sate the skin hunger that came with long-distance loving as much as Alex did.

“Just, like, you’d never tell your new beau, Norman, Nealan, November, what’s his name?”

“Noah.”

“Yeah, just like you’d never tell Noah about your,” and he twiddled his fingers in the air, like he was pulling thoughts out of his own head and putting them into hers.

“I don’t think he’d like the idea of me being able to get inside his head, force him to do what I want,” she said, voice acerbic. They couldn’t talk like this with Max -- Mr I Can’t Talk About My Powers And Physically Remove Myself From Any Discussion Of Them, Even Just a Thank You For Healing A Steer-Stomped Leg. And in most of Isobel’s moods, Michael couldn’t talk to her about this at all either; she was usually queen of the beauty scene, unable and unwilling to be anything greater or less than mainstream human.

But she was drunk and he was tired; or maybe it was the other way around. Her beau was out of town for a long weekend at a conference in Austin and Isobel had invited Michael over to the little bungalow her parents had covered the downpayment on. It was neat and pretty and just off Main Street. Michael didn’t feel jealous of the ease with which his secret siblings moved through life; he was mostly grateful that they’d had it so much easier, hadn’t had to learn through scars inside and out how the world was.

Max and Isobel had scars enough of their own; Michael would never wish more on them.

But he did like it, occasionally, getting to visit this pastel and chenille kind of life; the kind of life where Iz just had some nice cider sitting in the fridge, extra food on the shelves, and only boots without holes. So he followed Isobel down these rabbit holes, these twists and turns. She knew about Alex, a bit. Enough. Iz wasn’t always terribly interested in anyone else’s lives, but she knew Michael was in love with Alex Manes and they had to keep it a secret from the world; the fact that he was keeping his own personal private species a secret from Alex was just one more weight and measure on the heap of things making their shared and conjoined lives difficult.

“Like I said -- I think it’s an act of love. Because, what, what’s he going to do with it, if he finds out, Iz? Not believe me? Tell someone? Believe me and have another f*cking secret to keep under his breastbone? No. No. I’m not going to do that.” Maybe in the far-off someday where he and Alex had cats and got married and Isobel and Max gave him away, sure, he’d tell him he was an alien who’d hatched in a pod in an abandoned mine and then been abandoned by nearly every other person he’d ever loved since then. But for now, he’d play human for him, enough to keep him safe.

“I could see that,” she hummed, painting a purple stripe right down the middle of his big toe. “Want to know the literal weirdest thing I heard last night?”

“What?”

“I heard a rumor,” she said, holding his foot still as she carefully painted pink polka-dots on every single nail, “That you’re sleeping with Maria DeLuca.”

“What?” Michael said, voice squeaking. “I mean, she’s gorgeous, brilliant, and cool -- but she’s,” his face twisted, “who said something? Everyone’s supposed to think she’s with Alex.”

Isobel flexed his toes back in her hand to change the angle of her brush. “Lindsey told Mom when she was getting her roots dyed that Wyatt saw your truck parked overnight, next to Maria’s, at the Pony, last night.”

She looked up under her perfect side-sweep at him, rolling her shoulders in her scarlet club shirt, waiting him out.

“I was, ok -- but I was helping Mimi fix some chairs, ok? Maria drove her Mom’s truck back home since Mimi was a little vague by the end of the night, kept coming up to check on me before she locked up. Like I haven’t slept someplace worse than an apartment nobody’s used consistently since the Pony’s owner’s daughter moved to LA to live with her boyfriend.”

Isobel waved her hand lazily in the air: “That was a lot, but the problem stands: don’t you think people will start to doubt that Maria-I-Hate-The-Military-Industrial-Complex-DeLuca, Miss I-Lead-The-Annual-Anti-War-March-Down-Main-Street-DeLuca is still dating her childhood pal Alex-All-Air-Forced-Up-Manes if there’s better evidence she’s shacking up with our local genius cowboy?”

And Michael felt a thrill of fear move down his spine. “People don’t think that; Lindsey’s just being a pest because I turned her down three times last night while I was trying to fix the barstools. It’s just sour-grapes, Iz, don’t worry about it.”

Isobel leaned forward, sharp elbow digging in a little in to his thigh, getting and keeping his attention. “But people do, Michael. I know you don’t spend a lot of time in town, but rumors like this spread. Even if you won’t do it for Alex, you need to do something to kill this rumor for Maria.”

“What, being associated with me would be so bad?” Michael said, trying to hide the flinch in his voice, “I’m a catch.”

Isobel looked him over and softened: “You are. You’re cute, sweet, and wear that hat like a pro,” she said, grinning as she knocked it off the back of the couch, pinning his ankle in place when he tried to lunge after it. Pulling him back towards her, her face got serious: “But Maria needs to build her social capital. I’ve heard she’s been saving up, investing, getting ready to buy the Pony out from under the owner. She doesn’t need a bad reputation --”

“Being with me would be a bad reputation?”

Her voice was hard when she said: “Cheating on an Airman to be with you, would, in fact, f*ck up her future, Michael. Cheating on Alex, is what it would look like if people think she’s with you. And that will tank her sales, screw-up her financing, and generally f*ck up her life.” She took a breath, smoothing his jeans over his shin. “It’s different for women than men, Michael. She needs people to like her well enough and she needs the military customers.”

Michael’s heart was pounding, fists clenching the couch cushions, he knew all that, he just --

Isobel took a long breath and leaned over, gently tugging on one of Michael’s curls until he looked at her: “If you ever wanted to date her for real, and she was available, you could do worse. She could do a lot worse. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about protecting her reputation while she’s selflessly serving as you and Alex’s beard.”

“Oh,” Michael said. “Oh, yeah, you’re right.” He tipped his head all the way back onto the couch arm. “What do you want me to do about it, Iz?”

“I’ve got a plan all worked out. Let me call Maria.”

Michael handed over his phone.

--

It was a few hours before Ranchero night and the bar was empty; Mimi had gone to do some stock checking in the back, having been briefed on the plan, and gently giving them some space to talk before the show began.

Michael pressed his ear to the top of her head, feeling her carefully-straightened hair slick against his skin. “I can’t believe you and Isobel agreed on something. I can’t believe this is what you agreed on; I thought the phone would explode at the touch of your two voices."

He could feel Maria shrug her shoulder under his: “The ice queen apparently has a sneaky side; I can respect that. And we wouldn’t have to do anything if you hadn’t had to crash here--”

“I was exhausted from helping your Mom --”

“If you hadn’t crashed here and Lindsey hadn’t seen your truck, then I wouldn’t have faced a whole town-full of stares and people muttering ‘bicycle’ under their breaths as I serve their drinks, Michael.” She turned a glare up at him. “I need people to think this thing between me and Alex is real; you need that too.”

Two and a half years ago, her bringing it up would have filled Michael with fear and worry. But years of her doing right by them, being the friend and connection they both needed, passing through every letter without comment, caring so deeply and so quietly for both of them, that she’d soothed those long-running, deeply-carved anxieties.

Michael sighed, holding up his hands: “Ok, ok, I’ll stop whining. And it’s not technically a break-up. Since we want to make clear you were never cheating on Alex.”

“Yup,” she said, popping the P obnoxiously before cracking into a grin. She gave him a sly look: “I think you were lovesick for me, following me around.”

Michael wiggled his shoulders a little, returning her smile: “Sounds like me, following someone all over the face of the earth for some of their time.”

“Hey,” she said, wrapping an arm over his shoulder: “I thought the trip to Atlanta went well; you both sounded so happy.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, rubbing his face, leaning a little more into Maria. “Yeah, it did. It’s just, now he’s in England and I haven’t heard from him and it just makes me wonder if it’s ever going to work. If we’re ever going to be in the same timezone again. I just -- I just miss him, ‘Ria.” There was a warble in his voice he hadn’t put in it on purpose, and somehow, just hearing that made his breath hitch, his shoulders tighten. “I just worry is all.”

She gripped his shoulder a little more tightly, tucking him against her. “I know you do. And you know he missed you too, right?”

Michael paused, chewing over what Alex had said, about liking Atlanta, about having a good time going out. He’d read about the raid in the newspaper, but he had no way of knowing if Alex had been there that night; there was just so much distance between them, so many things they couldn’t say right now.

“Right?” Maria prompted, jiggling his shoulder.

“Right,” Michael said, letting a bit of tension out of his bones. “I know he does.” He squared his shoulders: “It’ll be ok, just don’t say anything about my hair, ok?”

“I’m going to do this as cleanly and humanely as I can -- while doing it so publicly everyone will know what went down tomorrow morning.”

“What do you need from me?”

--

A few hours later, Michael pretended to saunter into the Pony. He put an extra swing in his step and had sloshed a bit of beer on his collar outside so he smelled like a barroom floor. He pushed through the overfilled crowd Isobel had gotten packed into the bar; she’d turned the normally sedate Ranchero night into a festival of community service organizations, all tabling and fundraising and buying beer and generally proving Maria a business and philanthropic genius.

That was the carrot; he was the stick.

He made a point to jostle as many elbows as he could on his way to the bar, so there were a half-dozen glaring eyes on him by the time he made it there.

“Hey, DeLuca!” he shouted, putting that brawler’s edge in his voice; he felt more people turn to stare at him. Isobel lowered the music, just a touch. It stung that no one could see this was all staged, he was playing a part; but then, people always saw what they wanted to see.

Michael put a crooked smile on his face as he lowered his voice a little and said: “Why you been ghosting my calls, darlin’?”

“Get my name out of your mouth, Guerin. And stop calling me. I’m with Alex. I’m going to be with Alex. So stop sniffing around. Just because I let your underaged alcoholic hick ass sleep on the upstairs floor when you were too hammered on alcohol you stole to drive safely, doesn’t mean I’m your ‘darling’ anything.” She said something down on the bar with a click; it was her peace-maker, a half-meter long stick of ashwood with a grim of colorful electrical tape. “Now, are you going to take yourself out, or do I need to throw you out?”

Michael put his hands up, voice loud: “Jesus Christ, Maria, message received,” and began to back up.

Her voice followed him out: “You’re banned from the Pony for a month or until you learn that no means no, Guerin.”

His face hot, he just nodded, once, hard, before turning and throwing himself out of the Pony. His vision was weirdly blurry as he stumbled through the gravel parking lot; there was a figure sitting on the lowered tailgate of his truck, legs swinging, flowing skirt catching every little bit of winter desert breeze.

“Mimi, what --”

“Oh, Michael,” she said, and patted the metal beside her, rings clacking on the chipped paint. “It’s done?”

Michael looked around; but the music was loud and everyone was already in the bar. No one could see them in the dark corner he’d parked in. He pulled himself onto the tailgate, shoulders slumping.

“Yeah, it’s done.”

She leaned her shoulder against his, warm and safe. “That’s a brave thing you just did. Letting people hate you is one of the hardest things there is.”

Michael shrugged just one shoulder, throat feeling suddenly clogged-up. He tried to look where she couldn’t see the shine in his eyes; that just made the beer on his collar waft up and he wanted to gag; it smelled exactly like his last foster Dad.

“Oh, honey,” she said, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. She just held on and for a moment, Michael froze, not knowing what to do. Then his next breath hitched, then hitched again. She kept a firm grip on him and he turned, going slow until she wrapped her other arm around him in a tight hug; then he buried his face in her hair, tears dripping down his face as he tried to hold his breath, to stop them from coming.

She patted his shoulder: “There, there, come on, you’re ok, you’re ok.”

“I,” he started, voice a ragged husk, “I’m not a hick. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not a brawler. I know no means no, Mimi, I do and --”

“And now all those people are going to think the worst of you. So they wouldn’t think it of my daughter, or of Alex, who needs your protection even if he never knows how to ask for it. Or how much you give up for him, to keep him safe and happy.” She gave him one more tight squeeze before letting go. “Like I said, it’s incredibly brave. I hope you can be together soon, before this war gets worse, before more people get hurt.” She settled her shawl around her shoulders. “I’m assuming those beer fumes were just for affect and you’re good to drive?”

Michael nodded. Mimi slid down off the truck. “Alright. And since you’re banned from the Pony, and apparently this whole goddamned town cares more about its children’s sex lives than the contents of their characters, I’ll just have to renew my acquaintance with the Fosters. I’ll see you for Sunday dinner, Michael.”

She paused, voice going low and firm: “And you take care of yourself, Michael. There’s so much you’re going to have to face, and you’ll need to be strong to do it.”

“I --” Michael started, but then she was gone, slipping back into the light and the noise of the bar like she’d never left.

--

Sent: March 7th, 2011

From: Mildenhall AFB, UK

Dear M--,

My mail got all screwed up in the transfer, but I finally got your letter. Some stuff happened that left me, well, it was hard to write for a while. I’ll tell you about it later. I love you and I miss you.

Ok, so, telling you things I liked. I like how green it is here, I like getting to hear all of the different British accents, I like the unit. They’re good guys, and Jimmy’s here! Jimmy, my friend from Kunsan, he’s here and he has a car and so we’ve been going exploring on our days off. His wife -- he got married -- is here too and she’s expecting a baby. He got a $40,000 signing bonus for re-upping and he’s starting at OCS next year. It’s a lot, getting folded into someone else’s family so fast, but it’s been, it’s been a nice, welcome change. I’ve told them all about you, your Mom, how smart and hardworking and kind you are; and how much I miss you.

And I know the answer to your history question, since Jimmy and Prita and I went to the market: it’s been happening every Friday just about for 599 years.

I really loved getting your letter. I had, I’d been in a weird, bad place for a few weeks there. Seeing you being so sweet, so open with me, so loving and kind, it really made my day.

Love you,

Alex

--
Sent: March 22nd, 2011

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

It’s so good to see your handwriting, to hold something you touched. I missed you so much. A lot of stuff happened, but we can talk about it when we see each other in December.

Ok, you asked for me to decide where we meet. I was thinking Houston? I could show you the Johnson Space Center, show you all the cool rockets and ways we’re going to be talking to little green men someday.

So here’s another trivia question: how many sheep lived in Mildenhall according to the 1086 Domesday Survey?

I love you,

M--

--

Sent: April 2nd, 2011

From: Mildenhall AFB, UK

Dear M--,

I had to go to the museum for that one -- over a thousand sheep. Have you ever seen a sheep? My uncle has a flock on the rez and they’re so dumb. And stinky.

My classes are going well. I think I’ll have it down to only needing 2 quarters on a college campus to graduate with a B.S. in Computer Science; there’s all these colleges with special, low-residency programs for members of the military, so I can do nearly all of the work online. There’s some in Florida, New Hampshire, California, Colorado. I’ll officially have my Associates Degree from the Air Force Community College at the end of May.

I’d love to meet you in Austin. I bought the tickets for September 15 - 29th. Will that still work? I can change the date for free for the next two months.

Love you,

Alex

--

Sent: April 22nd, 2011

From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Those dates are perfect; it really settles something for me, knowing exactly when I’ll get to see you. I can’t wait to touch you again.

I hope you found some good clubs to go to there, keep your dance moves in check. London has a lot of those, right?

I got to help a few of our cows give birth this week. The babies can get up and walk so fast after being born!

Buck is better; he got a little colicky when it was wet out but he’s fine now. I’m glad, he’s a good boy and I miss riding him when he’s in the recovery pasture.

And I’m so proud of you, finishing your AA while working full time! So cool! Did you get a little hat?

I love you so much,

M--

--

Sent: May 5th, 2011
From: Mildenhall AFB, UK

Dear M--

I’m worried I’m starting to be known as the hermit of the unit. I never go out to the clubs, to the military-centered bars. I volunteer when my commander asks me to, and I keep my head down. I do my work, all of my trainings that I’m here for.

I’m excited about the degree, but a little bummed we’re not graduating together. I know you haven’t gotten a chance to get any credits under your belt since graduation, but maybe I can use my GI bill for a masters while you’re powering through undergrad. I’m saving enough every month -- partially by not going to London on the weekends to check-out the clubs -- that we’ll both only have to work part-time jobs to be able to study at the same time.

We could have a little apartment, give each other rides to campus; it would be so great.

I know I already told you, but I’m really enjoying my computer science classes. You remember what you said about playing music, that it quieted the entropy? That’s how opening up my IDE feels like. It’s just me, that hacker-dark screen, and the chance to take some messy math problem or confusing csv file and turn it into -- truth. It’s nice to tell the truth sometimes, even if that truth is just the average weather in Tulsa or the number of left-handed Airmen at Eielson in Fairbanks.

And that’s just in Python. Working in C is more like a puzzle, remembering exactly what order to put everything in, using semicolons everywhere, and just, like, it goes so fast. I love that.

The other glasses, the gen-ed, they’re whatever. Same English books as we read in high school, same dumb colonizer history. Whatever.

Maybe, in September, we can look at some of the online classes you can take at Eastern New Mexico University? I know you’re really busy with your job on the ranch, but I think you’d like it, if you could. A lot of them you can do all the work on the weekend. And if you don’t, that’s totally fine, I just -- I want you to be happy. And you loved school.

Anyway, I should probably go. I’m nearly done with this sheet and the guys are just getting back from Maddie’s and I need to pretend to be asleep or I’ll be hearing about this bartender or that one all night.

Love you,

Alex

--
Sent: May 25th, 2011
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Looking at classes could be really fun. Money’s pretty tight, since I had to repair the truck last month, but if I pull a few extra shifts on the weekends through the holidays at the junkyard I can probably swing a course or two. It would be nice to use my physics books for something other than propping up my coffee maker.

Did I tell you I’d gotten into rock collecting? I’m out of the range so much, sometimes I’ll just see this shiny thing, this bit of something pretty. And it’s not like anyone out there’s going to miss it, so sometimes I just put it in my pack. You should see the colors on some of these things, Alex. It’s like they move when you touch them, and they’re so warm from the sun. I wish I could show you. Turns out Walt Sanders is into rocks too, so we have little rock-hunting expeditions together; no talking, but lots of grunting. You’d hate it :D.

I’ve missed you. I’ve missed everything about you. I can’t wait to see you in Houston in 4 months.

Love you,

M--

Chapter 8: 2011 [118,847]

Chapter Text

September 15th, 2011
Brays Bayou Trail, Houston, TX

Michael leaned against the concrete pillar of the overpass, wrinkling his nose at the late-summer smell of the slow-moving Brays Bayou. When he’d suggested Alex meet him here at 2pm under the Gulf Freeway Bridge, it had looked romantic-enough online. Green byways, wildlife, the blue sky arcing overhead -- it looked like a place they could get out of the heat together, enjoy some quiet, talk in the sunlight.

Alex’s flight should have landed an hour ago; his taxi should be dropping him off upstream any moment now. And then Michael would get to see him. Get to see him outside of the pictures he had on his phone, outside of the pictures Maria had started hanging up in the bar, to try to forestall any future accusations of cheating. He looked good in them, smiling and bright in his uniform.

Michael wanted to see the smiles. But he wanted to see what was under them too. He wanted to know what had knocked Alex for so much of a loop in the Spring he hadn’t written for a month. He wanted to know what he thought of DADT being in review for repeal any day now; he wanted to know how Alex was.

For a moment, he felt a surging, burning hatred of the whole world that kept them locked up like this, that kept them chained to hiding, to avoiding the scrutiny anyone new knowing might bring. And then he watched the slow-churning, muddy water of the bayou, watched the long, dark shadows of the freeway’s support columns as they struck back against the bright-white of the sidewalk underpass, and he took a breath. He remembered this will pass. This will fade. And when all this crap is gone downriver, all the rules and the laws and the f*cking bigots, he’ll still have Alex. Alex will still have him. They just need to last.

Like a mirage out in the New Mexico desert, a wavering figure appeared at the far end of the path. Michael ducked his head, not wanting to be fooled, not wanting to be tricked if it wasn’t Alex. He glanced up again; the figure was closer, in fatigues the same colors as the cloud-strewn sky, a massive bag over his shoulder. Michael squinted his eyes, heart wanting so bad and head just, just holding him back, just making him wait, just a few more seconds.

Then Alex’s smile came into view, his bright white smile in his dark face, his bright eyes laughing. Michael pulled himself away from the pillar, head swimming with the heat and movement and possibility.

But Michael held still, held himself to the shadows, holding Alex’s eyes. He forced his hands into his pockets, rounding his shoulders, listening for Alex’s footsteps under the roar of the freeway noise.

Alex's voice was so soft, so sweet when he said: “Hey, love. I missed you.”

Michael shuddered a little, shuffling his feet, unable to look up just yet: “I missed you too, so much, love.” He took a breath. “I was thinking -- hoping -- we could walk together a little, before going back to the motel room?” He backtracked quickly, suddenly afraid Ales would see this as a rejection, “I want to, with you, obviously, of course, but it’s been so long since we talked, since we could talk and I --”

And there was Alex’s hand, tight on the thin place where his shirt covered the inside of his elbow. A friendly touch, a platonic touch, a touch that sent Michael’s entire body falling to pieces, breath hissing through his teeth, so he only heard the second half of what Alex said: “-- a really good idea, I want to hear how you are too, love.”

Michael gave him a shaky smile, pressing Alex’s hand to his arm tightly for just a second, just a moment before making himself let go.

He swung around, starting to talk down the greenway deeper under the overpass, giving them a bit of shade to get started with. Alex walked along with him, bumping his shoulder as he went, making Michael’s stomach flip every time.

“Want to alternate good and bad news we couldn’t share in letters?” Michael asked and Alex huffed out a laugh.

“Sure. Want me to start?”

Michael grinned: “Sure, what’s something good you couldn’t tell me in a letter?”

“Jimmy and Prita and I went walking down the Broomway last month. It’s this deeply haunted, ephemeral tideland trail that used to be the only way to get to a place called -- no f*cking joke -- Foulness. It’s killed like 100 people and I was worried if I told you about it in a letter you would get all worried for me but I was really ok. We hired a local guide, walked all day.” Alex shook his head as they stepped out into the full-on sunlight. “There was just so much water. Everywhere. They just like leave it sitting in lakes! For birds to sit on! Not using it as reservoirs, not turning it into hydropower, nothing. Just, year-round water. Everywhere.”

Michael stepped a little closer, so the backs of their hands just brushed on the next step. “I’m glad you’re ok. I can’t promise I wouldn’t have worried, but I want to know about your adventures too.”

Alex glanced over at him, smiling softly. “Ok, then I have to do one bad thing?”

Michael nodded. “Yep, then I do a good thing and a bad thing.”

“Ok,” Alex said, taking a long, hard breath. “The club we went to, at New Years? It was raided by the police, they threw everyone on the ground, went through their pockets, called them slurs, terrorized them for over an hour and -- “ his breath hitched just a little, his eyes on the far-off next bend in the trail, “and I was on the back patio. I was trying to, you know, like you said --”

“Get some touch, since you deserve to be touched,” Michael finished the sentence, seeing Alex was just about out of steam. Alex nodded. Michael’s words were soft, careful as a Mom jogging with her stroller pounded by them, “I had guessed, worried that might have happened, when I saw there was a raid in the news. But I knew there was no way you could tell me.”

Alex nodded again and Michael chanced a quick pat to the middle of his back, one like he’d give Max if Max had just told him a sad story.

“You were able to escape?"

“I must have run for hours, Michael. Terrified someone would catch me. I had hopped over the fence around the back patio, since I heard the screaming, and I was just, booking in out through the neighborhood.”

“Love, I am so sorry that happened to you. I’m glad you escaped, but sh*t, what terrible f*cking luck.”

“It -- it didn’t feel like bad luck,” Alex said, voice hard and interior, “It felt like I was being punished. For trying. For trying to be out. Like the universe was telling me to just stay, just stay how I am. Where I am. Safe.”

Michael took that in stride, chewing it over. He took a long breath: “You know, there’s no one right way to be queer, right? If Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed tomorrow, I wouldn’t expect you to, like, post a rainbow flag over your door in your barracks. If you did, that would be fine; if you wanted to stay the same -- Alex, what I want, more than anything in the world, is for you to stay safe, stay whole, and come home to me. That’s it. That’s all. That’s what I care about.” He wrapped his arms around his waist, wishing he’d never suggested they take a walk before going to the motel room, wishing he could just hold him.

Alex’s voice was tiny: “Really? You’d -- you’d be ok, if we stayed this way?”

“It’s not like I’m out to the guys on the ranch. Not like I’m dating anyone else publicly. Like, I’m bi and I have eyes, just like you do, but I’m with you. And I’m happy with you. I don’t have, some, like, cookie-cutter idea of what being together means.” He pointed vaguely south: “Like, when we go on the tour at the Space Center together, right? We’ll see all these landing craft, all these different kinds of satellites. And every single one of them was customized for its environment. Density of the planet, atmosphere, heat, cold, winds, acid rain -- all of it. And we’re from the town that's obsessed with aliens, so why not treat us like that kind of mission too. Make sure every part of it fits us, and just us, not some outside idea of what we need to be.”

“But what if I wanted to? To kiss you in public, to hold your hand at Crashdown, to sing songs about you at some grungy open mic night?”

Michael raised his eyebrows: “Then we’d talk about it. See if it was something I was ok with, and decide together. Just you and me.” He chewed his lip, trying to focus on the feeling of his body moving on his feet. “There might be drawbacks, to being with me in public, now, anyway.”

“What?” Alex said, and there was something so incredibly healing about the shocked outrage in Alex’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

“That’s my bad news, that I couldn’t share in a letter, because of,” and Michael waved his hands between them.

“Nothing could change me wanting to be with you, Michael,” Alex said, voice hard. “Nothing and no one.”

Michael gave a bit of a smile, warped-feeling and weird. “Ok, so, the good news first. So, I told you I’d been rock collecting with Walt Sanders?”

“Yeah, you’d mentioned it. Some really cool colorful rocks, right?”

“Yep, and it’s been like a few weekends a month for a few months and it’s -- between him and Mimi coming over to the Fosters for Sunday dinners, it actually feels,” Michael took a long, deep breath, “it actually feels a bit like having a family. Like, I’ve heard that people can ask their parents for advice on hard things in their life. So I tried, when I had this stupid fight with Max, I tried asking Walt about it and he, he actually gave me good advice.” Michael huffed a laugh, eyes tracking a waterbird as it wiggled through the slow current, “Well, he told me to stop doing Max favors rather than telling him I care about him, since Max may not know how to interpret favors as love.”

“That sounds really nice,” Alex said, voice quiet. “I’m so glad you have that, someone to talk to, Michael. You deserve that.”

“Thanks, I’m not sure about it still, but it’s nice. To talk to someone who knows.”

He pulled his hat off, working the brim with his hands. “Then there’s the bad news.”

He paused, for long enough that Alex started to frown, peering at his face. “It can’t be that bad, Michael,”

And Michael could feel the same pressure of tears that had torn him apart, left him sobbing into Mimi DeLuca’s hair 7 months ago. “I -- I know it doesn’t seem like I care about my reputation. But that’s a kind of armor, right? People thinking you’re good, you’re smart, you’re hardworking. That’s what gets you jobs, gets your loans, gets you clients and respect and --” he forced himself to say it. “I kind of publicly tanked my reputation. On purpose. In front of pretty much everyone in Roswell.”

“Michael, why --”

Michael just forced himself to spit it out: “People were thinking Maria was cheating on you with me. Because I crashed above the Pony after helping Mimi with a project, the night I wrote you about.”

Alex nodded, eyes still full of questions.

“Anyway, we needed to figure out a way to make sure everyone in town knew Maria was being faithful to you -- because as much as reputation matters to me, it matters a million times more to her ability to do what she wants to do in Roswell -- and she and I, we, we kind of created a public situation where I acted like I was hassling her for a date and she turned me down. Isobel helped.” He gulped a little, “Maria, she didn’t like it, but she had to say some none-to-kind things about my character, to make it stick." He swallowed hard, voice catching. "That I was a drunk, stole liquor, kept going after her even after she said no. And, well, it was a good enough performance that now it’s really stuck.” He huffed a laugh that sounded a bit more like a sob than he’d intended, “Isobel and Max tell me I’m on the Sheriff's watchlist for future drunk and disorderlies. Anything that goes missing around town, people have started to bring my name into it. And now Maria has this shrine up of your pictures on the wall, so no one’s questioning her loyalty anymore. She’s getting ready to buy the Pony, she needs all the good news she can get.”

He glanced over at Alex -- and he was livid. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Michael stopped walking, turning his back to the sun so he could see Alex’s face. “I just explained --”

“You -- you did that for her and for me, Michael. You were doing this to protect me and Maria and you just -- you can't just -- “

Alex’s face was crumbling, hands going to cover his eyes. Michael tried to break in: “Alex, it’s really not that bad, I’m a ranch hand, everybody expects us to be brawlers --”

“You’re saying that I’ve got a shrine up on the wall to me, she’s got the entire town on her side, and you’re, what, being treated like trash, and that’s ok?”

Michael was stung: “Maria’s never going to have the whole town on her side, bunch of racists mixed in there, if you forgot, plus the people who don’t like her anti-war protests. She needs all the support she can get.”

“But you don’t deserve to pay the price for -- for me living this life, and her living hers, and you’re just --”

Alex’s breath was coming fast and faster and Michael risked a hand on his right shoulder. “Alex, look, maybe I shouldn’t have told you, I didn’t want to upset you on your first day home --”

“You’re my home, Michael!” Alex said, throwing his hands up, knocking Michael’s hand off him. “You’re telling me people are treating the person I love the most in the world like he’s a thief and a drunk and a letch and that I shouldn’t know about it because it’s making me upset! Damn right I’m upset, Michael! Damn right.”

Alex forced his breath down and reached over, gripping Michael’s hand for a long, firm moment before letting it drop. “I’m sorry to raise my voice. I want you to be safe too. I want you to be happy, and God, I have no idea how we’re going to do that in Roswell --”

“We’ll make it work,” Michael said, voice shaking, mind spinning, “Alex, please --”

“I’m -- I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with us, I love being with you, Michael. I’m just --” he rubbed his hands across his face, sweat starting to form in the mid-afternoon sun. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do in a year, how we’ll get away. If we just had a little more money, we could get started in a new place --”

“I don’t know if I can leave, Roswell, Alex,” Michael said, voice quiet. He paused, putting his hands up between them. “I think that’s probably too many things to talk about all at once.” He gave Alex a half-smile, heart still crashing in his chest; Alex tried to return it. “I hear they’ve got great tacos in Houston.”

“Ok,” Alex said. “And then let’s go to the motel. I want to be able to hug you properly.”

“I’d love that,” Michael said, smile getting a little stronger.

--
September 15th, 2011
Days Inn and Suites, Houston, TX

Alex hadn’t expected much of the Days Inn and Suites, but this was nice. There was a little kitchenette, a little fridge that Michael had thoughtfully filled like he did every time. Michael was right behind him, having hauled his bag out of the back of Mimi’s truck and given Alex his key after check-in.

Alex started talking before the door closed. “I just wanted to say -- I understand why you and Maria did what you did. And I know you did it, at least partly, to protect me, to protect us,” he rolled the words over in his mouth before turning to face Michael, reaching out to grip his hands for the first time that day. “But please, please don’t do it again. We’ll find another way, one that doesn’t hurt you,” his breath was tight but he kept going, “because that’s what I’m upset about. That this is hurting you, because I love you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Michael shrugged his shoulder: “I don’t see another way we could have dealt with it. And it’s fine, Alex, really, it’s --”

Alex squeezed his hands a little, catching his eyes: “I’ve been thinking,” he paused not sure how to say it, “Maybe we should think about trying out someplace other than Roswell.” Michael co*cked his head and Alex rushed on: “Not permanently, and not far. Close enough you could get home to see Walt and Maria and Mimi and Isobel and Max and the Fosters anytime you wanted to. Just, maybe, a couple of months, living someplace nobody knows us, where we can just be us.”

“When you get out, we can go anywhere you want, love,” Michael said, stepping a little closer and pulling their hands between them and interlacing their fingers, kissing every valley and arch where their fingers met.

“Yeah,” Alex said, voice quiet, “when I get out.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Michael’s forehead, skin salt-sweet and hot against his lips. “Speaking of getting out, I could really stand to get out of these clothes.”

Michael smirked a little: “Want some help?”

“God, yes.”

--

September 20th, 2011
Days Inn and Suites, Houston, TX

Alex woke a little earlier than Michael, enjoying the soft grey light through the closed curtains of their little room. Michael had stocked their room with more than canned soup and croutons; he’d added water bottles when the smoke from the fires up north began to infuse the city air, and even more canned soup. The front desk attendant had told him when he’d checked in that Tropical Storm Lee would stay well out of their way, but as soon as he woke up he’d put the TV on mute and keep it going in the background, just in case.

Hurricanes and wildfires weren’t the only things Michael was prepared for: he’d brought a box of condoms and lube, and enough wet wipes to clean them up for a dozen weeks, not just the 9 days remaining before Alex’s flight back to Mildenhall.

Michael shifted beside him, shoving his face between Alex’s bicep and the white sheets, body relaxing again as Alex trailed his fingers through Michael’s curls. They’d washed each other’s hair again, and Alex had fallen into the same blissed-out euphoria he had back in Georgia; there was just really something special about being cared for, being tended in that simple, loving way.

Alex closed his eyes, thinking. In another year, he’d be out -- or he wouldn’t. They had mass reenlistment ceremonies, and the recruiters were like hunting dogs already, following up with him every month to see if he was planning on sticking around. They’d started offering bonuses at $10,000; when he’d told them about his computer science classes, that had jumped up to $40,000 and higher. Alex looked down at the slowly filling-in depressions under Michael’s eyes. He wasn’t starving, Alex knew Mimi and Maria and Walt wouldn’t let that happen. But Michael was always on the edge of it, always whip-thin, always scrambling to keep everything together. To build a life for both of them.

He’d taught Alex to bake bread the day before, said it was so much cheaper than store-bought, that he’d learned from Mrs Foster and traded cleaning the kitchen for the use of the oven. Those just weren’t the kinds of trade-offs Alex knew how to negotiate. If only he could use family money -- but no. No matter how good an airman he was, his Dad would never let him have the same share his brothers had of his grandfather’s will.

Michael needed a degree. He needed safety and security and no matter how much he said it was fine, he needed to be away from a town full of bigots who hated him for something he didn’t do, someone he just wasn’t.

Michael made a small waking sound and slipped his knee over Alex’s hips. He liked to cuddle like an octopus first thing in the morning, Alex had discovered on their first few free nights together. It made Alex feel kept and safe and Michael had said it did the same for him. He inched closer, and Alex felt something twitch against his hip.

“Morning,” he murmured, soft and low.

“Mmph,” Michael muttered back, rearranging himself until his co*ck was pressed in a long line against Alex’s thigh and his cheek was pillowed on his chest. He rubbed himself against Alex’s skin and Alex gave a shaky laugh:

“You need me for this or are you just going to entertain yourself?”

“Hmm?” Michael said, peering blearily up at him. “Is that an option?”

“Depends what ‘that’ is,” Alex said, voice quiet and teasing. “If by ‘that’ do you mean I’d love to lay you on your back, kiss every part of you I can reach, work you open and get you off so you come around me and then take a nap, then yes, I’d love to do ‘that.’” Alex said and Michael huffed.

“Jesus, the mouth on you,” Michael said, pulling himself up to kiss Alex. “‘That’ sounds like the best way to start a morning I’ve ever heard.”

Alex grinned, tipping Michael over and straddling him, enjoying the long, hot line of their bodies before beginning to kiss his way down his throat as Michael’s hands traveled across his back, forming nameless shapes and wordless patterns as he loved on every inch of skin he could. By the time he made it to his hips, Michael was twisting and whining, red co*ck hard and untouched and Alex felt a sense of victory he’d only read about in storybooks, a hero having saved the damsel, a knight having laid out the dragon. But the dragon was one he wanted to kiss, wanted to hold, wanted to make full of fire and heat and greedily-kept comfort. (And sometimes he wanted to be the damsel, the dragon, the one laid out and cared for; but not this morning. This morning it was all about Michael).

So Alex swallowed Michael down, easing him back along the top of his mouth and into his throat, moaning at the taste and the feeling as Michael tried not the jerk into his mouth. Alex felt something cold touch his arm and reached out, grabbing the lube from Michael’s clumsy fingers. He poured some in his palm, warming it a little before beginning to slide along the furled skin, enjoying the shape of him and the increasingly desperate sound he was making. He ducked down to lay a quick kiss to his perineum before sliding him fully into his mouth again, starting a slow rhythm.

He massaged against the warm skin, soothing rhythm until Michael hissed, voice high with want: “In me, in me, Alex, please --”

And Alex slid a finger into him as he sighed in relief, mouth still working on him. He began to feel inside, and then, there, that bump and Michael arched up off the bed, into his mouth, so deep Alex had to swallow and pull off to keep from choking.

“Sorry, sorry, I --”

“I love that you love this as much as I do,” Alex gasped, voice a little f*cked out as he looked at Michael, a writhing beautiful mess. “I love it so much,”

“Love you, ‘Lex,” Michael managed, eyes half opening, “love you so much.”

“Want to keep going? We can finish you like this,”

Michael shook his head, curls tossing on the white pillows. “Want you in me,” he said, grabbing a condom and laying it over his belly button for effect. “Now,”

“Let’s take a little bit longer, ok?” Alex said, moving his finger lightly as Michael's eyes fluttered shut. “Just want to see you like this a little more,”

“Kay,” Michael said, flailing his left hand down, gripping Alex’s forearm. “Kay,” he said again, seeming to be down to monosyllables.

Alex bent down to kiss his knuckles where the scars dragged over them, opening his mouth over each knuckle as he eased another finger inside. He could feel Michael fluttering around him, body getting used to the intrusion, as he eased one of Michael’s fingers between his lips, careful of his range of motion, loving the soft way Michael’s thumb traced over his cheek as he worked him open.

When he could feel him fully relaxed around him, stomach still tight and thighs trembling with it, he reached up and pulled the condom, gripping just the crenellated edge with his teeth and pulling it open, careful of the soft latex inside and lips tight against the weird-tasting lube.

Michael groaned and Alex glanced up to see he was curling up, eyes wide, “Want to, want to see you,” he said, voice hushed, “want to see you in me,”

“Me too, love, me too,” Alex said, quickly rolling the condom down over himself and holding the base as he positioned himself. “You ready?”

Michael nodded, head jerking, bracing his legs on Alex’s shoulders.

Alex slid his fingers free, easing himself in as Michael watched, eyes wide and soft and sort of astonished-looking. Alex wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything hotter and then Michael reached down, gripping himself around the base of his co*ck, muttering: “Don’t want to come yet but, love, the way you look,”

And Alex grinned, settling himself tight against Michael’s body, looking down at the place where their bodies met and just, feeling it, feeling how close, how connected, how real they were. Not just two pens on different sides of an enveloped flying back and forth across the seas, but two men, full people, who loved each other with everything they had.

Alex felt a nudge against his back, Michael’s heel trying to set a rhythm and he started moving, each long drag pulling a breath in and out of Michael’s body as he held onto him, held onto him until Michael’s eyes began to flutter, his body starting to tighten.

“Alex, I’m --”

“Come when you need to, love, I’ll be right behind you,” Alex said, beginning to speed up, bodies slapping together, eyes tight on Michael’s face, not wanting to lose a minute of this.

“Oh, oh God,” Michael said, and he stroked his hand up his co*ck once, twice, three times -- and Alex turned, pressing a kiss to the side of his knee, before turning back to see Michael screwing up his eyes, breath stuttering and hand flying fast before he was coming all across his chest. And Alex followed him right over, body singing with it, vision greying out, body holding close and tight to Michael’s, so tight he didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began, of if they’d just fused into one great pleasure-filled thing.

Once Michael stopped twitching, Alex held the base of the condom and pulled out, taking a moment to admire how Michael’s body kept trying to fill in the space he’d been in. He quickly slipped off the condom, tied it off, and tossed it into the basket they’d put beside the bed. Then he crawled to the headboard and wrangled Michael, all loose-limbed and sleepy, into his lap, head tucked right under his chin.

For long moments, their breaths matched, their heartbeats matched, as their bodies slowly filed back into their own skin, as they slowly became two people again.

Once he was cool enough, Michael pulled up the blanket and flailed for the remote, turning on the news.

“No sign of hurricanes,” Alex said fondly, fingers easing through Michael’s curls. “We’re ok.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, “But remind me not to suggest Houston during hurricane and wildfire season again, ok?”

“Ok,” Alex said with smile.

Michael settled down onto his chest. Alex was wondering if Michael would mind if they used their homemade bread to make toast when a Breaking News Alert flashed across the screen.

He frowned a little, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes.

The headline read: “End of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ brings relief, celebration.”

“Holy sh*t,” Alex said, trying to read the subtitles as they scrolled past.

“Hmm?” Michael said, snuggling closer.

“They repealed it. It’s official. Don’t ask, don’t tell is over.”

“Whoa,” he said, shuffling to sitting, tucking his leg under Alex’s shin to keep the close contact. “The DoD finally accepted the change?”

Alex nodded, hooked his chin over Michael’s shoulder, a huge swirl of emotions in his chest. “That’s -- I didn’t think they’d actually do it. I thought they’d just tie it up in reviews until the end of time.”

Michael tensed a little, looking back at Alex: “But they didn’t change the Uniform Code of Military Justice, right? It’s still a dishonorable discharge for," and he made sharp finger quotes, "'sodomy' or 'unnatural carnal copulation'?”

Alex nodded, that was the cause of his mixed feelings. “Yeah, so I can be out as a gay man but if I admit I have sex like one, same result as it would have been yesterday.”

Michael swallowed, pressing his head against Alex’s. “It’s a huge deal, I’m not trying to rain on our parade here. That’s massive. It’s just, I’m not sure what it means for us.” He took a breath. “Like I said on our first day, I want you to stay safe, to live, and to come home to me. If you want to come out, awesome; if not, awesome. If you’re not sure, we can talk about it or wait or --”

“I -- I don’t think I can,” Alex said, body tightening with fear and misery, breath kicking up. “I don’t think I can, I --”

“Hey,” Michael said, twisting in his arms until he was holding onto Alex, wrapping him up warm and tight. “I love you for how you are. I know you love me. That’s enough, more than enough, for me to be happy. There’s, like, zero pressure from me. Ok? I’ll keep signing letters ‘M--’ as long as you keep writing them.”

“Could,” Alex hiccuped, trying to get his breath under control. “Could we write each other letters, right now? Use your real name? Not to send them, but for your box, for your letter box? The archive you said you’re making?”

Michael’s smile bloomed across his face. “Sure,” he said, reaching over for the Days Inn and Suites notepad and the pen. He tore off a top sheet: “You write yours and I’m going to get the shower started and clean up. Leave your letter in my bag and I’ll put mine under your pillow, so you can read it whenever you want to. And when we check-out, I’ll keep both of them. Ok?”

Alex’s heart was slowing down, his mind easing. It would be ok, no one was coming, no one was going to catch them, hurt them, humiliate them here. “Ok, that works. Thanks, love.”

He kissed Michael once, long and deep, voice lower and softer when he pulled back: “Thank you.”

“Anytime, love,” Michael said, taking the notepad and pen into the bathroom and shutting the door. Alex started to write.

--

Hand-Delivered: September 20th, 2011
From: Days Inn and Suites, Houston, TX

Dear Michael,

It got implemented today.

I love you,

Alex

--

Hand-Delivered: September 20th, 2011

From: Days Inn and Suites, Houston, TX

Dear Alex,

I was thinking about the decision, thinking about what it means. What you mean, to me.

You never think I’m worthless. I think you’re the first person who’s said that they love me who hasn’t ended up thinking that, or at least acting like they did. My family threw me away, I got bounced around, house after unhomelike house. My own siblings do their best, but it’s tough, sometimes. Pretending. And you have reason to: the Air Force would put you in prison for touching me.

But you. Alex. You just see me, as I am. You just love me, as I want to be. You are just here for me,

And I wanted to thank you for that.

I know you know this, but the fact that there’s laws saying we can’t be together in this state, in New Mexico, it just -- it feels like being hated. Even knowing they’re wrong, even knowing those kinds of laws have been struck down in a lot of states, the fact that they’re still on the books, the fact that the people who wrote them and voted for them are still in elected office, it’s just -- it’s a lot. And I know we’re on the same page, but maybe, someday, someone else will be reading this, so I want to say: it’s hard on me sometimes, knowing that; with all of the civilian stuff, plus the US Code of Military Justice banning ‘unnatural carnal copulation’ and ‘sodomy,’ I get staying safe. If they’re going to call this beautiful, wonderful thing we did this morning those awful words, f*ck them. They don’t deserve to know you, the real you, all of you.

I bet Maria is covering the Wild Pony in rainbow and bi-pride flags to celebrate it as I write here on this bathroom counter, queerphobic commanders be damned for the day. And I love her for that.

Some people are going to come out today, were coming out on CNN just now. But it’s not right for everyone. Not safe. Not with people like your Dad in the world.

Maybe when the UCMJ changes, you might change your mind. But even if you never do, even if we’re old bachelor cowboys living together out on some ranch somewhere, coming into town to play in our Dad band, I’ll have lived a happy and full life knowing I love you and you love me.

I love you Alex Manes.

And I’m always yours,

Michael

Chapter 9: 2012 [120,222]

Chapter Text

January 2nd, 2012
Mildenhall AFB, UK

“So,” Jimmy said as he pulled weights from the rack in the base gym, loading them onto the rusty bar Alex was gripping, gearing himself up to lift. “How’re you going to use your next leave block?”

Alex’s breath was still high in his chest from the last round; he was working his way up to bodyweight and Jimmy had offered to spot; they’d been going long enough he could taste copper.

“Huh?” He said; he wasn’t even sure when his next leave block would be, since he was finishing his time here next month and hadn’t been given his next assignment yet.

“Well, you stayed in Georgia ‘seeing the sights’ which I assume means slumming it in Macon for two weeks, while you were training, then last summer you flew all the way to Houston, to, what, see the Johnson Space Center?”

“Yeah,” Alex rallied, trying to get his brain back online. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Uh huh. And the fact your girlfriend is in a neighboring state was only just, like a bonus?” Jimmy gently teased. Alex tensed. He’d seen the crosses on Jimmy’s wall, been invited to more than enough prayer sessions with him before missions. Jimmy hadn’t said a damn thing about DADT when Alex had gotten back from Houston, but absent evidence of bigotry wasn’t evidence of support.

“Well, she likes the stars too,” Alex said, voice quiet. Settling his hands on the bars and beginning his next set under Jimmy’s watchful eye. He took a breath. “She’s been working on a ranch this whole time, really hard job. I’ve -- I’ve been thinking. Of what I could do. To set us up, for a while.”

“That why you never come out with us? Saving all your pay for a little nest egg?”

“I don’t think I’ve saved up enough for in-state tuition for her, much less a downpayment on a house,” someplace Michael could roam around, work on his truck, quiet and peaceful, like the two bachelor cowboys he’d said they could be.

“She the one you sent money to, back in Korea?”

“That was for her friend; she’s not a dependa. She hates the war, goes to protests and everything. But she wasn’t able to go to college and there’s not a lot of opportunity back home.”

“Uh huh,” Jimmy said, helping Alex settle the weight back onto the holders. “She asked you about marriage?”

“Who would you want to give you away?”

“I think no one would give me away. I’d give myself to you, fully, and completely. That’s how I’d like to do it. All of me, to all of you.”

“Not in any serious way.”

“Well, just watch out,” Jimmy said grimly, locking the next set of weights into place.

Alex frowned. “Are things not ok with Prita?”

He started his next set as Jimmy said. “No, Prita’s great. I just see too many guys, young, smart guys like you, get locked down by women who just want them for -- well, it doesn’t sound like your Maria’s like that.”

Alex finished, breathing hard. “No,” Alex said, voice hardening. “She’s not. She’s been scraping by so she can save-up to buy the bar where her Mom works. She’s really close to getting there. She works so hard and she’s going to be a kick-ass business owner.”

“So you’ll be going back to Roswell, then this summer? If you’re still planning on being a one-and-done airman,” Jimmy said, clicking the last set of weights onto the bar.

Alex looked up at the weights above his head, his entire bodyweight hanging over him. “I - I think she’d hate it, I think it would break her heart, if I re-upped.”

He saw a little expression flit over Jimmy’s face. “Alex, you’re obviously head-over-heels in love with her. But women are resilient and she sounds practical. If another contract could set both of you up, she’d probably go along with it. Particularly if you go in as an officer because you know with your technical skills and deployment experience, the base recruiter is dying to snap you up for OCS if you can commit to finishing your degree and to Air Force ROTC while you’re on campus.” Jimmy fitted his hand closely over the bar between Alex’s hands. “Ready?”

Alex adjusted his grip, the rust and sweat smell filling his lungs. “I don’t think it’s a matter of resilience. She’s put her life on hold for me, missed so many opportunities for me, I can’t just -- doom her to another 4 years of only getting 2 weeks a year to live as a real couple.”

“Who says it has to be like that?” Jimmy said, body easy as he waited for Alex to get started. “You finish up here, go to another base for 8 months, re-up, get that cool $40,000 incentive, use the Airman Education and Commissioning Program to do your, what, two quarters on campus you need to finish your degree?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it down to two quarters.”

Jimmy nodded, “Exactly. And you’re still active duty while you’re finishing your degree, so you get pay and the full housing allowance. So, you pick a campus near where she lives -- hell, she could move to where you are, and you could live together while you study. No weird base housing, just a normal apartment. You live together for 8 months, 2 quarters, like you said, like a real couple. And then you’re in the Air Force another three and a half years. And you might be stationed at Cannon, so she could still work her regular job. And if you’re stationed elsewhere, well, you’ve both survived worse and longer.”

It was -- it was a complete vision. A real plan. So much more concrete than Michael’s dream of them living in the Airstream together, working and studying and scraping by. It had been so hard saying goodbye, and knowing they’d get 8 full months together, where Michael could study ? It wasn’t something Alex could just ignore as a possibility.

“And,” Alex said, voice quiet, “$40,000 would pay for four years of school for her. She could get her degree.”

“Exactly. More than pay for it, with in-state tuition. So, she does her degree while you’re doing your tour, you make it to Captain in four years so you can get higher pension when the time comes, and by 2016 you’re both free, degreed, with no debt, and a nice little bit of savings to start your lives off with.”

Alex glared a little at the hard sell. “Did you take on a recruiting job when I wasn’t looking?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Look, the economy is crap right now with the end of the financial crisis. I’ve seen guys go home, one-and-done, and end-up bagging groceries.” He gave Alex a soft look, almost parental. “I just don’t want that for you. And your Maria would understand, understand you wanting to do what’s best for her.”

“I need to talk with her,” Alex said. Jimmy rolled his eyes. Alex continued. “I’ll write her about it. But we should finish this set.”

“You and your letters. It’s so Notebook of you. Prita told her cousin about it -- the one who’s getting married -- and they thought it was just the sweetest thing.” Jimmy teased, “Ok: on three: one, two, three --”

Alex lifted the weight, mind spinning.

--

Sent: January 2nd, 2012
From: Mildenhall AFB, UK

Dear M--,

I hope you’re doing ok! I miss you a ton. How was New Years at the bar? My flight here was awful, but Jimmy and I’ve been working out after work and it’s been nice. Have you gotten a chance to look at classes for the summer? No news yet on my next posting; I suspect it will be Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska, sigh.

Love,

Alex

--

Sent: January 16th, 2012
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’ve never been to Alaska, but I got one of those new international driver’s licenses, so I’m good to cross the border into Canada. Did they give you enough days off that you could fly into Roswell and we could road trip up? I know we’ll see each other in August, for sure, I’d love to get you settled at the next place, see something new together. No hurricane warnings in Fairbanks, right? Too far from the coast?

Love,

M--

--

Sent: January 30th, 2012
From: Mildenhall AFB, UK

Dear M--,

We were right, it’s Eielson. And I’ve only got 4 weeks from now until I have to be on post, and the flights would be really expensive and -- can we manage until August? If I hear back from you that we need to, I’ll make it happen. I’m just trying to save as much as I can for our future.

I had an idea, something we could do. Jimmy’s wife Prita invited me to come to her cousin’s wedding in London and we all got henna on our hands and arms, which wasn't exactly regulation, but no one got on our cases for the week it took to wear off. It got me thinking. Like, we haven’t talked about tattoos much, but if we did the same henna designs, it would be like we’d gone to the wedding together. You can get the little kits from online for like $20 and maybe you could do it for people at the bar, though maybe not for pay? It’s kind of like it’s cool to learn traditional Diné beading but weird to sell it if you’re not Diné, does that make sense?

Anyway, I’m sorry the news sucks so much. I love you tons.

Alex

--

Sent: February 13, 2012
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m guessing the design from Prita’s cousin’s wedding has worn off, so here’s the one I’ll be putting on:

--- ..- .-.

.-.. --- ...- .

-... .-. .. -. --. ...

- .... .

... - .- .-. ...

- --- --. . - .... . .-.

I’ll let you translate it :D.

And yeah, I can manage. I don’t think you have to worry so much about our future -- we’ll be together, my job is good and year-round, we’ve got the Airstream. We’ll be just fine. I’ve got enough to cover you and Mrs Foster said she could always use someone with your skills at the ranch, maybe even replace one of her idiot sons. They always need help with the stock management and it could be pretty great working together.

Agreed about not selling the henna, but there’s actually a desi guy who’s been helping out at the Ranchero Nights lately, so I’ll ask him if it’s ok. I think I told you about Isobel’s boyfriend, Noah? He’s an attorney and she’s all about that lifestyle. Like, tonight he’s driving her her all the way to El Paso because Red Jumpsuit Apparatus is playing. She blasts it a lot when I got to visit her, but, like, I had to tell her to change the song. There’s this line -- I think you’ll get why it doesn’t work for me:

Cover up with make up in the mirror

Tell yourself it's never gonna happen again

You cry alone and then he swears he loves you

Do you feel like a man

When you push her around?

Do you feel better now, as she falls to the ground?

Like, I don’t need that in my songs right now. I don’t get why she does.

I love you. I’ll see you in August; I probably can’t swing classes this year, but there’s always next year. We’ll get through this.

Stay warm in Alaska, love.

Love,

M--

--

Sent: February 28th, 2012
From: Eielson, AK

Dear M--,

Our love does bring the stars together. I made it into a bit of a design, around my ankle, under the sock, where it was just for us. Where did you put yours?

I’ve been refreshing mine every few weeks. It’s nice, kind of relaxing. My roommate has started giving me looks about taking up too much time in the bathroom, but whatever, at least I don’t hoard Red Bull under my bed.

I think a bit differently about songs, like, sometimes I like ones like “Face Down” because it’s proof someone else has gone through this crap, has gotten out the other side of it.

They’re having these mass reenlistment ceremonies on base. There’s recruiters everywhere. And there’s stop-loss, where they just sign you up for another year because there’s a war on. And, like, Secretary Gates said there was going to be a lot less stop-loss, but it still happens. And then it’s just a contract extension, no new signing bonus, nothing. Sometimes your pay even gets messed up.

My job is going well, still a lot of flight time, which I love. The sky is beautiful here, I wish you could see it. What’s your favorite constellation?

Love,

Alex

--

Sent: March 7th, 2012
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

One of the things I love about your being stateside is how much faster the letters are. I think I could even smell the henna on the page, not enough travel time to lose its scent. I’ve been putting mine on my thigh, exactly where I like you to kiss me. I’m keeping it fresh too, like having something that’s the same between us.

But I thought we could try a new pattern, maybe something like:

*
.
.
.
. .
. .

Since you’re in Alaska and all :D.

That stop-loss stuff sounds tough. I hope you can get out in August, but if it’s not your choice, I understand. It sounds like there’s a lot of pressure on you, love, but just remember: it’s not forever. We’ve got you. I love you.

See you soon, love,

Love,

M--

--

Sent: March 20th, 2012
From: Eielson, AK

Dear M--,

I think a snowstorm f*cked up the mail, because I got that like 2 weeks later than I should have. Yeah, pretty much everyone I know is re-upping. It’s everywhere.

I love the North Star design, it’s honestly the second best US State Flag (after New Mexico, of course). I’ll try the inside of my thigh next, see how that feels. My roommate is such a troll, can’t stop talking about hating Alaska. Like, I get that there’s 53 men for every 47 women, but the odds aren’t “never in his favor,” he’s just a dick.

Anyway.

Let’s see, I met a retired Captain on base who;s a civilian contractor now, who’s Athabascans. He talked to me some, about what it’s like being an officer, how much you can fix for enlisted men, what it’s like to be a leader. How they need more leaders from our communities. How much we can do for the next generation. You know Alaska Native communities up here -- some but not all -- are organized into corporations? It’s a totally different system than in the lower 48, with shareholders and dividends, but the same sh*tty bloodline stuff comes up, with how “shares” can be passed down. It’s stupid and fascinating and tough and interesting all at once.

I miss you so much. I wish you were here, wrapped up in this blanket with me, rather than my stupid roommate snoring all the time.

I love you,

Alex

--

Sent: March 7th, 2012
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Your roommate sounds terrible, yikes. I looked up the numbers and I wish the census counted non-binary people, since obviously not everyone is a man or a woman. But no dice.

I wish I was curled up with you too. I put the north star over my heart this time, thought about you the whole time I was putting it on.

I was talking with Noah, about whether it was ok to use henna. He said he couldn’t speak for all billion-plus desi people, but like, as long as we aren’t selling it or pretending to do rituals or whatever, he said it doesn’t bother him. He said people do it at festivals sometimes, like for friends? I don’t know, I just know it’s nice to have something I’m wearing that you’re wearing too. It helps me get through it.

I was thinking more about what you said about stop-loss. And yeah, I’d hate it forever if they did that to you, but it wouldn’t be you I was pissed at, it would be the f*cking Air Force.

I won’t drag on them, but the local airmen have been making the Pony their local preferred wateringhole and I f*cking hate it.

Anyway, I love you, and I can’t wait to see you in August. We’ll get through this. Stay safe and come back to me love. That’s all I need.

Love,

M--

--

Sent: March 27th, 2012
From: Eielson, AK

Dear M--,

I was trying to figure out if there was a flight I could take down to where you are, but they have us on these long shifts and I can’t really get away. I miss you so much, I just wish I could be there.

I redid the henna, right over my heart. I did it in the shape of the key to the Airstream and I tried to think about you too. I miss you. I want to be able to take care of you, build something together. So we’re both free. I know we can.

It looks like I can’t come home until October. I’m so sorry, I knew we had our hearts set on August, but we can make it. I’ll be so happy to see you, love.

I love you,

Alex

--

June 7, 2012
Foster’s Ranch, New Mexico

Michael lay on the bed of his truck, way out on the backroads of Foster’s Ranch. Normally, he would have taken Buck to get out here, but the old boy had thrown a shoe and the bit of fencing that needed mending was close enough to a road anyway, it had only been a bit of a hike to get there and back.

Michael had headed out late enough in the day the guys would have assumed he’d just sleep the night out on the range. It wasn’t uncommon, when the summer heat was high and the showers were down for the other ranch hands to come up with a reason to be far, far away from their shared bunks.

But that wasn’t why Michael left. It was June 7th, 2012 and he was 22 years old. It was his birthday. Isobel and Max had some big to-do at the Wild Pony and they’d invited him, just like they always did; but Ann Evans would be there, glowering a little at his riffraff, hay-in-his-hair self, and he just -- he didn’t have it in him. He wanted to be happy on his birthday and he wasn't going to get it pretending this wasn’t his birthday.

(And then there was the fact that he was still supposed to be skulking away from the Pony, staying out of Maria’s way, to make sure the whole town got the idea into their thick skulls that she was still dating Alex.)

Maria was off in Santa Fe at an anti-Iraq War protest, marching and singing and shouting. She thought it was the fastest way to get Alex home, not that she could tell the airmen at the Pony that. She’d told him, so he’d know to get Alex’s mail from Mimi. He thought she’d kind of wanted to ask him if he could go, but then didn’t; it wouldn’t look good, them spending time together. Still. Isobel still said those stupid rumors were just about ready to pounce again. He gritted his teeth. It was so stupid. He missed Alex so much.

A comet flickered across the sky and oh. Another birthday wish. He’d made the same wish on every single one of the dozen-odd shooting stars he’d seen since his eyes adjusted enough to the low light of the deep night that he could see them. He’d wished and wished and wished for Alex; Alex to call, Alex to come by, Alex to be home. Just for a few days; just for an hour. He could last this whole summer with an hour of his skin touching Alex’s.

But Alex was in Alaska and he couldn’t be calling Foster’s Ranch or Michael’s cell, he couldn’t be going AWOL and messing up all his hard work making sure he was in a position to get an honorable discharge.

He couldn’t be with Michael.

And the thing was, that wasn’t fair. Alex was doing his best in a tough, sh*tty circ*mstance, with all that awful pressure, all those demands to keep serving and serving and serving until there was nothing left. Nothing at all.

And most of the time, trying was enough; that was more than enough for Michael. Knowing someone loved him so much he’d fight so hard to get to him, knowing someone cared about him, not the labor he could do or the state check he could bring, but him ? That was everything.

But it was late and MIchael was dozens of miles away from the nearest electrical light and in the quiet of the dark he could admit to himself: Alex’s best wasn’t very good for either of them. He’d seen people get married, get degrees, get locked-up, get knocked up in the time they’d been waiting out Alex’s enlistment. They’d put their lives on hold; or, Michael had. In a lot of ways. He wasn’t really looking at classes, wasn’t really trying to make friends.

He was just -- still as a far-off star, still and waiting.

He threw his forearm over his eyes, holding onto a breath for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight long seconds, and then letting it go.

He’d do better. He’d be better. He would. He knew he could.

He just wanted Alex.

--

Sent: August 27th, 2012
From: Eielson, AK

Dear M--,

I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your August 7th letter, things were crazy here. And I did something you’re not going to like.

There was a mass reenlistment ceremony last night and I did it.

But we’re going to see each other in October. I’m doing this program Jimmy told me about, the Airman Education and Commissioning Program, where I get paid to get my degree. I’ll be at University of Denver for 8 months, taking Winter Quarter and Spring Quarter and graduating in June. I’ll be attached to Peterson AFB in Colorado Springs, so I’ll be living there, and commuting an hour north to Denver for classes. And, I thought, if you wanted, you could come be in Colorado Springs too. I’ll be there October to June, so your season on the ranch would be over and we could settle in for a few months before the new quarter for the community college in Colorado Springs starts.

I can live off base in Colorado Springs if I can prove I have a roommate, so I thought I could put down first-and-last on an apartment, and then we could -- we could live together. I don’t know where I would be sent after that, I might be deployed, but we would -- we would have 8 months. Together.

I don’t want to put a ton of pressure on you: I can drive down to Roswell or hop a flight down on the weekends when I get leave. And I’ll have a big leave block in December, which is why I didn't come back in August, and we can go anywhere we want to.

But if it works for you.

If you can.

We can live together.

I want that, with you.

And, M--, the thing is -- if I go to Officer Candidate School, I help protect the enlisted airmen, and have more control over my schedule and my life. I’ll get to learn things that I can use as a civilian contractor and help build us something to rely on. I’ll outrank every living Manes Man. They’re paying a $40,000 sign-up bonus for people in my technical specialty. That’s 8 quarters at grad school or undergrad, plus books and board, for the both of us when I get out in 2015, with my GI Bill. The retirement pay won’t be massive, but it will be so, so much more than if I left now, and that gives us something every month to rely on. Like, a car payment maybe, or putting something away for college for the next generation, so no one gets stuck like we’ve gotten stuck. And I should have said, I took a shorter contract, only 3 years, 3 years and lots of training and -- love, it’ll be ok.

Classes end on June 8th.

I would get to celebrate your birthday with you.

It’s 3 more years. And I’ll be deployable. And I don’t know if it’s the right choice, but now I can’t take it back.

I hope you can forgive me.

I love you,

Alex

--

Sent: September 4th, 2012
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

“We can’t save him,” Michael sobbed. “We can’t save him.”

Maria’s hands were on his back, in his hair, trying to make the space between them as small as he would let it, all stiff arms and tight body, held between them held away from her.

“It was a mass reenlistment ceremony, he couldn't get out of it, there’s so much pressure Michael. It’s,” and he heard her voice break, “It’s 3 more years. He’ll be out in 2015, ok?”

“He won’t,” Michael gasped into his arms, folded in front of his head as he gasped and choked on the still-sticky bar after closing. He’d come in an hour before closing to read the letter from Alex. Maria had kept it sealed until he and she were the last ones in the bar, all the clean-up done, all the staff gone.

“He’s going to die over there, Maria,” Michael sobbed, voice muffled by his still-dusty flannel. “He’s gonna die and it’s all my fault.”

“Michael, you know that’s not true --”

“He did it for me! Didn’t you see --”

He pointed to the line in the letter. They’re paying a $40,000 sign-up bonus for people in my technical specialty. That’s 8 quarters wherever you want, plus books and board, for the both of us, with my GI Bill.

“He knows with my record I don’t qualify for financial aid. He wants to live together for 8 months and then leave me and I’ll have to drop out, I can’t keep paying for classes with a ranch hand’s pay and -- “ his voice choked out, lack of air stealing his words. Maria tried to rub circles on his back, but it was no good. He slid off the bar stool, onto the sawdust-strewn floor, fingertips carefully, so, so carefully holding the paper.

“He knows I can’t get survivor benefits. He knows, if he goes, if Alex dies, it’s gonna -- they’re gonna notify you, Ria. They’re gonna notify you. Send whatever’s left of him home in a box to you. I’ll,” he covered his head with his arms, tucking his knees against his chest, perfectly protected from a beating -- but this wasn’t coming from a foster dad who’s meth had run out or another farm hand trying his hand at smear the queer -- it was coming from Alex. All this pain was coming from Alex.

“I’ll never know. Unless you tell me, I’ll never know what happened to him. f*cking Jesse Manes will hear before I f*cking will. Jesus,” he looked up, but he wasn’t seeing the bar, he was scanning the exits, looking for a way out, for something to fight.

His voice was choked when he asked, “What if he goes back to Iraq? It’s -- it’s -- 5 dead last month. 15 the month before. How are we gonna survive 3 more years of this ? ”

“Under Obama --”

“He said it would be over in 2011!” Michael looked around, hands wide, eyes wild. “Does 130 dead in carbombings last week look over to you? Alex is gonna die there --”

He took a hard, deep nose breath.

“No.” He said. “No.”

He looked her in the eye. “When’s the next protest?”

--

Sent: September 4, 2012
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I love you. Tell me when your flight gets into Denver, and I’ll be there. I promise, I’ve always got you.

Love,

M--

--

Sent: October 7th, 2012
From: Fairbanks Airport, AK

Dear M--,

I’m sitting here in the airport and it just hit midnight and they had these dorky postcards and I decided I’m going to write you 10 postcards right now with 10 things I love about you. Here’s the first one: I love your brilliant face.

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Number two: I love how good you are at fixing broken things: cars, tractors, me.

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Reason I love you number 3: how much you love your family. Even when they don’t live up to your hopes, you still love them as they are.

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Number four: how willing you are to throw down for what you believe in. You always fight and I f*cking love that.

Love,

Alex

PS: I wish I could be more like that.

--

Dear M--,

Number 5: your hair, your beautiful, stunning hair. I wish I was less shallow than that and all 10 were spiritual and emotional, but damn, Your Hair.

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

I love how secret!smart you are. I love that you know so much about physics and astronomy and just, you general brilliance. (That’s number 6, by the way).

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Number 7: it’s a postcard so anyone can read it, so I’ll just say: that thing you did the last time we saw each other. You know the thing.

Love (and lust),

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Number 8: how good you make a t-shirt and worn jeans look. Damn. I just -- ok, less shallow for numbers 9 and 10, I can’t rely on these pants being that baggy.

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Number 9: That you love all the dorky sh*t about our hometown. You make me see the good in Roswell (because you’re the good in Roswell).

Love,

Alex

--

Dear M--,

Not to get too mushy, but I love you for how you love me. You don’t give me too much room to bullsh*t you, I don’t ever think you tell me anything but the truth. I love how you love me,

Love,

Alex

(With the exceptions of secrets that need keeping, because everyone has those).

--

October 7th, 2012
Denver Airport, CO

Alex clenched his teeth, jaw aching, as he worked his way through the Denver airport, past all the strong-smelling kiosks and the sports bars blaring Fox News. He knew Michael wouldn’t go for a kiss at the airport, not with Alex in his fatigues, not knowing what he knew -- but God, he wanted him to. He just wanted to wrap himself around him, arms and legs and lips and f*cking everything.

Writing those postcards had been sweet torture at the beginning of the 6-hour plane flight. He’d spent the entire time with his head tipped back against the bulkhead from his window seat, headphones in with Panic! on repeat, imagining different ways they could spend their 2 weeks of settling-in time. Michael had gotten the apartment all set-up the week before, handled the deposit and signed for it and everything. He'd been a bit cool in their letters, but seemed to be handling things fine. Alex had been busy packing and getting ready, he'd been a little slow in his replies, but he knew Michael would be glad to see him.

When he landed and he’d been one of the first off the plane, duffle over his shoulder, strap hard and tight.

The Denver airport was massive. Like, DeGaul big. Heathrow big. Dulles big.

Alex shook his head as he worked his way through the crowds. It was weird, growing-up in New Mexico, Colorado always seemed so far away, so chilly and effete compared with rugged New Mexicans. And sure, there were a lot more slick mountain biking ads and slick lycra rock climbing gear in the shops, but there were real, actual people here too.

He ducked his head, striding and then something closer to a jog towards the pick-up area.

He hit the last security point and -- there he was.

Cowboy hat in his hands, bag of burgers sitting at his feet and just -- the most wide eyes, open smile Alex had ever seen.

Alex nearly bowled-over a grandma to get to Michael, wrapping his arms around him as Michael gave a surprised huff, leaning into him, smelling his inside smells for the first time in 14 months and just, enjoying it. Just for a second.

“‘Lex,” he heard him murmur in his ear, soft and hot and everything perfect about Michael Guerin. Alex pulled back just before the timer in his head went off for how long someone could plausibly claim they were hugging their best friend from high school.

“I missed you,” Alex muttered, protected by the crowd as Michael gave him a secret, twinkling smile.

“Me too, Alex. Me too.” Then he took a breath and they both took a half-step back, Alex dipping down to pick-up the bag of burgers and hold it tightly so he didn’t try to hold Michael’s hand.

He quirked half a smile over at him. “Thanks for the ride.”

Something dirty flickered through Michael’s eyes at that but he kept it together.

“My truck’s out in the short-term lot, we can keep it under $5 if we head there now.”

Alex smiled. “Yeah, perfect.” He couldn’t resist bumping his shoulder against Michael’s. “Thanks.”

Michael’s expression was a little too serious, a little too perfect to be just friendly, but in that moment, Alex could not care.

“Anything, Alex.”

--

As soon as they hit the freeway, Alex began to strip.

“What --” Michael started, laughing.

“There’s no public indecency laws at 80 miles per hour, Michael Guerin,” Alex said, arm half out of his long sleeve shirt.

“Love, it’s not that I’m not enjoying the show, but --”

Alex finished getting himself free of his button-up uniform shirt and yanked his undershirt up over his head, feeling the cool Colorado air on his skin for the first time. “I don’t want to be in this thing when we get to the apartment block. I don’t want our neighbors knowing there’s an Airman living there, because it will let us be more anonymous, mean we don’t have to, like, get all freaked out about a window being open or holding hands while we’re doing laundry or anything.”

He glanced over at Michael, whose eyes were on his chest before snapping back to the highway. “I, uh,” he started, then gripped the wheel. Alex frowned, pausing his hands on his belt.

“Are you ok --”

Michael was already speaking. “I’m sure you just said something really smart and brilliant and Slytherin-ish, but honestly, Alex, I can’t hear a word you’re saying when you have your shirt off.” He had a high flush running across his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Alex felt his own blush move across his face, and a pleased smirk rising. “Well,” he said, “It looks like I should get changed faster, to allow your higher brain functions to return.”

Michael reached out blindly, thumb grazing a nipple and his dog tags and his key to the Airstream before settling low on his stomach. “Oh, no, love, don’t hurry on my account. We’ve got an hour and change before we hit Colorado Springs and it’s a route I can drive with my eyes closed.”

Alex grinned, looking over the early Saturday morning lack-of-traffic and slid his thumbs beneath his waistband. He co*cked an eyebrow. “How about I recreate the show once we’re at the apartment?”

“Spoil-sport,” Michael muttered before waving idly for Alex to continue.

Alex yanked off his pants, the feeling of the seats against his bare ass bringing back the memory of the summer 4 years before, all steamed windows and hidden headlights in the desert dusk.

He fished a pair of skinny black jeans and a long-sleeved black henley out of his bag, pulling them on efficiently. He even pulled a pair of Chucks out of the bottom of the bag, black of course, slipping them over his Air Force-issued socks. He couldn’t do anything about his haircut, but even without the earrings or the eye-liner, he still looked a lot more grown-up-goth than Airman Extraordinaire now.

He sighed, slouching down in the seat, watching the massive mountains fly by.

“You have anything planned for the rest of the day?” Michael asked, and a sneaky look flickered across his face.

Alex adjusted his seat, twisting over onto his right hip to trail his fingers up and down Michael’s arm. “Do you have a surprise for me at the apartment?”

“Maybe,” Michael said, glancing over at him before catching his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. Alex tingled and twisted inside at the sensation of the other man’s lips on his bare skin.

“Want me to spoil it for you?”

Alex could barely remember the prior topic, but he shook his head. “Nah, I trust you.”

Then he tipped his head back against the headrest, eyelids suddenly nearly too heavy to hold up, hand warm and safe in Michael’s hand.

“Ok if I nap?” He made himself murmur. Michael hummed in the affirmative, fingers tracing softly across the thin skin on the back of his hand. “You sleep, love. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

“Love you, Michael,” Alex whispered, tipping over until his head was tucked between the wheel and Michael’s big shiny belt-buckle.

“Love you too, Alex.” Michael said, hand settling on the back of his head as Alex tipped over into the first good sleep he’d had in years.

--

Michael pushed himself up and reached between them, fingers brushing Alex's dog tags.

"Someday, I'm really going to have to show you the Airstream. She's going to file for spousal abandonment if she doesn't get to see both of ussometime."

Alex tried to laugh, but there was a twist of Michael's voice that sounded wrong, a note out of tune.

"She'll get to see lots and lots of us in a few years," Alex said lightly, "We could park her next to a little house, someplace nice and cozy up in the mountains."

Alex watched Michael swallow his first response, then say, "That sounds perfect, love."

The off note in his voice was even worse.

Alex tried to keep his tone bright. "Want to show me the place?"

Michael jaw tensed and then he took a quick breath. "I actually put some pancake batter in the fridge, I figured we could have pancakes and syrup for breakfast and then walk around the neighborhood some."

Alex nodded, pressing up on his elbows, getting ready to rise; but Michael was still settled heavy and firm on his hips.

There was a flicker of emotions, something happening under Michael's surface.

Something he was trying to hide.

"Do you want to cuddle a little more first?" Alex guessed.

Michael shook his head, hands smoothing over Alex's chest, quick, patting motions.

He looked like he was about to cry.

Alex reached between them, pressing Michael's palms flat to his chest, fingers working softly across the scarred and unscarred skin,trying to ease the tension he could feel there.

“Are you ok, love?” He asked, voice suddenly soft.

Michael nodded, looking towards the half kitchen.

Alex smoothed thumbs on the inside of Michael's wrists, wanting to feel his pulse, get one true thing out of this conversation.

“I -- I want to know, if there’s something I can do,” Alex said, and Michael scoffed, a hard sound Alex had only ever heard him use with Max, hard and sarcastic.

Alex's shoulders tensed and he tried again. “Love?”

He watched Michael take a long, strained breath, voice painfully even. “I'm ok. I'm just glad you're home."

Alex waited for a long moment, and then -- there it was. Michael ducked his chin, tucking it to the side, swallowing hard. He kept going. "I’m trying to focus on how good it feels that you’re home, not it'll be over next summer and we'll be stuck doing this another 3 years.”

Because of me. Alex felt cold, hands stilling.

He took a hard breath, trying to think of what to say.

Michael tried to cover. “I’m just so glad to have you here, Alex. I -- I’m going to pretend it’s forever. Just for a few days, ok? Just for a few days. I'll pretend and it will be ok.”

“Ok,” Alex said quickly, “Ok, we can pretend. We’re living in Colorado Springs, together. No more Air Force, no more war. Just us.”

Michael gave him a watery smile. "I just picked you up at the airport for the last time, because every time we travel, we're going to do it together." He shook his head. "Well, maybe not every time. But for a while."

"We could drive together," Alex said, sliding his hands up Michael's work-strong arms, and back down again, like he'd seen people sooth fearful colts in movies. "Drive across the whole US. Mountains and deserts and cities and fields and forests and hills and the sea at the end of it all."

"Or we could stay home," Michael said, finding a bit of his footing again, a hint of heat in his voice. "Get into a big, comfy jacuzzi at the end of a long day, just enjoy each other."

Alex's eyes lit up. "That sounds wonderful, love. I could get all of that Alaskan chill out of my bones."

Michael's eyes dimmed a bit at the reminder of where Alex had come from, what kind of clothes were still stuffed in his duffle. But he rallied. "We could do that now -- the bath isn't a jacuzzi, but it has some jets in the sides."

Alex's eyebrows rose. "Fancy."

Michael shrugged. "The old super quit, so I agreed to do some part-time maintenance for the landlord. She's paying me under the table, and it's mostly about having a back-up for her husband, but she was so grateful for the help, she gave us a break on this place."

"That's really great," Alex said. "Budgeting gets a lot easier with such a capable man in the mix."

"What can I say, I'm a keeper," Michael said, and there it was again, that twist to his words.

He reached up, pressing his palm to Michael's cheek. “I know we’re pretending, but it’s ok to be mad at me.”

Michael shook his head, a hard no, before pulling himself back up, jaw set, eyes determined. “We should eat breakfast together and have way too much syrup and then take a long, hot bath together. The tub is pretty big and honestly, if we can spend all of your 2 weeks of transition time naked, we should.”

Alex felt like he was warming up a bit more, biting his lip and nodding. “Ok, whatever you want, love.”

Michael paused, face going through a flicker of emotions too fast to follow.

"Is -- is that what you want too, Alex? I -- I don't want you just doing stuff, because you think I'm mad." He took a deep breath, covering. "I'm not mad at you, really, I'm just worried. I can show you around the apartment if you want."

Alex swallowed, biting his lip, trying to find the right words. "I want to know everything we missed. I missed. I want to let my body get to know yours again, because you've had my heart, Michael. You've had it, this whole time." He took a hard breath. "And maybe not the first day, but before classes, maybe you can tell me what it was like. The hard part. Finding out, deciding what to do, about me staying in." He felt his face crumbling a little. "I want to know, if you want to tell me. I know we have to lie, a lot, but I don't want you to lie to me. Not about anything that matters. Please, Michael. Please."

And Michael gave him a long, searching look. Then he nodded. "Not today, but later. I -- I'll try. It -- it hurt, Alex. It hurt me. It hurt Maria. It hurt Mimi."

Alex felt his jaw tremble and Michael reached up, smoothing a thumb across it, trying to take the pain.

"I did what I thought was best," Alex said, voice cracking, trying to make Michael understand and hearing Jimmy in his voice, hearing Jesse. He tried to fight through it. "I needed to protect you, to give us a future together. To let us be free. Together."

Michael's face changed, something like understanding flowing over it, followed by impossible softness. His eyes were warm again, meeting Alex's with ease now. "Oh, Alex. I know you did, love. I know that's what you wanted." He pressed his thumb to his bitten lips, cupping his aching jaw. "I trust you to try to do your best, every time. Never doubt that. I never doubt you, ok love? And I've always got you."

Alex was blinking, and Michael leaned down, wrapping his arms up and under Alex's, gripping his shoulders warm and tight.

"I love you," Alex said, voice rough. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," Michael said. "We'll get through this. I know we will."

Chapter 10: 2013 [124,827]

Chapter Text

January 15th, 2013
Colorado Springs, CO

Alex opened the door to their apartment, made eye-contact with the red plaid couch, stalked over, and pitched into it face-first with a groan.

Michael looked up from where he was working at the desk he’d propped up in the corner so it wouldn’t collapse.

“Rough day, love?”

“I just wish I liked giving orders,” Alex told the pillow.

“Kinky,” Michael said, voice gentle and teasing as he set down his problem set and headed over to the couch. He picked Alex’s feet up and slid under them, beginning to undo his AFROTC-issued combat boots idly as Alex settled in further.

“What?” Alex half-laughed, squirming to glance back at him..

Michael squeezed his calf teasingly, to get him to hold still while he was getting his boots off. “Like, that’s a kink, for some people, being told what to do.”

He could nearly feel Alex thinking that through.

“Is this your way of bringing something up?” He finally asked and Michael chuckled, popping the boot off of Alex’s foot.

“I’m not hurting for variety in our sex like, ‘Lex. Just being silly.”

Alex twisted on the couch, and Michael let him, reaffirming his grip once he was settled on his back, head pillowed on the armrest and sock-covered feet in Michael’s warm lap. Alex was looking up at the popcorn ceiling, frowning a little.

“I thought that was like -- role play and stuff. Dress-ups.” He shot a glance down at Michael before returning to the ceiling, cheeks pinking. “I installed Tor Browser on Greg’s old laptop when I was in high school, I would read a lot of forums.” He shrugged, wondering if he was going to see judgement in Michael’s eyes. “It’s -- it’s not like we had a GSA in high school. If I wanted to learn about anything more interesting or queer than het missionary sex, I had to find out about it myself online. But it sounds like I misunderstood some stuff.”

Michael’s hands were gentle on his feet. “I just used the library computers; figured the librarians wouldn’t care. So, like, I don’t have a lot of direct personal experience here to draw from, but the alt newspaper in Denver drops off free copies on campus, and they have this column, Savage Love, like an advice column for queer and kinky and just whatever stuff. Mostly about relationships.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You learn something new?”

Michael shrugged a shoulder again, starting to peel back Alex’s socks. “Most of it made sense -- partners being good, giving, and game. That’s us. It being ok to be in the closet, to keep safe. Trying to leave people better than you found them. And it’s been nice, reading advice just for queer folks, or at least, with us at the center of it.”

“Would -- would you want to try something?”

“I think that’s a longer conversation, hot stuff,” Michael said lightly, freeing the second sock and tossing it across the room. “How about you tell me what made you make-out with Bertha here?” He asked, patted the couch fondly as Alex screwed up his face in disgust.

“So, like, because I’m older than some of the other Air Force ROTC kids, the Sergeant Mendes made me the squad leader. Which means I need to do stuff like run the PT sessions and --”

Michael nodded, finishing the sentence, voice hushed: “And all you can think about is punishment runs?”

Alex nodded, biting his lip. He’d told Michael about that, one dark night between Christmas and New Years. They’d both stayed up here, Max and Isobel sending presents and Maria sending her love and a pack of boozy and chocolatey advent calendars they’d both picked their way through delightedly. Michael had taught Alex to change his oil, and Alex had taught Michael all of the coolest knots he’d learned as a Boy Scout, and called the holidays good.

Classes had been going for a week, but the quarter system was speedy, and they were both focused on making the most of their slender time in college.

“Any chance you could swap with someone else?”

Alex shook his head. “I wish. It’s really competitive getting into OCS. Like, I have an in, but that could change if I get f*cked up, violate the UCMJ, get accused of anything illegal. Anything.” Michael nodded; they both knew the Unified Code of Military Justice still banned ‘unnatural carnal copulation,’ which covered just about anything they did in their bedroom in the eyes of the Judge Advocate General. Alex took a breath. “Plus, the Sergeant is writing rec letters for different training schools, and it’s supposed to be a privilege, doing this, but it’s just -- “ He waved his hand at his head. “It just f*cks me up inside.”

Michael nodded, laying his hands on Alex’s bare ankles. “Would it help to think about consent here? Like, you couldn’t consent to the punishment runs. That was your Dad being an abusive dick. The kids you’re overseeing, they can drop out of the program --”

“But they can’t, they’ll lose their scholarships, and DU is so expensive --”

“Maybe harm reduction then? Like, you’re not treating the women different from the men, you’re not going harder on the kids of color, right? You wouldn’t out another queer kid, would help them hide if they needed help?”

Alex nodded, running his hand through his hair, eyes starting to uncloud.

“And you’re trying to find ways to protect them, the way -- the way you want to, as an officer?”

“I’m trying to collect other scholarship options, to tell them about Pikes Peak, other community colleges, about other ways to get their credits if they need to leave.”

“I don’t know if it will help, but that’s probably a hell of a lot more than anyone else is doing for them. Maybe try to focus on that.”

Alex anchored a foot under Michael’s thigh and sat-up, beginning to strip himself out of his uniform. “How’d you get so smart about all of this?”

Michael looked down, fingers tracing quick patterns on Alex’s ankle. “I had a foster sister, she went into the Army.”

Alex paused, drifting a hand down Michael’s forearm. “I didn’t know that.”

Michael nodded. “She needed a way out, cash-on-hand. Had a younger sibling she needed to be able to pay for in 4 years, to take care of as soon as she could get her out of care. I went over the brochures with her, looked-up what I could for her at the library.”

“How old were you?”

Michael frowned: “11 or 12? So 2002. We picked the Army for the signing bonus. It was before the Iraq war, and we thought in Afghanistan, she’d mostly be working with women there. That’s what it seemed like women soldiers were doing over there, in the news.”

“Was she ok?”

Michael gave a tiny headshake. “She got hurt pretty badly during training at bootcamp, had to leave. She figured it out in the end, works at a call center now for the VA. She got her sister out of care, lives in Dallas.” He gave a sad smile. “All my foster siblings, they’re the only reason I’m on Facebook. I like to see their kids, their husbands, and wives, and partners, their apartments and their kids, see they made it out ok.”

“That’s really sweet. Do any of them check-up on you?”

Michael’s mouth twisted. “Do you know what a stalking horse is?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s like a screen, when you’re hunting, in the shape of a horse. Something big enough to hide behind, something animals’ eyes glance over, never really see. Sometimes it’s used as a metaphor in politics, someone who comes out front to take a beating, so the anonymous donor or supporter of an idea doesn’t have to.” He flexed his hands on Alex’s ankle. “I think that’s the best description for my role in my families. I was the one out in front, the screen, but my job was to be misunderstood, to look bigger and stronger and more threatening and less -- less human. Than I am.” He met Alex’s eyes, blinking. “So no, they don’t think to check in on me. But I keep track of everyone I’ve cared for, to make sure they’re ok.” He took a breath. “And they are, for the most part,” He cracked a sad smile. “As ok as anyone can be after going through the New Mexico Department of Children and Families Finishing School.”

Alex felt a red hot flash, wanted to go and lay into every one of Michael’s foster parents, his siblings. Max and Isobel, because he hadn’t missed how weird things had been between the three of them since high school, the part Isobel had played in Michael becoming a town pariah. He shut it down, tried to be helpful instead.

“Maybe you could reach out to one of them sometime. Are there any in Colorado?”

Michael thought for a minute: “You know, I think Kiki is up here.” He nodded, eyes lighting up. “Yeah, I think she moved up here with her boyfriend.”

“No pressure, but maybe you could talk?” Alex paused, taking a breath. “I know you said that you’d put so much on hold, but this is something you could do, keep doing, even when,” he swallowed, “Even after June.”

Michael nodded. It was like a bruise that wouldn’t go away, the end date of their time together. They could work around it, live with it, but it stayed just as tender, just as livid on their shared skin.

Alex braced his arm on the couch, sliding up and onto Michael’s lap, running his knuckles down Michael’s stubble. “How about you and I take a bath, and you tell me more about those kinky articles of yours?”

Michael laughed a little, gently levering Alex’s feet to the floor. “Alright, alright, we can do that. But then I’ve got to finish my homework.”

Alex grinned as he got up. “I love seeing you study, dive into all of this again.” It makes me hope the bruises are worth it.

Alex knew Michael could track his thinking, but didn’t argue with him about it. Instead, he reached for Alex’s hand, tugging him to the small bathroom with its big, warm tub.

It was honestly Alex’s favorite part of their one bedroom apartment, aside from Michael being there. It was big and comfortable, walls smooth tile, and Michael had a way of finding nice smelling soap for really cheap. He somehow managed to keep all of the different prices and coupons in his head, so he could always buy the best options. Alex had just used to sort of buy whatever filled him up, but Michael could keep them going together for a fraction of what Alex had been spending alone. Including enough for nice soaps.

Alex got the bath going, finishing stripping himself out of his BDUs as Michael stripped himself down. It made Alex’s heart trip, seeing him whip off his shirt; it had the first time and the dozenth time and he hoped it would the hundredth time. All of that muscle, that warm, clean skin. Michael’s back wasn’t as sore now he wasn’t riding horses all day, though they’d had to have a conversation on carpal tunnel syndrome once Alex caught him hunched over their shared laptop. But he could see him. See he was eating and fed and unbruised and safe.Four strong walls and a lock on the door. It’s what he’d wanted and now they had it, had a lifetime’s worth of it within their reach.

Alex dipped his foot into the water: “It’s just about ready, you want in first?”

Michael nodded, sliding into the steaming water, pressing his back against the cool tile wall so Alex could have his warm front.

Alex followed, shivering a little at the heat, and tucking himself close against Michael’s chest, his skin only a little cooler than the water around and between them. Alex wrapped Michael’s arms around his shoulders, pressing Michael’s calloused hands to his chest and sighing at the feeling.

“I used to put the henna right here,” he said, tapping where Michael’s twisted knuckles were hovering over his heart. “Right under my dogtags, so you’d be with me, even if I lost them.”

Michael’s curls tickled his ear as he leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss of Alex’s neck. “I’m always with you, Alex. That’s what love means, we’re with each other, no matter how far away we are.”

Alex nodded, sliding down in the tub, knees careful of the spigot, floating on his back and looking up at Michael’s soft face, curls dangling down towards him. He reached up, tracing his finger through the loops and whirls of one. His voice was quiet when he said: “Up in Alaska, we’d fly at night and it would be so, so dark, Michael. So dark I could imagine we were just going into outer space, flying high up and up and up. To another planet. And when I was a kid, I used to think about that. To get away, to go to a far off place.” Michael’s eyes were wide, complicated, and Alex pressed his thumb to Michael’s lips, feeling the dry-wet, warm-plush of them as he said: “But it didn’t feel like that this time. All I wanted to do was come back to the ground, to get through the months, to get to you. I love you, and I love being with you, Michael.”

Michael leaned down, pressing a kiss of Alex’s forehead. “I love being with you too, Alex. So much.” He took a breath. “I used to dream about that too, about leaving, going to some far off planet. In those dreams, it’s because I’m wanted by someone up there. Have a family.” He shook his head, laughing self-deprecatingly. “‘Product of Roswell,’ it should say that, stamped right on my ass, with a little alien head in the ‘o.’”

“Speaking of your ass,” Alex said, sliding himself back up a little into Michael’s lap until he could feel his co*ck against his spine. “You were going to tell me about your kinky articles.”

Michael chuckled, nudging Alex up until his entire front was in easy reach. “I really was just teasing,” he started, “And I think I could be a lot more entertaining than a bunch of old, boring articles.”

“I bet you could,” said, breath catching as Michael’s palm began smoothing down his stomach, pinky inches from his fast filling co*ck. “But I could read them too, do some research, to figure out what it might look like? So we could decide, like you said.” Alex gasped as Michael adjusted himself against his hips, the feeling of Michael’s co*ck on his skin short-circuiting his brain. But he persevere: “Give me some time?”

“You’ve got all my time, Alex,” Michael said. He paused for a moment and Alex’s body thrummed with it. “But I think, for tonight, we could get each other off here, and then eat some leftovers?”

“Yes, yes please, that sounds good.”

Michael reached down, wrapping a slick hand around Alex’s co*ck, letting him arch up into it, feet braced on the textured bottom of the tub and shoulders against Michael’s chest, and just luxuriating in the soft-hard pull of it as the water slid around them, of hearing Michael’s breathing getting faster, harder in his ear. Alex tried to reach behind himself, to grip Michael as well, but Michael batted his hand away, muttering: “Let me do this for you, love, please,”

And Alex just nodded, just bracing his hand on Michael’s forearm, feeling the slick muscles move under his skin as he set a quick, satisfying pace.

“Love you like this,” Michael said, and Alex tipped his head back, catching the hungry look in his eyes. “All laid out for me, wanting me, right where I can touch you,”

“I’m right here,” Alex gasped, as Michael added just that touch more pressure he needed, that brought his hips jerking up, “I’m with you,”

“I know, love,” Michael gasped, and Alex was racing towards the peak, just needing a tiny bit more -- he turned his face into Michael’s shoulder, mouth tight on his neck as he moaned his way to his org*sm. When his breathing finally started to calm down, he looked down at the messy bathwater, and chuckled. He could feel Michael’s straining co*ck against his back, but his hands were soft on Alex’s stomach, content to wait him out.

“Maybe a shower and I could use my hands on you?”

Michael nodded and Alex turned, switching the tub to draining and then turning on the shower, angling it to the wall so they didn’t get sprayed with cold water. He kept the water at his back as it got up to temperature, eyes soft as he looked down to where Michael was still sitting. His curls were damp, his chest pink where Alex’s shoulders had been, and his co*ck hard and curving up against his body.

“You look beautiful,” Alex said, voice soft under the sound of the warming water against his back. “So beautiful, Michael.”

Michael gave him his sort of half-stunned look, and then he was scrambling up, bracing his hand on the wall and the tub’s sidewall, just getting vertical so he could wrap himself up in Alex’s arms.

“You too, love,” he said. “You too.”

Alex pressed close, Michael’s co*ck sliding between them, slick in the water and the remains of Alex’s spend.

“Want to do it like this,” Alex gasped into Michael’s neck as he made a high, needy sound. “Right in the mess you made of me?”

He felt Michael nod, forehead tight against Alex’s shoulder.

“I could get my hands on that stunning ass of yours,” Alex whispered in his ear, “enjoy you, feel you warm and tight around me, maybe open you up, just a little,” and Michael groaned, hips beginning to work, co*ck hard and thick between them. Alex gripped Michael’s ass, fingertips sliding between his cheeks, Michael gasping at the feel of him close to his entrance.

“Is that what you want, beautiful? Want me to touch you as you come against me,”

“Alex, please,” Michael groaned. “Please.”

Alex hauled him in a little tighter, making sure he found his footing with a strong arm around his waist in case he slipped, and began to work his fingers towards the furled hot skin, water easing the way enough to play.

“You’re so good for me,” Alex gasped into Michael’s ear. “So, so good for me. You’re good.”

He pressed, just a little harder, against Michael’s entrance, feeling him opening as Michael choked out a “Alex,” and then he was coming, shooting between them, body twisting against Alex’s as the waves of pleasure took him.

When he stilled, and wasn’t shaking in Alex’s arms, Alex maneuvered them around, getting the nice-smelling soap and getting Michael started cleaning off. He was like this sometimes, soft and biddable, happy to be touched softly and eager to please and Alex wanted to protect him from everything in the world when he was like this. He got them both cleaned up and toweled off, and then put some leftovers in the oven to heat slow and easy in the oven, Michael pulling himself up to sit on the island, feet swinging softly, discount purple towel around his hips and another covering his curls.

“Want to doze in the bed with me until dinner’s ready?” Alex asked, voice quiet. Michael nodded, reaching for Alex’s shoulders, waiting until he was stable to brace on him and hop down to the kitchen floor. He smoothed his hands down Alex’s arms, tangling their fingers together, and tugging him towards the bedroom.

Alex followed with a laugh, heart feeling lighter than he’d ever felt before.

--

Sent: January 18th, 2013
From: Peterson AFB, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear M--,

Classes are going well. I miss you up here. Thanks for the chocolates, we loved them. Michael is doing pretty great, thanks for the recommendation he would be a good guy to share an apartment with. He said you’d bought the bar! That’s amazing! I’m so f*cking proud of you, Maria.

Also, I got to take a class on paleontology and it was a m a z i n g. There are so many dinosaur skeletons in Colorado Maria! So! Many!

Tell me all about it,

Love,

Alex

--

Sent: January 20th, 2013
From: Post Office, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear Maria,

This is going US Mail, so no f*cking AF snoops here. Sorry for not writing earlier, I know we had our weekly calls, but I also know how much you like getting the letters. Go you on the Pony!! So good. So f*cking proud of you, ‘Ria.

Classes are going well. Alex is even better. He’s getting enough sleep, getting settled in. I just wish we could break his contract. Maybe the war will be over tomorrow and they’ll shorten everyone’s contracts automagically. Are you still coming up here next month to visit and for the big protest in Denver? Mi sillón es tu sillón, hermana.

You’re the best.

Michael

--

Sent: January 25th, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico [Now Under New Ownership]

Dear Michael,

I wish, but I’m going to be soooo wrapped up getting this bar going. I’m going to need all your help next summer. No joy for the protest, too much work here to do, but have fun without me!

I think I can come for graduation. Would that be ok?

<3

Maria

--

Sent: January 25th, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico [Now Under New Ownership]

Dear Alex,

Ugh, it’s a ton of work, but I’m kicking ass and taking names. The old owner is off counting his coins, but I’ve got the staff, the stock, and the deed, so I think I’m still ahead. Mimi’s doing ok, feeling worse and better, depending on the days. The f*cking doctors never know what’s going on with her, but now I can set her schedule to work for her, so it should be better for a bit.

Never get sick Alex, hospitals suck. They tell you what to do, don’t let you manage your own life, think they own your body and your soul.

Let Michael know Isobel and Max are asking after him, but they’re fine, just being whiny. Did he tell them he didn’t know when he was coming back? I thought you had your next base assignment, that you’ll be at Maxwell AFB in Montgomery, Alabama for OCS?

Love,

M--

PS: Please find enclosed, one (1) dinosaur sticker. You’re welcome. Nerd. <3

Chapter 11: 2013 [125,073]

Chapter Text

January 27th, 2013
Colorado Springs, CO

“Hey Iz, how’s it going?” Michael was cupping the phone against his cheek, ass comfortably set on the kitchen island as he used his powers to do the dishes. Alex would be at class for another 5 hours but it was Michael’s half-day, so he was enjoying the space and privacy for a bit.

“I miss you, Max has been all in a dither about you not being here, worried you’ll snap and murdered another Ortecho. Are there any Ortechos in Colorado, Michael?”

It hadn’t used to hurt, how Isobel talked about that night. How cold her voice turned, how cruel her words. It had bounced right off of him, like a dull knife bouncing off long-hardened skin. But being with Alex, being in this space, it felt like his calluses were wearing down, and it hurt this time. But he had no idea what to say to her.

“Secrets is actually what I’m calling about,” he started, voice quiet under the sound of plates clinking together in the sink. There was noise on the other end too, muffled talking, like Iz was at Crashdown or one of Noah’s office parties. He knew she was planning to bully Noah into proposing to her that summer, already dreaming of her big society wedding. He swallowed. “I wanted to see what you and Max thought about, if I could tell Alex.”

“f*ck no,” came Isobel’s immediate reply, that same cold, hard tone in her voice. “f*ck, Michael, he’s in the Air Force. How could you even think to trust him with something like this?”

“I trust Alex with my life -- and I have, goddamnit.” He said, voice rising before he forced it back down. “He’s given up things for me no person should have to and made sacrifices that -- just, don’t talk about him like that, Iz. Ok?”

There was a long pause, then she hung up. Michael sighed. He thought about texting Max, seeing if he could shop around for another sibling answer; but Isobel was right, Max was all in a dither not to have Michael’s help watching her for any future blackouts.

The wooden spoon he’d been scrubbing with his powers creaked ominously and Michael realized he’d been leaning a little too hard. He eased up.

He wanted to tell Alex. He knew he needed to, sometime. But not without his family’s permission, since it was their secret too. And honestly, not while he was in the Air Force. Alex -- Alex was strong. He had his own opinions and he would fight for them.

But the military was a machine. It ground people down, very rough, and then very fine. The pressure would get harder and finer the longer he was in, particularly now he was heading to being an officer.

So, he wouldn’t tell. Alex didn’t even know to ask.

It was like what Maria had said, in the dusty Texas heat, that Alex was always making the best choices on the information he has in front of him, I believe that, but he’s never had a lot of practice with things going his way. So sometimes he just chooses the least-bad option because he doesn’t know anything better is even on the table. So there might be times when we might need to help him.

He would show a way out of the Air Force, to a life where they could be together, public or not, out or not, how they could be happy.

And when Alex was his own man, not the property of the US Government anymore, he’d tell him about his powers, his birthplace. Take him to see the pods, show off what he could do.

Michael smiled a helpless little smile, imagining Alex’s wonder at seeing the colored glass he’d been collecting with Walt the past few summers, the slow work he’d been making on a ship’s console.

Alex is going to love it.

--

February 7th, 2013
Colorado Springs, CO

Alex came home to see Michael crouched in the middle of the living room, an entire term-paper’s worth of paper spread out in a perfect grid on the grungy beige floor of their apartment. He paused on the tile entryway as Michael held up a finger, red pen in his hand. He scribbled something on a hot-pink post-it note, pen-cap between his teeth.

Alex had come in here, shoulders around his ears, head ringing with the dressing-down he’d gotten from Sergeant Mendes who’d decided to just let sh*t roll downhill, ready, willing and able to collapse on the couch. But seeing Michael so tightly focused, so perfectly in his element, made all that stress, all those ugly echoes in his ears just slip away.

Michael lowered his hand and Alex shut the door behind him, careful to keep his boots only on the tile entryway floor. Using the doorknob for balance, he leaned down, unlaced his boots, toed them off, then set his backpack down on top of them. Thick socks on the cold ceramic, he waited for Michael to look up at him. He did, a distracted smile moving across his face.

“Hey gorgeous, I must have lost track of time. I’m --” he looked over at the papers before giving a self-depreciating shrug, “I was going to say ‘I’m so close to being done,’ but I’m nowhere near that yet.”

Alex slid to the floor, back against the red-painted door, voice mild and soothing. “It’s not due for another week, right?”

Michael jerked a nod, eye catching on the paper on the row above the one where he was working. He jotted down a note on a sticky and slapped it on the crinkling surface.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I just -- I want to get it perfect, right? I just want to --”

Alex smiled, heart warming even in the leftover Colorado cold. “I know, you want to kick ass in your first quarter. I completely get it.”

Michael gave him a grateful nod, twisting around to add another note to a piece of paper behind him.

Alex waited for him to notice that he was still trapped by the sea of printouts -- and they didn’t have a printer, so Michael must have gotten his advisor to print this entire thing on her office printer, then he must have put it in his backpack and walked to the bus since Alex had the truck, taken the bus home, and been here working since he last class got out at 3pm.

Michael was still heads-down, tracing a sentence with his thumb. Alex’s stomach rumbled and he rolled forward onto his knees.

“Love, how about I get dinner going and you come to a stopping place, then once we’ve eaten, I can help with typo catching? This is that extra ag-science research paper, for the TA job you got with Dr Musong? The one on using sunflowers to clean-up nuclear waste?” Michael nodded and Alex quirked a grin. “I can’t help on content, but a comma is a comma is a semi-colon, so I figure I can help there.”

Michael sighed in relief, nodding.

Alex stood, leaning forward to carefully move one paper out of his path towards the kitchen. He took the next step in a deep lunge to make the distance. It felt a bit like a game of Twister, body moving in careful, weight-shifting ways. He heard a huff behind him, but when he looked, Michael had turned his face back to the paperwork in front of him. Alex took the next step, feeling his BDUs stretched tight across his ass.

“f*ck me,” he heard Michael mutter.

Alex flushed, glancing over his shoulder. This time, Michael didn’t look away, meeting Alex’s eyes, flushing a little.

“See something you like?” Alex asked and Michael bit his lip.

“I need to finish editing this research report,” he said, like the words were physically painful. But his eyes were still tight on Alex’s hips.

“Did you eat today?” Alex asked, beginning to unbutton his uniform shirt to keep Michael’s attention.

He shook his head no.

Alex moved forward another step, slipping off his uniform shirt so he was just in his undershirt and pants, tossing the shirt onto his backpack with deadly accuracy. He watched Michael’s eyes slide up his arms, curl around his biceps, fixate on his fingers as he braced himself in the slim space between two pieces of paper and made his next move forward, towards the kitchen and away from Michael.

Alex was feeling brave, voice low and curious when he said: “What about this is getting you hot?” He glanced over at him. “Strictly for scientific inquiry, of course.”

Michael smirked: “Of course.” He took a breath. “I -- I think it’s seeing you move with so much intensity? And focus? I mean, a lot of it is just that I’m always hot for you.” He looked down at his hands. “But I like the idea that you’re -- you’re putting on kind of a show, just for me. And that you're having to work at it some, having to use that beautiful body, those beautiful muscles, to figure your way through a puzzle that I made. Because you care for me enough to take the puzzle seriously.”

And something flashed through Alex’s head, something he’d been letting simmer since January, promising himself he’d bring up if he and Michael had the space, had the time. But it was insight and he wanted to go with it, so he said: “Sounds kind of like a scene.”

And there it was, something clear and hurting and loving, all at once in Michael’s face. Like he’d never expected Alex to open the subject again, like he’d never expected to get to talk about this. A maybe-need shelved, an interest left unspoken. And Alex could feel bad, could wonder why Michael had left this part of himself out of the conversation for four years -- but he knew, he knew.

He took a breath. Michael still looked a little too pole-axed to answer, so Alex bullied on: “Since you brought it up, I’ve read about it, I used to watch some of the kink.com stuff. I even picked-out a safeword, if it ever came up.”

“If it -- “ Michael repeated, a little vaguely, then he narrowed in: “You were waiting for me to bring it up?”

Alex ducked his head, stretching to get another step closer to the kitchen again. “Like you said, I figure it was kind of impossible to get into bigger conversations about bodies and trust and taboos and kink and safety when we had to measure their time together in days. But we have some time now. We can try.”

“I --” Michael started, then stopped. Then took a breath and started again: “I’d like that.” He glanced down at the papers. “Maybe when we go to bed tonight? Or while we’re editing? Weirdly, being a little turned on helps me focus more; don’t ask me why, it’s just a thing.”

Alex smiled, pulling himself to standing on the kitchen counter, safely out of the minefield of papers. “That sounds perfect. Pasta and Prego ok?”

“Sound perfect love.”

Alex got started pulling down the pots when he heard, quietly: “Mine’s ‘Kepler.’”

He craned his head, looking over at Michael. “What?”

Michael spoke to his hands. “My safe word is Kepler.”

Alex could kiss him. “Mine’s ‘ceasefire.’”

Alex cooked dinner, coaxing Michael to come stand with him at the barrier island between the tiny kitchen and the living room.

Michael swallowed his mouthful of pasta. “So, what did you read?”

“A lot of Savage Love,” Alex said, numbering it out on his fingers, “Some Fetlife forums, though a lot of the old guard stuff there was really performative, really intense. Made me feel a bit like prey just reading it.”

Michael shivered and shook his head: “Better than where I started. I read about some stuff, mostly books at the library. Laurell K. Hamilton, that kind of thing.”

Alex shook his head: “I’ve never read her.”

Michael gave a half-quirked smile. “It’s super kinky vampires and werewolves stuff; really satisfying at the time, a little hinky now I have a better sense of what a good relationship might look like,” he said, bumping his hip against Alex’s with a grin.

“I don’t know if I’d really be into that,” Alex said mildly.

Michael grinned: “I don’t know, it was fun. Just, not the best way to model a relationship.”

“Makes sense,” Alex said, standing to begin clearing the island, Michael following him.

“So, what would something look like, if we tried?” He asked the plates as he began to scrub.

“Hmm,” Michael said, wiping down the counters. “We’d talk, about what we wanted, what we didn’t want. We’d have good aftercare, and we’d have some fun playing.”

“Aftercare -- that’s where you help someone come down, like stretching after a run?”

“I guess, sort of,” Michael said, trying to piece it together, what he’d read, what he’d thought about. “It’s more -- the person who goes under, they need to swim back to the surface, on their own time. And the other person, they need to be there for them until they do. And practically speaking, from the outside it probably just looks like cuddling and babying and just being --”

“Soft?”

Michael nodded. “Yeah, soft.”

Alex bumped his hip as he handed over a sudsey plate. “I’d love to be soft with you, Michael.”

--

They talked about it while they edited the paper Michael was helping with, talked a bit more before bed that night, and the next morning, and the next day. The weekend after Michael turned in his edits, they went to Home Depot and bought a few lengths of soft cotton rope and to Joanne’s Fabrics for some black fabric for a blindfold. They decided they would start easy and soft.

--

Sent: February 11th, 2013
From: Peterson AFB, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear M--,

It’s pretty cold up here, I hope you can come visit soon. I think it would be nice, to see each other -- but I totally understand you’re busy and it’s a long drive.

How’s the Pony?

Love,

Alex

--

Sent: February 14th, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

Happy Valentine's Day, I hope it’s awesome. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to come up, but I love hearing from you.

The Pony is good. I’m still figuring out the f*cking accounts, everything is so messy and ridiculous. I just know there’s something weird in there.

Anyway, I’ll figure it out. See you soon and kick ass in your classes!

Love,

M--

--

Sent: February 15th, 2013
From: Post Office, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear Maria,

This is going US Mail, so it’s nobody here but us chickens. Do you like the postcard? I got it at the dollar store. I just think you needed another picture of the Rockies.

So Alex is graduating June 8th, can you and Mimi come? I think he’d love to see you both.

We’re doing good. Really good. God, living with him is so good. We get to talk about stuff we’d never talk about otherwise, try stuff -- well, I won’t tell stories out of school, but it’s going to hurt so bad when he goes again. I think it -- I think it might break something in me.

I’m not holding back. I thought about it, treating this like the temporary thing it is. But then I see him, see him smiling while he’s scrubbing pots because he gets to do it just how he likes it, see him relaxing in bed before I get there, see him just -- just sleeping, Maria. Just sleeping and being soft and easy.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this man, but I’m going to spend every minute I’ve got with him pretending it’s never going to end.

It’s the only way I know how to love.

I think you understand, but this is fair warning, I am going to be f*cked Up in July. So, prepare yourself. Or not, I guess, it’s not like you have to be my safetynet on this crazy rollercoaster thing.

But I figured you deserved to know.

Anyway, I got my job back at Fosters, starting July 15th, so it’s enough time to get Alex off to Alabama. I am taking care of the practicals. But God, I don’t want to. I want to be with him. Just, with him.

This is so perfect, and it’s going to end, and it’s going to hurt.

But it’s what I’m going to do.

Guess that makes me pretty stupid, huh?

Michael

--

February 16th, 2013
Colorado Springs, CO

Alex laid back, shoulders pressed to their bare sheets, eyes covered by their home-made blindfold. He was wearing just a pair of rolled-up Air Force sweatpants and had his hands carefully folded behind his head. Michael was at the foot of the bed, giving Alex a minute to adjust to the strange feeling of it, the pressure against the thin skin of his eyelids, the way his eyelashes brushed against it when he forgot he was supposed to keep his eyes closed, when he opened them to check the exist and the shape of the room.

“You ok?” Michael asked. Alex gave him a thumbs up, then remembered -- they’d talked about using their words.

“I’m good to go."

“Remember our safe words?”

Alex felt a smile rising on his face. “Mine’s ‘ceasefire,’ yours is ‘Kepler.’”

“Perfect.” Michael said. “You’re so good.”

Alex’s brain hummed in pleasure at the words. They had a whole plan: for aftercare, for sub-drop, for needing to safeword out. They’d decided to start-off switching, playing with each of their headspaces in turn. Life had taught them both thoroughly and well to plan for the worst outcome. But right now, Alex could feel the need to plan slipping away, body warming under Michael’s gaze, even as he couldn’t see it.

“Ready?” Michael’s voice was closer, lower even. It was still soft, still so, so soft and sweet and Alex just wanted to roll himself up in it, just enjoy every piece of this light, frantically perfect moment.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Michael laid a hand on his calf and Alex huffed out a breath.

“Everything feels amplified,” Alex said, trying to find the words. “It feels good.”

“You feel good,” Michael murmured. His lips followed his fingertips, tracking the fine bones of Alex’s ankle, hand soothing down to grasp the arch of his foot. Then he repeated the same process on his other leg, kissing his ankle, stroking his fingers down it, until Alex was certain his nerves had somehow been rewired in the past 10 minutes, attaching his dick directly to his sole.

“You wanna come up here?” he murmured and Michael chuckled.

“So impatient,” and Alex could hear the smile in it.

He returned the smile, wondering if his expression was more carefree when he knew he couldn’t see it. “I was patient for 4 years and 18 years before that; sorry not sorry, but I want as much of you as I can get.”

“Well, you’re going to get all of me tonight,” he said with a smirk, voice muffled against the inside of Alex’s knee. “Color check?”

“Green,” Alex said, glad they’d practiced. They’d taken to talking about scene ideas, about safewords, about consent, about what it might mean while they were doing the dishes. They’d even agreed they could use safewords if they fought, to stop the activity entirely if they needed to. It was a special kind of relief, knowing they both had an out if their tempers flared. Alex was worried all the talking while scrubbing was going to make him horny for pottery, but it seemed a small price to pay to hear that warm chuckle of satisfaction from Michael as he swung a leg over Alex’s hip.

“Glad to hear it,” Michael said. “Now why don’t you bring those hands down here and see what you’ve got.”

Alex flexed a little, half-missing Michael’s hips before gripping them, warm and tight. He curved his fingers across the ridges of Michael’s hip bones, already a little harder to see after a few months of being properly looked after.

“You want me to get you off?” Alex asked, fingers already itching for the feeling of Michael in his palm.

“Yeah, love,” Michael said, “And I’m going to try to distract you.” He leaned forward, bracing himself on Alex’s shoulder to just barely kiss him, the sudden pressure anchoring something in Alex’s back, something deeper inside of him. He felt a kind of focus, a challenge offered and accepted.

Alex murmured against Michael’s lips, “You’ve got it,” and reached between them to grip him, finding him already slick with lube.

“Fuck,” Alex said, sliding all the way to Michael’s base, and then back up, hand careful and tight. “f*ck, you got yourself ready for me,”

“Good surprise?” Michael whispered against his cheek.

“Yes,” Alex said, hand working, imagining his chest reddening, Michael’s pupils dilating. He stepped it up.

Michael began to kiss his way down Alex’s neck, hands tight on his shoulders, as Alex enjoyed the hot, slick slide of him. He ducked down to press a full, open-mouthed kiss to Alex’s pec and Alex nearly lost his rhythm.

“You doing ok there, love?” Michael teased and Alex nodded, knowing he was panting as Michael ground down against him, giving Alex’s dick friction in just the most delicious way. “You’re doing a good job, getting me so close,”

“I want you to,” Alex gasped, hips pressing against Michael’s weight, “On me, I want you to --”

All he heard from Michael was a gasp against his chest, a sharp intake of breath, and then he was coming, all over Alex’s fist and sweats and stomach and the blindfold just made everything sharper, more precious, more real. It felt like winning a rally race, like being the first in line for a premier, like being chosen, to be able to give this to Michael, this gift, this moment. Alex’s awareness of his own need faded back, body humming with pleasure at the feeling of Michael easy against him.

After a long moment, Michael propped himself up, taking a deep breath. “You want me to --”

And Alex was shaking his head: “I’m good without, I think I’d like to just hold onto you.” He smirked a little into the darkness behind his blindfold. “After I get to see the mess we made.”

“Hedonist,” Michael teased, reaching gently behind Alex’s head to undo the knot of the blindfold. Alex kept his eyes closed, only opening them when he felt Michael turning to toss the cloth onto their laundry box. When Michael turned back to him, he looked f*cked out and gorgeous, spend on his stomach, body still lightly sweat-sheened and breathing still rushed.

“Only for you,” Alex whispered, reaching up to trace his cheek. “Only for you.”

Michael smiled, and then reached for his shirt, beginning to clean them both up. He waved beside the bed and Alex looked over: there was a tall glass of water and some cherries.

“Snacks, in case we need them,” he said proudly, and Alex tugged him back down, wrapping his arms around Michael and holding him tight as Michael happily settled against him.

“Later,” Alex murmured. “For now, let’s just do this, for a while?”

“Of course, love,” Michael said, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “Whatever you need.”

--

March 29th, 2013
Denver University, CO

“Alex, Alex Manes?”

Alex jerked his head around on the quad, searching for the voice. Then a small body slammed into his, arms going around his waist, thick black hair and colorful earrings clattering against his cheek.

“Liz?” He asked, trying to get her hair out of his mouth.

“Maria told me you were in Denver, but I didn’t think I was going to see you! I’ve only been here for like a month, I’m so happy to see you! How are you?”

“I’m good,” Alex said, adjusting his uniform jacket a little as she pulled back.

She looked him up and down: “Wow, you really went and joined the Army.”

“Air Force,” he corrected, “Yeah, I signed-up for a second term.”

Her eyes got massive. “Wow, so it turns out you really liked it?”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “No, not really, it just --” he shook his head. “Anyway, what are you doing in Denver?”

“Oh, yeah, no, I’m in a grad school program, over at University of Colorado. It’s great. But one of my processors is moonlighting over here as an adjunct, and I needed her to sign-off on one of my research proposal, so I came here to track her down.”

Alex cracked up: “You haven’t changed at all.”

“So, are you living on campus?” She asked, looking around as the rush of students moving between classes began to die down. Alex blinked, mind racing, trying to remember if Michael was out to Liz, trying to figure out if he wanted to be out to Liz, trying to remember if she was someone who could keep a secret. He couldn’t think through it this fast, so he gave her a mild expression.

“No, I’m actually living off campus, in Colorado Springs. You talked to Maria?”

“Oh yeah, I mean, she misses you, but she said she knew the deal when she signed up,”

Alex winced, not wanting to lie to Liz, but not sure what he could say. He caught sight of a uniform across the snow-covered quad -- one of his squadmates? Regular ROTC? Jesse ? “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Well, it was really great to see you --”

“We should get dinner sometime! I’m living with like 6 roommates and none of them can cook and it’s been forever since I’ve made real New Mexican food --”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll have to check with my roommate --” Alex said, cringing at the word, shrugging a camouflaged shoulder.

“Is he really sucky too? My roommates suck balls.”

Alex shook his head, trying to keep the blush off his face. “No, he’s actually pretty great. You, uh, you know him, actually. He’s Michael Guerin.”

He watched her frown, processing that. “Michael finally got out of Roswell?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, I had to drag him out. But he’s here now. I’m hoping he’ll stay out, use that big brain of his for something.”

“When I heard from Dad he was working as a ranch hand, it just seemed like such a f*cking waste. Like, not that it’s not honest work, because it is, but he must have been so bored.”

“He kept himself busy,” Alex said. “But you’re right, I think he’s happier now than he was.”

They were nearly alone on the quad, the snow swirling around their ankles. Liz gave him a quick look, and then pressed her hand to his arm: “Look, so, obviously I’m trying to bully you into a dinner invitation. But you’ve got my cellphone number, hasn’t changed since high school, so you should hit me up. I’ve got a car and everything. I’ll bring you Ortecho Special Empanadas if you do. And I promise I won’t be late! I know how you Manes Men like everyone to be on time.”

“That would be fun,” Alex managed, mind spinning. She nodded and gave him a quick hug before trotting off across the quad.

He spent the afternoon winding himself up, sitting in the back of algorithms class as the teacher droned on and on about binary search trees. It wasn’t like if his Sergeant asked to come over -- but what if Liz took a picture, posted it on Instagram? She’d always been an activist like Maria, but if she couldn’t tell the Air Force from the Army, how could he know if she understood how dangerous it would be to tell people he was living in a one-bedroom apartment with another man? He knew he should have shelled out for that second bedroom, but -- and then he imagined asking Michael to pretend, to play straight, to play roommate.

He couldn’t do it.

He didn’t text Liz.

If he invited her, she’d tell people. She’d tell someone, who’d tell someone, who’d tell his Dad. His Dad, who his Sergeant might know. His Dad, who would be wondering where Michael was, because Alex wasn’t kidding himself, he knew he’d left Michael stuck in that horrible town, with that horrible man, while he was out here, living his life.

What if he came here. It wasn’t like on base, where Alex had a squad. It would just be him and Michael. Just them, against the Sergeant.

He couldn’t get that image out of his head, the Sergeant standing in front of their little red door, a hammer in his hand.

Alex stayed late on campus, trying to make-up for the lesson he’d missed while spiraling that afternoon; but nothing seemed to stick.

The time for dinner came and went. Alex didn’t eat. He didn’t tell Michael he was missing dinner. He just sat in the library, trying to read and re-read the section on binary trees. Depth-first, breadth-first, it was all just roiling over and over in his mind.

The library closed and it was either sit outside in the snow until he froze like the coward he was, or go home and face the music. Michael was going to be pissed.

When Alex drove home, the moon was high over the edge of the mountains, and he could barely see the road. He chest was so tight he could barely breathe, and his hands were cramping on the steering wheel.

When Alex got home, it was late, and the house smelled like lasagna but the oven was off, the table cleared. Michael had been sitting on the couch, reading a textbook, but he’d swung his leg to the floor, setting the textbook down beside him and looking up at Alex, a question in his eyes.

Alex ducked his head down; he just needed to get through this fight.

“Sorry,” Alex started, staring at the grey carpet between his toes. But then the hit didn’t come; Michael’s voice wasn’t raised when he said,

“Hey, hey,”

And then Alex could see his feet, his big, wonderful, always-a-bit-dirty feet, toes curling in against the carpet. But Michael wasn’t coming closer, wasn’t touching him, and that was the kind of punishment he expected.

“What’s going on in that massive brain of yours, love?” Michael asked, voice so, so soft.

Alex hunched his shoulders; so this would be it. He would have to describe his transgressions so it would be his own words that would cage him. “I was late for our dinner because I forgot about it,” and he winced inside at how stupid that sounded, how much of a waste of space it made him sound, to forget something as precious as the chance to spend an evening with someone he loved. Not a roommate, never a roommate, I just, I couldn’t --

“Ok?” Michael said and Alex bit his lip, reacting to the implied rebuke, even as a tiny voice in the back of his head was shouting that there had been no rebuke in Michael’s soft tone.

“It was disrespectful and wrong.” Alex gritted out. He knew these words would come back to bite him, he knew, but this was cruel, making him keeping talking, not getting to the physical bit.

“Can you look at me for a second?” And this, this Alex couldn’t do. He couldn’t. He knew he had tears in his eyes and if Michael saw them, he’d completely lose it. He wouldn’t look weak, not if he could possibly help it. He shook his head, feeling the motion shake one of his tears free so it slid across the top of his cheekbone before dropping to the thin carpet.

And then -- Michael was kneeling, kneeling at his feet, big brown eyes looking up at him.

“Oh, honey,” he said, reaching up and softly, oh, oh so softly, cupping Alex’s cheeks. “Oh, my love, can you come here?”

Alex shook his head again, body too, too stiff to move. He -- he wanted to held. Of course he wanted to be held; there was nothing better in the entire world than being held by Michael Guerin, no matter the time of day, no matter how old they were, no matter the cause of his weakness. Nothing made him not that want -- but this had to be a trick. Michael had to be mad at him.

“Is it ok if I hold onto you?”

Alex jerked a series of tiny, barely-there nods, and, slow as the sun setting, Michael wrapped his arms around Alex’s hips, pulling him forward just enough that Alex had to move his feet or risk overbalancing. Michael held onto him as he breathed for a long, long time before he finally asked:

“Can you try again, try to tell me why you’re so upset?”

“It's not me who’s upset. You’re,” and he swallowed the words, because this, this, this was something he had no words for. What his father did to him. What he did in the dark, in the hallway, in his room; he’d never known any words for the wordless terror the sound of the man’s footsteps on the hardwood floors of their house brought up in him.

“I’m -- I’m what love?”

And Alex’s tiny inside voice managed to stutter: “You hate me for being late.”

Michael’s quizzical frown almost made Alex laugh, if he could imagine ever laughing again in this moment.

“‘Lex, I’m late all the time. Why would --”

“We’d, we’d get beat if we were late,” Alex’s words were barely there, barely touching the air, profaning the quiet space they’d built between them with a reminder of the wider, worse world.

“Oh, love,” Michael said. “We can talk about it later, but can you tell me where you are?”

“Living room?”

“Where?”

“In -- in our living room. In Colorado Springs.”

“Good, and how does your body feel right now?”

“Tense,” Alex gritted out, “It hurts.”

“Yeah, I could imagine,” Michael said. He hitched a breath, thinking. “Braced for impact?”

Alex jerked a nod. “I know you’re supposed to relax, tensing only makes it worse --”

“I know. But the body wants to protect itself. I get it. I do.” Michael took a deep breath. “Want to walk around the park with me for an hour? Shake some of the soreness out and then we can get take-out?”

“Our budget --” Alex knew this was how it was going to all come crashing down, they’d overspend and they'd get evicted and --

“We can swing $20 for a midnight pizza love, come on, let’s put some shoes on, get out of the house, change the contexts a bit. I love you and I want to see you in the moonlight, just for a bit.”

Alex’s step was jerky as they went at his pace down the sidewalk, but eventually the pain flowed away from his body. Eventually, he could put one foot in front of the other without feeling like his was going to crack. With every step around the little city block park across the street from their building, he felt a little bit more life and less horror. He tried to make fun of himself for freaking out, but Michael gently shut him down. They touched the trees and slid down the snowy slope of the little hillside in the park, with only their jackets for protection. They swung their arms and Michael told silly stories about his classes until Alex cracked the first smile he could remember revealing that day.

As they were rounding their last lap, Michael said: “The only thing I’d make different about tonight is if you could text me if you’re going to miss dinner -- and if you don’t, it’s not the end of the world. It -- it sounds like schedules and lateness are hard, but not with me. Never with me. There’s nothing you could do to make me hate you, Alex Manes.”

Alex buried his face in Michael’s neck, breathing in his soft, safe scent, and tried to memorize this feeling, to keep it forever.

--

Sent: March 29th, 2013
From: Peterson AFB, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear M--,

I don’t care if the whole Air Force f*cking knows.

I hate my f*cking father.

Jesse Manes is an abusive asshole.

f*ck him.

I can’t get him out of my head sometimes, you know? Like, what if I get trapped on the same base as him? Why didn’t I think of that? Jesus, I can’t --

It’ll be ok. It’s a big Air Force, it’ll be ok.

Love you,

Alex

--

Sent: April 3rd, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

He is an abusive dick. You deserve so much better than him. Just remind yourself of that, as much as you can.

Love,

M--

--

Sent: April 4th, 2013
From: Post Office, Colorado Springs, CO

Dear Maria,

There’s tulips on campus and they come up through the snow. You’d love it. I know we only have 2 and a half months left, but it feels like it could be forever. Maybe it will be. Maybe we’ll get caught in a wormhole, and just live these two quarters over and over and over again until we die, full professors in every department, queer and in love and married and safe.

That would be nice.

Michael

--

May 3rd, 2013
Colorado Springs, Colorado

The scene had been good, Michael drinking in every request and Alex finally, finally seeing the fun of giving some orders. Michael felt wrung out, well-used and well-loved. They’d been cuddling for half-an-hour, and Michael was still deep down and loving it.

“Mmmh,” Michael said softly, smushing his face more tightly against Alex’s chest. He’d seen cats do this, rub their faces against the people they loved, who were theirs whispered a soft, not-very-healthy-but-very-true part of him. He figured if the ownership was mutual, it probably wasn’t too bad a thing, as much as he could figure in his floaty, far off state.

“You’re still in it, love? Nice and soft and down low?” Alex said, arm tucked firmly around Michael, holding him close, leg over his knee the way he liked, phone in his other hand as he re-read a Star Wars novel, something having to do with archeology.

“Mmmmh,” Michael said again, nodding a little. He swallowed, pushing towards the light a little bit, feeling like he should make a more memorable contribution to the conversation. “Like it.”

He could hear the loving smile in Alex’s voice when he said: “Yeah? What do you like.”

Michael wiggled his leg a little, held close and safe to the soft sheets of their shared bed. “Like you, like this. Like, I’m here. Like, you want me here, you’re,” he swallowed, voice tight in his throat for a moment, “Like you’re keeping me,” he said, adding quickly, “keeping me here, I mean.”

Alex heard through his words, if his grip getting that little bit tighter was any indication. “Oh, love. I do want to keep you. I want to keep you forever,” and Michael felt a smile bloom across his face, where he had it hidden against Alex’s warm, bare skin. His lips pressed a little against his pec and he was too soft to care; Alex would tell him if it was not alright.

Alex set his phone face down on his own shoulder and reached over to gently push a dangle of curls out of Michael’s face. “I want to keep you,” he said again. “Because you deserve to be loved.”

And Michael felt the worlds fall within him, like dark, lovingly carved stones falling into a deep pool, filling the most aching gap inside of him he could barely think of or acknowledge when he wasn’t tender and lost and held like this. He felt it influencing him, drifting through him, these words, this idea of deserving, of deserving anything, anything good. He felt his eyes begin to ache, his pulse fluttering copper in his throat, pushing up against his tongue.

He let out of huff, trying to turn his face in closer, hide in tighter.

“Love?” Alex asked and Michael shuddered a breath, spiraling, couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop it, he thought of brick walls and cold, unpatrolled parking lots and the quiet terror of footsteps in the night. He thought about deserving, what else he’d deserved.

“Love, I need a color from you,”

Michael’s words barely fought their way out of his throat: “Kepler, Kepler, Kepler,”

“Ok,” Alex said, freezing, body freezing, hand loosening its grip on Michael’s back. Michael cringed, f*ck f*ck f*ck, who safe-worded out of aftercare, f*ck.

Michael held on tight. “Just, just need to ride through it. Please, please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me,”

“You’ve got me as long as you want me, love,” Alex said, re-tightening his hold. “Is this ok, us laying here? You want to walk around a bit?”

Michael shook his head, feeling a flood of misery crashing through him, body aching and shaking from it, but he held on. “It’ll pass, sorry, sorry, sorry,”

Alex’s voice was steady and calm, his body holding Michael close: “We can talk about it later, for now, what do you need?”

“You,” Michael said, voice small, arm tightening around Alex’s chest. “Please don’t leave.”

He felt Alex take a deep breath. “I’m here. I’m here. Can --” he paused, thinking. “Can you tap my heartbeat with me? Just the rhythm?”

Michael blinked, eyelashes feeling wet, but pressed his ear a little closer, holding still until he could hear Alex’s big, strong heart beating in his warm chest.

He tapped Alex’s ribs, first just with the end of his index finger, then with all his fingertips, as Alex held him tight. Slowly, the feeling of drowning receded, slipped past and away from him. His body started to feel cold and he shivered.

“Cold,” he murmured, and Alex reached down with his opposite hand, snagging just the edge of his comforter and yanking it up. Michael held on by the skin of his teeth, refusing to use his powers and mourning, deeply, the fact he couldn’t, not even now, not even feeling as raw and safe and jambled as he was feeling. Someday, he promised himself, someday I’ll tell him, exactly who I am. I’ll tell him and he’ll be ok.

Alex tucked the blanket around them both and Michael slipped down, body beginning to calm down, heart slowing and body getting heavy.

“You can sleep, love. I’ll keep watch,” Alex said, and something unhinged from Michael’s spine, some door unlocked he’d never known how tightly he’d kept it bolted.

“Love you.” He murmured, eyes too, too heavy to open.

“Love you too, Michael,” Alex said.

--

Michael woke up a bit later, body achy and mind groggy. He peeled himself from Alex’s chest, sat-up and groaned. “Wow, did I really flip-out during aftercare?”

Alex looked up at him, eyes soft. “Do you want to talk about it now, or after some water and food?”

Michael frowned, rubbing his palms over his face. “We can talk about it now. I,” he frowned a little. “I think it was the thing about ‘deserving’? I think people had a lot to say about what I ‘deserved’ or not growing up, and it,” he glanced over at Alex a little, but the soft set of his mouth told him it was ok to say something hard. “It felt a bit like you were trying to incept me into feeling better about myself, taking advantage me being down, to mess around with my head.”

Alex looked to the side, shoulders raising and falling as he sighed. “That’s fair. That’s probably not the worst description of what I did do, now you say it.” He looked down. “Sorry, love.”

Michael reached over, pressing the side of his knuckle to the underside of Alex’s chin, until he raised his eyes to meet Michael’s: “I wish it worked that way too, love. That when I was like that you could just reach into my brain, and rearrange all the landmines so they’d stop blowing up on us.”

“I’d love for that to work on me too, to be real,” Alex said, a hint of his smile in his voice.

Michael quirked a wry grin in return: “But it backfires, like that. It feels like manipulation, like a thorn in a wound, and my body reacts by throwing me the other way. Like trying to use a rubber-band to yank me someplace new, I just snap back further than I was.”

Alex sighed, tracing his fingertips down Michael’s arm to grip his elbow. “I get that, and it makes sense now that I know. Sorry, I’m sorry love.”

Michael shrugged: “Hey, you didn’t know.”

Alex kept on: “Yeah, but I tried something without asking and you were the one who had to bear the brunt of it. I thought it was just an extension of the praise kink, but it really wasn’t, and I’m sorry for springing it on you.”

“Apology accepted,” Michael said simply. “Let’s just talk about it before if you want to try something like that again. Maybe in the scene, not after,”

“I’m not sure I want to try even during a scene, given the reaction.”

Michael frowned, considering: “I think if I know it’s coming, if I know you’re planning to press those buttons, I can integrate it, maybe even relish it. I’d love to be able to keep those words from you, in your dom voice, tucked in here,” he said, press his left hand to his chest. “Fresh and real, just waiting to pull them out when I need them. But saying stuff like that to me after a scene is over, I won’t remember and I won’t be able to like,” he closed his eyes, trying to find the word, “Integrate it? Like, it doesn’t fit into the meal. Like an awesome bite of green chile hamburger when I’m trying to eat a mint-cherry ice cream sundae.”

Alex made a disgusted face and Michael laughed. “But if you’re serving the hamburger with the fries and all the fixings, it’s great! It’s just a matter of,” and Michael frowned again: “Context.”

Alex thought about that a little bit. Then he said: “Ok, I think that makes sense. Thanks for explaining.”

“Thanks for holding onto me.”

Alex met his eyes and held them: “Always.”

--

Alex graduated and Michael was there with Mimi and Maria, he got to see him walk up to that stage, get that diploma. In a week he’d be in Alabama, but when Alex looked deep into the stands to see him smiling and waving his hat, Michael could see their whole future, a whole universe of smiles and joy and hope. Together.

--

Leaving was hard.

Alex got on a plane.

Michael drove his truck back to Roswell.

In the back of his truck were the plaid couch and wobbly desk, both destined for his bunker under Sanders’ yard. Tucked between them were boxes of plates carefully wrapped in their clean bedsheets, boxed and labeled.

Chapter 12: 2013 [130,332]

Chapter Text

Sent: September 4th, 2013
From: Maxwell AFB, Montgomery, AL

Dear M—,

I wonder if I burned some part of me off, last night at the range. The part that can love. I just thought, for a minute, 'wouldn’t shooting at this target be easier if stopped seeing the targets as people?' That the kids who we're training at the range are training to kill other boys from another desert.And in that second, I wondered if that had done it. If wishing, wanting, even for a second, everything to be easier by ignoring the spirit in another person, if that made me less than human.

I wonders if that made me incapable of loving.

And see, the thing is, I know I’m changing. I know you can see it, I know it's happening. The things that rubbed me raw going into the military — the haircut the clothes and orders the titles — I’ve gotten callouss around them, i think. Sometime I snag on them, sag against their harsh realities. But it’s like — what did the fish say to the other fish? This is water. This is water. This is water.

Did you see that David Foster Wallace graduation speech? Google it if you didn’t, it’s beautiful and it just — the loud sounds, the ugly buildings, the snow and the winds and the weird as f*ck locals — this is water. This is water.

But what if I become a fish and I come home and you’re still breathing air? What if, in adapting to this world to survive and now to thrive, I lose that simple, single piece of me that makes it all worth doing?

I’d rather hate every minute of wearing a uniform than risk losing the ability to make you happy.

I’d rather lose all of this than lose you.

I love you, M—. I love you and I know you love me too. And maybe my soul is a little worn down right now, but you always make my heart light and my spirit soar, so maybe after seeing you, my bartered soup will be healed.

Anyway, it’s it's late and I’m tired. So tired. I can’t wait to see you next month.

My love for you is infinite.

Love,

Alex

--

Sent: September 8th, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I love you too. I think everyone has ugly thought like that sometimes. About how much easier our lives would be if we hurt others, or if we stopped noticing how much we hurt others. It doesn't make you incapable of loving. It doesn't make you less than whole. It just means you're surviving something hard right now.

I watched the video and Googled around some for anything like that I could share. I didn't find any other good graduation messages, but I found this poem. It's by Wendell Berry, and I think you might like it:

O Thou far off and near, whole and broken,
Who in necessity and bounty wait,
Whose truth is light and dark, mute though spoken,
By Thy wide grace show me
Thy narrow gate

I thought you might like that, the idea of being whole and broken, about having both necessity and bounty, light and dark, secrets and truths. And that image at the end: a wide grace and a narrow gate. It's a good one, I think, for what we're trying to do.

Alex, we talked about deserving before, and you deserve good things. How about, for every letter this year, you tell me one good thing that you deserve and I’ll tell you one good thing I deserve?

I’ll start: I deserve that extra brownie Mrs Foster offered yesterday and I didn’t take. Next time she offers, I’m going to take it.

I love you,

M--

--

Sent: September 12th, 2013
From: Maxwell AFB, Montgomery, AL

Dear M--,

How was the brownie? Was it delicious?

This week sucked, just tons of boring tests and stuff. Tech School for the 17S career field is terrible, but it will be over in a few weeks. We had a whole graduation last week for finishing OCS, but honestly, I liked my graduation at DU better. I should probably have told you about it, but two graduations in a summer seemed weird to ask you to drive all that way for.

I think I’m going to say that I deserve some sleep. I’ve been so tired lately.

I love you,

Alex

--

Sent: September 16th, 2013
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m really sorry for how sh*tty that week went. I would have absolutely come to your graduation. I get not wanting to ask, but love, you can ask and I can let you know what I can do. I’ve been wanting to drive across Texas again anyway :D.

I decided this week that I deserve to see all of those cute postcards you brought me from Alaska, every time I go to sleep. So I taped them all to the wall over my bed, picture facing out, because only I get to know what you say to me :p. God, I love you so much. I can’t wait to see your face.

Love,

M--

--

December 16th, 2013
I-285, north of Roswell, NM

Michael closed his eyes, twisting his hand in the cold morning wind out his window as he drove out on I-285. It was six hours to Denver, the only flight stateside Alex could get back stateside; well, it was 6 hours now he'd been driving for an hour.

His phone buzzed on the bench seat and, with no one else on the road, he floated it up to the steering wheel, flipping it open to read the message:

A: Thru security. Want to keep me company while I get a bagel?

Michael had pressed the green dial button before he'd finished reading the message. Alex nearly never texted him; he must be loopy from getting off the plane back from Turkey.

Alex picked up, voice sleepy and a little tense: "Hey,"

"Hey," Michael said, pressing the phone to his cheek. "How was your flight?"

"Mmm," Alex said, voice cutting out as a security announcement blared through the Dulles domestic terminal. "Loud, cramped, chilly."

Michael looked out the window to the rolling sage-scape, the desert twisting itself into curves and gullies before flattening out against the imperfect blue sky. "So, pretty much the opposite of here."

"Yeah," Alex said, voice soft, like he was cradling the phone. He cranked the window up so he could hear him better.

"What kind of bagel you getting?"

"Everything bagel with onions and lox and cream cheese and capers."

"Eww," Michael said, mouth twisting, "You brought a toothbrush, right?"

There was a staticky pause and Michael wondered if this was it, if this was the moment Alex couldn't handle what it took to push open the door of his closet long enough to let Michael in for these brief, soul-scrapingly brief visits. Would Alex snap at him, tell him to mind his own business, or change flights, or tell him to turn around, or --

There was a low chuckle: "That's not all I brought."

Michael took a quick breath, yanking himself into the same teasing register as Alex: "Oh yeah?"

"I had a long layover in Germany. I took the train into Berlin and went to a shop."

Michael could feel a smile rising: "What kind of shop, Alex?"

Alex's voice was prim: "You'll just have to find out. Wait, one sec, I need to order."

But Alex didn't hang-up, he just pressed his phone to his chest, the uniform fabric scratching at the receiver. Michael lost a minute there, mind drifting to one of the hazy, perfect days the last time they were in Colorado. Michael had woken up with his ear pressed to Alex's chest, counting his breaths, checking his heartbeat, just living for and in the constant reminder: I'm here, I'm safe, I'm yours.

"Sorry about that, love," Alex said, and Michael felt his stomach flip. Alex must be dog tired to talk that way in public, but even knowing it wasn't intentional, it gave Michael a thrill.

"Anyway," Alex continued, as if he hadn't just sent Michael's heart racing, "It's in my checked luggage, so unless some TSA stasi decided to take a freebie, I can show you as soon as we get settled." There was a crinkle that must have been a bagel bag.

"I look forward to it." Michael said. Then he checked the time: "Hey, you should get to your gate, your flight takes off in 45 minutes, they're probably already in preferred boarding."

"Oh sh*t, you're right. What would I do without you?" He heard Alex heft his massive military backpack and start to hustle to the gate.

Michael wasn't sure if Alex even had his phone to his ear anymore when he said half to himself: "You'd be just fine without me."

And the sound stopped, the rushing air past Alex's microphone halting like a dawn forced-march called off. His voice was clear, crystal water to Michael's parched soul: "No, Michael. I wouldn't." A long breath. "I'll see you in 5 and a half hours."

Michael sucked in a breath through a suddenly hot, tight throat: "See you soon."

He kept driving.

--

December 16th, 2013
Denver International Airport

Michael pulled into the short-term lot of the Denver Airport, kept the engine running to keep out the cold, the dry gust of it familiar on his face. He'd thought about it on the drive, if he should just get Alex from the pick-up line, get him right to the motel.

But the past few months had taught him caution; he wanted to see where Alex was at, what he could expect this week. Michael knew they couldn’t hold hands, couldn’t kiss each other in the airport coffee shop. But Alex could tell him about his flight as they waited in line, somehow making the normal, mundane horrors of air travel sound unique and ridiculous. Michael would tell him his count of mountaintops or grey sheep; on his bi-monthly treks to Alabama, it was mostly the number of ranches he'd seen.

Michael had made a lot of drives out to Alabama while Alex was in Tech School. Told Alex he'd be making them, after missing the graduation. Alex had said yes, seemed grateful that Michael had pushed. Michael took a job at Sanders’ for the more flexible schedule, since it was the quiet season on the ranch, and Sanders let him have any weekend he needed.

Getting the time free was easier. After 5 years, Alex had a better sense of when he could leave post, when he would be needed. They had managed to put together about two weekends a month. It was enough that Michael’s skin still felt 2-4 sizes too small by the end of the 14 day cycle, but not so much he thought he was losing his mind with worry about how Alex was doing.

Michael had never known what he was going to get when he arrived at their motel for the weekend. The first weekend, Alex had showed up with a limp. He’d had to reassure Michael a half dozen times it was just a PT injury, that he’d twisted his ankle on a dumb, badly maintained track, not that anyone was hurting him.

The next month Alex had done the same dance when Michael arrived with a shiner. Alex had nearly wanted to bring the wrath of Max down on him. Alex had wanted to get into Michael’s truck, go show Hank who should keep their goddamn hands to themselves at the Wild Pony.

But Michael had talked him down; as much as he appreciated the thought, he didn’t need Alex or anyone else to protect him. He was fine. He would be fine. He just needed to avoid Hank and everything would be fine.

It was talking that was hard for them, right now. The other stuff, once they got their hands on each other it was -- so good. Sometimes soft, sometimes hard, sometimes exhausted, sometimes wired.

Always, so, so tender.

Some nights, there was something in Alex’s gaze, a need, a fight to probe, to make sure he wasn’t taking more than he was giving Michael. Michael finally had to put his foot down, insisting that they get the same amount of pleasure from each other, Alex seemed determined to -- Michael didn’t even know.

But Michael wanted to be there for him, not just the strong, surly Alex he found so often at the door to their motel room, but the one who snarked at home decorating shows with him, the one who tucked himself into his back, tight and warm when they finally shut off the lights, and whose breath he could feel hitching in the night.

Michael wanted that Alex too, every Alex he could get his hands on.

(On those weekends, they didn’t explore each other’s headspaces any. They had an unspoken knowledge that things were too fragile right now, couldn’t bear the weight of that kind of play.)

Michael thought -- oh, how he’d thought -- about bringing rings, one of those times. Not that it was legal; not that it would help. But it was something. Henna didn’t feel like enough, the Airstream key didn’t feel like enough.

(After 8 months in Denver, nothing felt like enough.)

But Michael just kept driving.

Alex was doing the best he could. He was back to repeating the Air Force lines, back to being proud of his work. And Michael didn’t want to take that away from him, but it hurt, a little, to see how badly parts of the military dug into Alex’s skin. Michael caught the edges of it sometimes, the places where Alex didn’t fit into the boxes he’d been assigned, or assigned himself. He saw him struggling with it, trying to pretend that burden wasn't grinding him down.

He saw Alex. He watched him smile and laugh and fall asleep where he was standing as he tried to brave it through a long, sh*tty concert he’d promised Michael they could go to together in Birmingham on a long weekend. He watched him read the news and saw his eyes catch and hold on places in Iraq, places he knew he had friends.

Michael missed having friends in common, missed the friends he’d started to make at Pikes Peak. But there was a tiny part of him that was grateful for that emptiness, for how much room it left for Alex to seep into this life, fill every crack. It meant he never had anything competing for his weekends, no one to ask where he went. Maria knew, Isobel knew -- not that she could be pulled away from planning her Spring wedding much to care, but she knew.

When he'd gotten back to Roswell, tired and hurting and furious, Max had tracked him down and made him promise not to leave again. He'd said Isobel needed them both here.He said she’d been vague, lost time while he was gone. Blamed him for it; Michael wasn’t sure he deserved that. He’d told Max so and Max had tried to act better; for a bit. Max had even spent some time with Michael at Sanders, talking with him, and for a few weeks, things had felt a little closer, a little better. But then there had been that fight with Hank and Max had arrested him, and, well, Michael didn’t feel much like speaking to Deputy Evans anymore.

He hadn’t told Alex that part, the part about getting arrested. He didn’t know what he would think, didn’t want to find out.

(Michael was fine, he was just fine, doing this Alex’s way. He’d come to him, not expected to bring him home. And in between, he’d just live his own life, the best he could.)

Alex had flown east to Incirlik Air Base in Turkey the week before Thanksgiving. Michael had no idea how he’d managed to hitch a ride back so early, or get a full week off in December, but all Alex had said is he needed to be back in Turkey by Christmas Eve. Michael could tell he needed it; he'd been prepared to survive without seeing Alex until February, but this reprieve lifted a weight from his shoulders. As soon as he'd gotten Alex's letter, he’d book the motel room. Found them something special, something that might make Alex light up a little inside.

Michael got out one of his old textbooks, working his way through a problem set he’d never gotten to in his classes.

He’d wanted to tell Alex that he’d deserved the mention in the acknowledgements of Dr Musong’s manuscript on using sunflowers to remediate nuclear waste, because he was absurdly proud of it.

But the acknowledgements didn’t say “M--”; they said “Michael Guerin.” And that was too much of a risk.

Michael's phone buzzed: “Landed.”

He headed towards the shuttle pick-up, texting: “omw.”

Alex looked tired. Michael wrapped his arms around his shoulders for a brief minute, managing to whisper: “I’m so glad to see you,” before letting him go.

Alex smiled, blinking in the bright airport lights, uniform stark in the cold morning light. “You ready to go?”

Michael nodded, hefting Alex’s duffle to his shoulder. They got some coffee, Alex ordering for them both, a careful foot between their bodies. There were other Airmen, other military people in the little airport coffeeshop, and by this point, it was old habit.

Alex held onto his coffee like it was a lifeline and he was deep in the unquiet ocean.

Michael had gotten them a room at the Best Western on the outskirts of Denver, away from the noise and anyone they might know. The entire campus of the motel looked fairly normal, but it wasn’t until the automatic doors opened that Alex saw it.

“Holy sh*t,” he whispered, drifting over to one of the displays.

The entire front lobby area was full of fossils. T-rex skulls and horizontal slices of bone and murals and reconstructions and -- Alex whirled around, delight warring with disbelief. “Did you know about this?”

Michael’s eyes crinkled and he nodded. “Things have been so tough lately, I thought it would be nice to do something silly for a while.”

Alex bounced on his heels, exhausting bleeding away from his face. He nudged his shoulder against Michael’s, then he visibly tried to rein himself in. “We can go to the room first, get cleaned up, I’m sure,” and his eyes were wandering back to the massive femur on display, “I’m sure the fossils will still be here when we get back.”

But Michael was shaking his head. “This is the main attraction, Alex. We can spend as much time down here as you like.”

Alex’s eyes lit-up and he glanced around at the families checking in, the kids running around the display cases. Michael tensed, ready to take a step back if Alex needed. But instead, Alex stepped in closer, voice quiet, just between the two of them. “ You’re the main attraction, Michael Guerin.” His eyes slid away, towards a massive scale replicate of a T-Rex skeleton. His voice was a little shy. “But the T-Rex comes in a very close second.”

Michael cracked up, giving Alex a quick hug before nudging him towards the exhibits. Michael asked a few questions about the posted signs, and Alex was off to the races, telling him about the different extraction and preservation techniques, the dig sites he’d learned about in his class at DU, the videos he’d seen of people playing reconstructed windpipes of Parasaurolophus so people could hear what their calls sounded like.

It wasn’t more than an hour, but it was the happiest Michael had seen Alex in 6 months.

He stopped in front of a little display in a corner of a little side room, in the quiet of the HVAC system where no one could see them. There, placed under a spotlight right against the far wall, was a massive Brachiosaurus femur going all the way up to the ceiling. Alex traced his fingers over the display label, voice hushed.

“This girl lived 150 million years ago. She was one of the biggest animals to ever live. When she died, her bones became stone, and they were so far from the sun, for so long. But then, some people just really, really cared, took the time to dig, to dig and dig, to find all of those lost and broken pieces of her, and to bring her back.” He looked at Michael, biting his lip. “She couldn’t come back whole, not after what happened to her. Not after so, so long in the deep dark. But she came back. Because people who loved her enough brought her back.” He brushed his hand down Michael’s arm, fingers gripping just for a moment before letting go. “That’s the thing I like best about rocks, about fossils. They persist. They can get crushed down and piled under and buried and lose the very thing that anyone looking at them would think made them who they were. But even when all the calcium in their bones has been filled with stone, even when they lose their feathers and eyes and legs, parts of them still survive. And from those parts, we can reconstruct the whole thing.” He met Michael’s eyes. “As long as we keep trying.”

Michael set Alex’s duffle down at their feet, holding Alex’s gaze. “I’m going to keep trying. I want to. I’m committed, Alex. I know it’s hard right now, and it feels like we’re losing so much more than we’re gaining, but I think, if we can just last, we can make this work.” He took a breath. “And I know it’s hard to remember, so I’ll say it out loud. I’m not mad at you. Not for being in the Air Force, not for any of the million other things that big brain of yours has been telling you I am, these past months. Try to remember, there’s nothing you could do that could make me hate you.”

“You just hate my job.”

Michael shrugged a shoulder, breaking eye-contact. “I don’t love it like you do, that’s for sure. But I’ve loved you before you joined the Air Force and I’ll love you long after you leave.” He stepped a little closer, reaching for Alex’s sleeve, just holding on with his two fingers. “I’ll keep digging for you, Alex. Just as long as you keep wanting to come home.”

Alex nodded, jerking his head, and finally, finally stepping into Michael, arms wrapping around him in a long, tight hug. “Ok,” he said, voice catching. “Ok. I can do that.”

“Good,” Michael said, voice warm. “Now, want to see the room?”

Alex’s eyes twinkled as he pulled back and nodded, this time much more firmly. “Hell yes. I can show you what I brought back from Berlin.”

Michael gestured him towards the elevators: "Lead the way, love."

Chapter 13: 2014 [134,937]

Chapter Text

January7, 2014
Foster’s Ranch, New Mexico

“Every time I see this, it gets worse,” Isobel stood with her hands on her well-dressed hips, staring at Michael as he finished mucking out one of the milking stalls. She was gesturing to his hair.

Michael rolled his eyes: “I’ll get a haircut, sheesh, Iz,” he stopped himself from rubbing his hand through his hair, gloved to the elbow and covered in cowsh*t as it is. “I get that you need help planning the wedding, but some of us have working hours since the Fosters took me back. Try coming back after sundown.”

“Only to have you tell me to ‘go away, I’m writing letters?’ Or even better, ‘go away, I’m re-reading 5 year old letters?’”

Michael felt like his glare should have backed her down some; but she was unfazed in the mid-afternoon sunlight.

“You need to focus on something in the present, Michael.”

“It’s Saturday, the next letter should come tomorrow. That’s extremely present for me.”

She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “When was the last time you came over? Or went out? All you do is work and write letters and re-read letters and --”

Michael was tempted to dump his current shovelful on his sister’s perfectly-coiffed head; he ducked his chin and continued mucking.

“And maybe I need help picking out a color palette,” she wheedled.

“Why don’t you ask Noah? Or Sir Sulks-A-Lot?”

Isobel looked skywards, shifting her feet. “Noah’s on a big case, helping to resettle the property boundary over at the Long Farm. Surveying something about the barn. He’s busy a lot.”

Michael frowned. “But he’s helping, right? Not going to –” be like your Dad, treating every bit of hard work a relationship takes as Ann’s job, “not going to be a neanderthal about it, right?”

It just hurt too much.

“Alright, alright. I’ll come over. Tonight, after my shift? I can borrow your shower?”

“Of course!” She said, brightening up immediately now she’d won. She moved over towards him, picking a clean-enough part of his shoulder to pat, voice low. “When do you see him next?”

Michael glanced around, looking to see if one of the hands who made fa*ggot jokes was still working; looked like he was out for his 5th smoke break since lunch.

“Not sure, it’s not really under his control. I’m not going to ask again; I’m going to try to keep things lighter, see if that helps any. Things got too heavy towards the end, last year. I don’t want to scare him away. I need to be easy for him to come home to. It was a big thing, him getting so much time off last month. Probably the last time that will happen for this whole deployment.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What about -- oh. Oh!”

“What, Iz?”

“He can come to the wedding! He’d get time off for a wedding, right?”

“No? I don’t think that’s how it works, Iz. He’s told me about guys not getting time off to watch their babies get born, much less see a high school classmate get married.”

“I’m not just a high school classmate! I’m practically his --” and at Michael’s stricken look, Isobel pulled it back. “Well, I feel like we’re closer than that. After all, who’s going to help you plan your next visit?”

Michael shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I appreciate the thought and I’ll let him know he’s invited, ok?”

“I’ll send him an invitation so he knows.” She took a moment. “I’ll invite Maria too, I’m sure she’d appreciate a weekend in Las Vegas more than the rest of you heathens.”

Michael wasn’t sure how Isobel had landed on Las Vegas as the ultimate destination for her wedding, but he’d never really heard her consider any other option. Getting married at the MGM Grand, a bachelorette party on the Strip –- it had been the plan from Day 1. All of the major details were part of the package. He had kind of expected her to want to plan every detail herself, but she seemed fine to let this pass her by.

He knew, if he ever got married, it wouldn’t be a package anything. No cookie cutter he’d ever met in life had done anything more than chop off bits of him that were inconvenient; he wasn’t going to let marriage or a wedding do that to him. Or to Alex.

“Earth to Michael,” Isobel sang, “Earth to Michael, calling, calling, check, one, two, three -–”

Michael hefted a half-load of manure over the toes of her boots and Isobel skipped back, hissing. “Fine, be that way.” She softened. “See you at 7?”

Michael kept his eyes down, thinking of Alex in a black tux, waiting for him at the end of a long aisle, smiling faces on either side. Or Alex walking towards him. Or just them, on a beach.

He muttered, “Yeah, sure, Iz. See you there.”

Half-formed dreams of a wedding kept Michael company throughout the whole rest of the chilly January morning.

–-

Sent: January 8th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Did you ever think what you might want to wear to a wedding? Iz’s going to invite you to hers, April 11 - 13. I was thinking of wearing sh*tkicker boots and second-hand jeans, just to see the face she’d make.

Can you wear your dress uniform to things like that? Would that mean you don’t get to drink? Where do you keep your hat?

It’s been so long we’ve been doing this, but I feel like there’s so much I don’t know.

No pressure from me on coming to her big bash, by the way. I’d love to see you, but I know that probably isn’t possible. But I’m not saying I’d be opposed to seeing you, all dressed up. I know you’d make that uniform look good.

I think I’ll wear something comfortable, something easy to walk around in. No sky-high heels for me, even if she’s decided the colors are all variations on cream. Ivory satin shoes would look great on me.

Anyway, I’ll be heading to Goodwill to get an outfit sometime this week, just to get her off my back. She spent f o r e v e r going over all her planning binders with me.

Yes.

All.

As in, more than one.

It’s –- it’s kind of weird. Like, the entire wedding is basically planned for her; that’s the point of the hotel package. But it’s like some of her wants that control, that planning time. So she’s, like, over-engineering the driving routes and the sleeping arrangements and the honeymoon –- God, don’t get me even started there. It’s like there’s two of her, one that just wants to get it over with, and one that wants to make it the best day of her life, like it’s her last chance to do anything for herself before she falls into this wifey role.

It’s not like her. Maybe this is what she’ll be like, now she’s older?

I hope not.

Anyway, I hope Turkey is good.

I love you,

M–-

–-

Sent: January 22nd, 2014
From: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

Dear M–-,

I could always wear that powder blue suit I wore to prom :D. That would be a trip; definitely not in Isobel’s color palette though (who knew weddings had color palettes? Like, I went to my aunt on my Dad side’s wedding, what, 10 years ago? When I was 14? And it was all black suits for the men and, like, flower-y-ish dresses for the women? No one was allowed to be not a man or not a woman, being his family).

I could wear my dress blues, sure.

I was thinking about it, and the thing is, I actually could come. We’re not that busy here right now, all the new drone shipments you probably read about in the news aren’t going through here. There’s a regular flight into Nellis, just north of Vegas, I’d have to take a travel day on either end, but if I work weekends between then and now, I could do it.

The question is: do you want me to? Or do you want to save up for some time we could spend alone, just the two of us?

There’s rules about what I could do at the wedding if I’m wearing my uniform. It’s a social event, so I could drink. But nothing silly, nothing that someone could say was ‘disgracing the uniform.’

And that’s pretty broadly defined out here.

But if Isobel’s going to keep things pretty tame, I could come.

Do you want me to?

I love you,

Alex

PS: How’s work? Are things good? The guys treating you well?

–-

Sent: February 8th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

f*ck yes, I want you to come. I get that there’s a lot of things we can’t do, but, Alex, it would be so good to see you with friends. With people who love you, not just me, but whole bunches of people.

I’m not the only one who misses you here in Roswell.

I heard maybe even Liz Ortecho will be coming.

Max is over-the-moon.

And we can spend some time alone together at the wedding. Isobel can’t plan every hour of every day. And even if she does, we can just play hooky. There’s more than enough we can do.

I’m glad I got your letter before I got around to going to Goodwill. Now I’ll actually try for something cute :D.

I can’t wait to see you, love.

It’s been weird on the ranch this past month. All the guys I knew moved on to other jobs and the new guys don’t seem to like me much. I think I went 3 whole days without talking to anyone last week.

Except Isobel, but, you know.

I miss before, just, having someone to talk to at the end of the end of the day.

We’ll get there. I know we will.

Just 2 more months!

Love,

M–-

–-

Sent: February 23rd, 2014
From: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

Dear M–-,

I got the time off – -I’ll see you then! I even replied to Isobel’s cream-colored paper invitation. I RSVPed for me and you, but not your Mom, since I wasn’t sure if she was invited. I said we’d both want the chicken; I hope that was ok.

I forgot to tell you how cool it was to see Orthodox Christmas last month in Istanbul. It was January 7th and it was just so different from being in the U.S. Most people don’t celebrate it here, so no decorations everywhere or inescapable Christmas music. Most people go all out for New Years, so there’s a lot of other kinds of decorations, but the ones who do celebrate Christmas get really into it. One of the guys who was stationed here last year and who’s Greek Orthodox invited me to this event where one of their priests –- I think he’s called a Patriarch –- threw a big cross in the ocean and men had to compete to pull it out. It looked chilly as f*ck, but they seemed to have a good time.

There’s so much that’s sh*t about this situation, but getting to be here, to taste the food, to meet the people, to see the world through different eyes?

That’s not bad at all.

I’ve got to go, I’m working this weekend to make-up for travel days in April. Lots of time typing, a little bit of time training some other guys. It’s nice, getting the chance to share knowledge, not just absorb it all the time.

It’s good having a team.

I love you,

Alex

PS: Should I just get something from Isobel’s registry? I could try to go to one of the souqs, get her something local? What are her something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue?

–-

Sent: March 10th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m glad your team is doing so well and you’re enjoying your work. It’ll be good to hear more about it in April.

And 100%, just get her something from the registry. She put everything on it because she wants it, and it will make her happiest to get exactly what she wants. I’m exempt, for money reasons, so I’m fixing up an antique chest the Fosters were going to throw out. She saw it out on the porch last time she visited and her eyes positively turned green; and it just needed a little love, some sanding and refinishing and some new locks. She started to tell me what she wants to keep in it, and hell no, I don’t need to know that information.

You don’t want to know. Just know that the chest will be meaningful and well-cared for.

She is still trying to figure out the ‘something blue’ thing, but for the rest:

• Something old: Noah’s grandma’s wedding ring,
• Something new: her wedding dress, fresh from the designer and tailor-finished.
• Something borrowed: she’s stealing Max’s deputy hat for some of the wedding pictures.

Max has been a royal pain in the ass. I think he’s freaking out about Liz being at the party? Anyway, barking at me, just generally being a sh*t.

Could be that he got promoted to full Deputy. Thus the fancy new hat. Maybe it's cutting off the blood flow to his brain.

There’s this new deputy, Cam. I really like her. Never takes Max’s sh*t, fair cop (as fair as they can be), really lightens him up when they’re partnered together. I think he would have invited her to the wedding if there hadn’t been that rumor about Liz. Iz is going to invite Cam on her own, and honestly, I think there is no way Liz is going to come. She’s just got this, magnetic-anti-attraction to anywhere Max is, not just Roswell.

Just a guess, though.

Anyway, I can’t wait to see you. I love you.

M–-

–-

Sent: March 27th, 2014
From: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

Dear M--,

I’ve got enough time to write this, but barely. Please don’t think the short letters are from a lack of thoughts, but a lack of paper. I didn’t get the shipment in the mail I was promised and the base exchange is entirely out. Some kind of f*cking DoD cost-saving maneuver. Like, we haven’t gotten checks this week because they’re out of paper for those too.

I can’t even express how pissed I am about this bullsh*t.

Work is going ok. Can’t talk about it much but what’s new. I can tell you I’m really proud of something we did a few weeks ago, something I was working on that saved a lot of lives. I’m really glad I was assigned to this group. They’re good guys, good men. We’re up someplace I’ve never seen before, different kind of places from any we’d gone together. You know, after the war, I keep hoping we’ll be able to come here. We’ll get you a passport and I’ll just -- I’ll be able to show you this country we helped. How we made it better.

Ok, that’s all I can fit on this freaking receipt -- thank you CVS for sucking and thank you, old me, for never cleaning out this compartment in my duffle. Thank god I still have envelopes. Oh! I know. I’ll write on the flap of the envelope too.

[cont. on the envelope flap]

It’s cool Max got promoted, I’m really glad for him. Bummer about him always hassling you though, you’d think he’d know to do better. I love you with all of my heart and my mind and my soul.

Yours,

Alex

PS: I’ll be at the MGM Grand, room 847, starting on April 11th. My flight should get in by 4pm. I want to see you. I love you.

–-

April 11, 2014
Civilian Parking, Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, NV

Alex was pretty sure flights hadn’t rattled his bones as much when he’d been 18; but now, it felt like he’d been inside of a staff sergeant’s shake weight for the last 15 hours. With the runway tentatively still under his feet and the afternoon sunlight over his shoulder, he slung his duffle onto his back and strode across the airfield towards the exit.

Other military members’ wives and girlfriends and husbands and boyfriends were there to pick them up after the flight, whether for a weekend away or the end of a long deployment.

All he wanted was to see Michael, to see his face and his smile and to hold his hand below the window on the drive to the hotel.

Instead of the turquoise truck he’d expected, he saw a familiar and equally-loved orange one. Maria was leaning against the front grill, big sunglasses covering half her face, expression impassive as she scanned the field of airmen –- until she saw Alex, when she grinned and started towards him at a near-skip.

Alex’s step quickened too, until he was jogging to meet her, dust from the runway puffing around his feet. She tossed herself into his arms and he swung her around, and it felt so good to see her. She was soft and warm and when she laughed and told him to put her down, he felt like he fit his skin for the first time in four and a half months.

He kept his voice low, face in her careful curls. “I didn’t expect you here.”

She pulled back, slipping her sunglasses off and tucking them in her purse.

“We figured it would be better for me to meet you here. Less chance of a slip. Also,” she grinned, pulling out her phone and whispering. “Want to manufacture some counter-evidence?”

Alex snorted and adjusted his duffle over his shoulder. Then he grinned at the camera and Maria took a few selfies, then posed him for a picture on his own.

“There we go,” she said, nudging him over to the passenger side door. “More proof for the shrine.”

Alex frowned, remembering what she and Michael had had to do the last time there was any doubt about their relationship. Once the doors were closed, he started -–

“Michael told me, about what happened. The fake break-up thing a few years ago?”

Maria’s face tightened as she began to work her way out of the warming parking lot, ably dodging galavanting toddlers and teetering, jet-lagged airmen alike in the mass of humanity swarming across the asphalt.

“It felt like sh*t to do. And people have only treated him worse since.” She rolled her shoulder, reaching over to grip Alex’s hand. “He’s lonely, Alex. He’s trying to keep it together, but he’s lonely. Sometimes being a good friend –- never mind anything else –- means showing up. He needs someone to show-up for him.”

Alex bit his lip. “I don’t have a lot of control over my schedule here, Maria –-”

She let out a frustrated puff of air, turning right at the red stoplight.

“You re-upped, Alex. You re-upped and left him there.”

“He could have moved!” Alex burst out, pissed and not expecting to be called to the carpet the instant he hit U.S. soil.

“He could have moved to –- Turkey?” There was flat irritation in her voice. “Come on.”

“He could have,” Alex said mulishly, fisting his pants and feeling the rough fabric between his knuckles. “Other people’s spouses travel with them OCONUS.”

“Queer spouses?”

Alex stayed quiet, fingers tight in his BDUs.

Maria softened. “And would you come out, for him? To your unit? Could you do that?”

“I don’t know why he stays in Roswell!” Alex hissed. “He doesn’t have to stay in Roswell for me. He doesn’t have to live in the one place I won’t go. I don’t know why he’d think he needs to put his life on hold for me.”

“Don’t you?”

“What does that mean?”

Maria set her jaw, eyes hard on the traffic in front of them. “Michael Guerin moved 10 times between the ages of 7 and 17, right?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, thrown. “Sounds about right.”

“He wants to be a stable place for you. He’s trying to be home for you. He knows that ‘home’ means less than nothing to you, but he’s trying to give you what he thinks it’s supposed to be. A door; a lock; a key; a home.”

“I never asked him to do that. He can move anytime he wants. He moved to Colorado –-” Alex pushed his shoulder against the truck door, scowling.

“And then right back to Roswell as soon as you were done with him. Maybe I’m wrong about why he’s staying; maybe there’s something I don’t know keeping him there. But from what I can see, he tries to stay where you can find him. No matter where you are, he knows that you know where he is. I think he finds security in that, in the promise of it. The idea that after you’re done with your war, with your father’s battles, you can come home to him. ”

Alex glared out the front window, looking for a sign they were getting close to the hotel.

He heard Maria take a big, deep breath. “Ok. I’m going to start going to more protests. I don’t think it will impact anything for you, I won’t be taking photographs at them, won’t be giving interviews, won’t mention you. But these sh*tty wars have taken too much from us, Alex. I need them done. I need to do my part to stop them.”

Alex shook his head. “Do what you have to, Maria.” He swallowed. “Does, does that mean I can’t write to the Pony anymore?” His mind was racing, trying to figure out where he could write to Michael, what they would do if Maria removed herself from this situation, this f*cking sh*tty situation he’d caused –-

Pain swept over her face. “Oh, Alex. No. I’m not going to do that to the two of you. I’m particularly not going to do that to Michael. And I’m going to keep being here for you, as long as you’ll keep talking to me. No matter how much that,” and she waved to his uniform, “pisses me off.”

She took a hard left, and then they were on the Strip. All the flashing lights and weird, extravagant water displays which might have been exciting at night, just looked dusty and dull now.

“I don’t need your pity, Maria. Never did.” Alex ground out. He saw the MGM Grand sign a mile down the Strip; he wished it would get closer sooner.

Maria glanced over at him. Then she sighed and patted his leg before returning her hand to the wheel. “It’s not pity, Alex. It’s love.” She worked her thumb over the old, well-cared-for leather.

He spat, “It sounds more like you trying to control the world.”

Another wave of hurt moved across her face. “It’s not about control either, Alex. But I could see how you would think it was.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s focus on the practicals. Tonight is the reception dinner. We’re seated together. Michael is at the bride’s family table up on the big stage.” She gave a small smile. “He’s really proud of the tux he found. Shelled out to get it professionally cleaned and everything.” She glanced over at him and his still-dusty BDUs. “I hoped you packed something else to wear. Isobel’s thing is high fashion.”

“I did.”

She ignored his tone. “Good. There’s dancing after the dinner. If you’re up for it, we can dance a few rounds, make sure to make it into the pictures.”

“I might be too tired,” he grunted.

“That’s fine,” she said, turning down a side street, towards the MGM Grand’s underground parking lot.

“After dancing, there’s the bachelor and bachelorette parties. You’re invited to the bachelor party. Sounds like it will be drinking and gambling and some strip clubs. It’s mostly guys from Noah's law firm, so I think you and Michael will be alright sneaking away. God knows Max is going to escape at the earliest possible moment." She rolled the window down, feeding her return ticket back into the little machine. The air in the basem*nt garage was so much colder than the outside had been, and weirdly moist. He wondered if the massive water feature over their head was leaking.

She cranked the window back up as the gate arm swung to let them pass.

“Michael and I are switched rooms, so the reservations match. Just make sure no one who might blab sees the two of you going in together.”

“I know how to keep our relationship a secret, Maria.” He bit back. “I’ve been doing it for 6 years.”

“You have,” she said, voice sad. “I know you have, Alex.” She pulled into a free space and turned off the engine.

“The morning is unscheduled. I’ll be getting brunch with Cam at some diner she knows and trying to scape the bachelorette glitter off my soul, since I’m not in the bridal party. For the ceremony itself, it’s midday and it’s free seating. I’ll be on the bride’s side and so will Michael. If you like, I can sit so you two can sit together. Then, pictures. Then the happy couple will be heading off to Vail for a week, and the wedding party will be on their own for dinner, the night, and then breakfast the next morning. I think Isobel’s family and the law firm are doing their own things, but Michael can easily get out of the first and neither of us have been invited to the second.”

“Fine.” Alex said, starting to reach for his duffle, hand going to the door handle.

Maria’s light touch on his arm stopped him. He was furious, unspeakably furious, but he’d known her his whole life. He loved her. He would stop being mad eventually and he didn’t want to act any worse than he already had.

“What?” He bit out.

“On Sunday, you’ll leave. You’ll get on your plane, go back to your team, your work. Michael and I, we’ll get into our trucks, alone, and driving 11 hours back to Roswell. He’ll go to sleep, alone, in his Airstream.” She reached up, fingers hovering over Alex’s dog tags, and the key that hung between them. “The Airstream you’ve never seen.”

“f*cking stop Maria –-”

“I’m not trying to make you feel like sh*t, Alex!” she said, temper finally flaring, voice firm. “But I need you to pop whatever f*cking fantasy you have about whether this is working for him. He’ll never f*cking tell you, but it’s f*cking stalling him out, waiting for you. Staying in f*cking Roswell. Just, I know you can’t get out of this deployment or this contract until, what, 2015”

He gave her the barest nod.

“So, just being realistic, if you can, give him something good to remember. He’s got to get through another year of this, Alex. And so do you, unless these wars end sooner. So whatever f*cking mood you’re in, deal with it, shove it in a box, whatever you need to do. Just show up for him this weekend.”

“I don’t need your relationship advice,” Alex said, shoving the door open. “Michael and I are fine.” He managed not to slam the door on the way out. Barely.

He took himself to the far elevator, trying to breathe in time with his steps. How f*cking dare she! He was hissing to himself, mind wrenched and spinning. He kept thinking of Michael, alone; that smile he’d imagined seeing at the airport getting sadder and duller the more he thought about it.

He just wanted Michael.

He took the elevator to the lobby, picking up his roomcard. He figured Maria had already swapped with Michael. Which meant Michael would be in the room. He tried to breathe his anger down, but it was like a volcano, like something boiling and bursting out of his skin.

He made it to the elevator and hit 25, the highest level floor his keycard could access, duffle heavy on his shoulder. He tried to breathe. When he got out, the floor smelled like slightly wet carpet, but the desert sunlight was bright and clean through the tall windows at the end of the hall. He looked around, found the stairs, and opened the door, slipping into the concrete stairwell. He let the door snick closed behind him and took a massive, chest-paining breath. Another. Another.

He started walking.

Alex walked down 10 flights of stairs until his head was under control, his rage simmering down into irritation. Each floor had a keycard checker to get out of the stairwell, red lights watching him as he descended. Another 5 flights and he could feel his body again, his legs, his ankles, his feet. The last 2 floors he took each step a breath at a time. He felt sweaty and raw, but no longer like he was going to explode as soon as he opened his mouth.

He reached the 8th floor and pulled the thin plastic card out of his back pocket, waving it in front of the keycard checker and –- nothing. He tried again.

Nothing.

There was no red light.

For a long moment, Alex wanted to scream.

He wanted Michael.

He wanted to not be stuck in these f*cking strange places, away from people who loved him, away from everything he knew, in service of a war that he could feel corroding everything that was good in his life. For the barest of moments, he wanted, desperately, to go AWOL, to say f*ck it, f*ck everything about the Air Force and just go home.

He took a breath. He pulled out his phone. He called Michael.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Alex, you here?”

Alex let out a sort of half-laugh. “Yeah, I –- I’m stuck in the stairwell.”

“In the –- what floor?”

“8? I think the card reader is broken –-”

“I’ll come get you. Hold on.”

“Stay –- stay on the phone with me?”

There was a pause and then a quiet voice. “Sure. I’ll be there in a second.”

Alex braced his back against the concrete wall, trying to force the cold, damp feeling of it through his BDUs. He wished he’d gotten a chance to shower before Michael saw him; he wished he'd done a lot of things.

The door opened, and there he was, tux shirt half-untucked, hair askew, shoes in perfectly shined shoes and –- Alex just grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him in, hearing the door close and not caring a damn bit. He couldn’t tell Michael he could stay, couldn’t tell him he loved him in front of his family, but this, this, he could do.

Alex Manes kissed Michael Guerin like his life depended on it, like their lives depended on it. Pushed him against that bare concrete wall as Michael’s hands shoved his duffle off his shoulder, dragging down his bag to grab his ass and haul him against him. Alex spread his legs around Michael’s, co*cked his knee up against the wall, pressing the long line of his suddenly hard co*ck against the high waist of Michael’s dress pants. He loosened his hands from Michael’s now-rumpled shirtfront and buried them in his curls, luxuriating in every soft, twining strand.

“f*cking missed you,” Alex managed, and Michael whined, voice high and eyes closed as he panted against Alex’s mouth.

“Want you,” Michael gasped, “here, want you.”

Alex chuckled. “Me too, but the bed’s, like, 10 steps away. We can make it to the bed.”

Michael shook his head, curls dancing in Alex’s eyes, but then he managed to swallow, voice coming out breathless. “Ok, bed, ok–-”

Alex looked at the now shut door and growled, the sound darkening when Michael shivered against him.

“We can go upstairs one level and then take the elevator –-” Alex started and then Michael said:

“Oh, no, looks like it opened on its own.”

Alex turned to stare at the door. He could have sworn –- but then Michael ground against him and any thought of cause and effect slid right out of Alex’s brain and trickled down the grey stairs.

“Good luck for us then,” Alex said, and stepped back just far enough to get his duffle.

Michael looked beautifully debauched, lips swollen, pupils blow dark, gasping and barely bracing himself against the dark wall.

“You gonna show us our room, beautiful?” Alex asked, voice low and Michael nodded, levering himself up and yanking the door open, striding as fast as he could down the empty, red-flower carpeted hallway. Their room was only a few doors down, and he slipped his card across the holder to get them inside so fast Alex could barely follow it.

Then they were inside and Michael was dragging him to the neatly made bed and flopping back on it, kicking off his shoes. The curtains were open and sunlight was pouring in and Alex barely caught a glimpse of the desert horizon before Michael pulled down his zipper and Alex's entire attention was suddenly on the man in front of him.

“f*ck yes,” Alex said, sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed, tugging Michael towards him as the other man peeled the dress pants over his hips. Michael’s co*ck arched up against his stomach and it was as beautiful as Alex remembered.

“I missed this,” he managed, pressing kisses from the fine bones of Michael’s hips, down his exposed thigh, to the nest of curls around his base.

“Missed you,” Michael whispered. Alex glanced up and the other man had his forearm over his face, chest heaving.

“Too fast?” Alex asked and Michael shook his head, eyes still closed.

“Just, a lot. Good, a lot, but still a lot.”

“Fair,” Alex said and swallowed him down as Michael muffled a shout.

Alex worked him quickly, hand gripping his base, fingertips teasing his entrance. He wanted to taste him, to make him feel good, to make sure he felt good.

Give him something good to remember.

Michael’s groans turned sweet and high, his body jerking off the bed. Alex braced an arm over his hips and before Michael could still, pulled off enough to lick his slick lips and rasp, “Move all you want, love, I’ve got you.”

Michael keened and let loose, his body arching up against Alex’s weight as Alex held him in place, muscles straining and trusting and free.

In only a few breaths Michael was tapping at his shoulder, their own signal he was about to come, and Alex only pressed in closer, wanting it in a way he never had before,straining for the taste.

Michael tasted salty and slick and his. All his.

Alex pulled off, crawling up Michael’s body and covering him, letting him wrap his uncoordinated legs around his hips, pressing his open mouth to Michael’s shoulder, mouth soaking the thin white cotton. After Michael finished riding the high down, Alex rolled away, stripping off his BDUs as quickly as he could, leaving them in a rumpled pile in the small space between the bed and the wall. He’d have to get them cleaned before he left, couldn’t travel looking so trashed, but that was a problem for Saturday Alex. Friday Alex had a half-dressed Michael Guerin laying on his bed, spent co*ck laying across his thigh and body looking delicious and warm.

Chapter 14: 2014 [138,023]

Chapter Text

April 11, 2014
MGM Grand, Las Vegas, NV

The reception dinner was about as stiff and weird as Alex had imagined. He was seated with Maria and some of Isobel’s mother’s bridge friends. They’d managed to offend them in some esoteric way, which was fine with Alex, since he was having trouble figuring out how to apologize to Maria when all he could think about was the line of hickeys Michael had sucked just to the very edge of where his dress uniform collar covered his throat.

Guess I wasn’t the only one feeling possessive.

Maria had been on her phone during the salad course, dealing with some emergency at the Pony she’d described as, “Some people don’t have the sense God gave to a cactus,” and then left it at that.

Now the chicken course was bearing down on them, and the band was attempting Nirvana with mixed success. In the chaos of clinking plates and muttering waitstaff, Alex managed:

“In the truck, earlier -–” and stalled out. He had no idea what to say. She glanced up from her phone, and then set it facedown on the table. She turned to face him, giving him her full attention.

He took a breath. “Thank you for picking me up at the airport. And the -– the selfies.” He tried on a smile; she did not return it, watching him intently. He rubbed his neck, felt the sting of the hickey. Heard Michael’s voice I want you to feel me, even when you can’t touch me, as he jacked Alex off and worked his way up his neck, the arousal-pain-sweetness of it overwhelming his every sense. He tried to center himself on that, on Michael, feeling good in his arms, loving him, caring for him. How right it felt.

Alex kept his voice low. “You’re –- you’re not wrong. I can see, how hard it’s been, these past 6 years.” He glanced up, meeting her eyes. “I know I’ve hurt you. By staying in when I said I wouldn’t. I know I could have done better, explaining myself –-”

“I’m not sure there’s something you could have said that would have made that ok,” Maria murmured, holding his eyes.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for it. I still think it was the right choice. The money –-”

“We could have gotten through it –-”

He could feel the sideways glances of the bridge club members, hot on his cheek. He said, “The money really matters. It does, Maria. It will.” He took a breath, keeping his tone low and watching as the waiter put the grilled chicken on the place setting in front of him. As soon as the man stepped away, Alex continued. “You talked about wanting a home. That money can get us one. You talked about wanting to make stability; the money can buy us that.”

“Money can’t get us the last 6 years back,” she said, voice quiet. “It just can’t, Alex. Nothing can.”

Alex felt pressure behind his eyes, but kept it together. “I hear you,” he said. “But we could have another 60. And they will be so much easier, after this bit of sacrifice.”

“Maybe I don’t want easier,” Maria said. Then she smoothed her hands across her napkin, tucking it over her pink dress with delicate flowers scrolling up the front and sides. She leaned in close, putting her cheek on his shoulder. He felt warmer, more ok than he had since he’d sat down to her cool, quiet exterior. Her voice was quiet when she said, “And I don’t think it’s me you need to say these things to.”

“I will,” he said, turning to press his lips to her hair. “I promise I will.”

“You should eat,” she murmured, sitting back up and picking up her fork and knife. She slipped him a sly grin. “You look like you could use the calories.”

Alex hitched his collar up a little higher and applied himself to his chicken.

During dessert, there were speeches. Drunken speeches by Noah’s fellow attorneys; weeping speeches by Isobel’s female relatives; a long and rambling, quote-filled speech from Max that somehow managed to make Alex’s heart warm. Then Michael stood. He’d managed to smooth the creases from his shirt, and his suit jacket had entirely survived Alex’s attentions by staying safe in the closet until the very last minute.

Michael cleared his throat, glancing down at Isobel who was watching him with a grin. Alex couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy in high school. She’d always seemed so aloof, so distanced from everything going on around her.

But there was unbridled affection in her eyes as she looked up at Michael, and there was something in Alex that loved her for it.

“I’ve heard that good reception speeches follow this simple formula: be quick, be funny, be seated.” There was a low chuckle as a few more people turned away from scraping the chocolate off of their plates and towards the stage where the bridal party sat. The overhead lights were leaving purple shadows in the pale creases of everyone’s cream dresses and white shirts, giving the whole table an otherworldly feel.

Alex kind of liked it.

Michael kept going. “I’ll try to follow that advice. So here’s a story Isobel probably doesn’t want me to tell.” Isobel covered her face and groaned, as the audience chuckled. “She worked really hard on this wedding, and while she was planning it out, Noah was working on resolving a case between two of the more, ah, prominent families in our little town in New Mexico. I’d bet a lot of you all were involved in that case too.” The lawyers in the audience nodded, setting their forks down. “I know Noah pulled his weight with the wedding planning, but there were times when Isobel was all alone, doing her best.” He took a hard breath, sound catching in the close microphone. Alex wished he was sitting next to him, could reach up and hold his hand, give him a bit of his strength.

Michael kept going.

“We were sitting down, planning out her honeymoon. And she was checking the cellphone coverage in Vail, so if something came up at the office, Noah could stay connected. And then she paused, and said, ‘One of the things I love about Noah is that, even when we’re apart, I feel like he’s with me.’” He pressed his hand to his chest. “‘In here. And even when he’s far away, or gone, and I’m missing him, I know when he can, he’ll come back to me. That he’ll always come back to me. No matter what.’ And I thought that was pretty much the best definition of modern love I could think of. Faith that, no matter the distance or the ways our careers and paths diverge, love is the act of coming back together. Always coming back together. Whether it’s a crash landing or a homecoming, something soft and easy or something hard and rough, true love means finding each other, anytime we can.” He met Alex's eyes for the briefest moment, before skipping away, giving him the privacy of anonymity.

There was a long moment of quiet, and then Michael reached for the table, groping in front of him for his glass. He caught it around the base, raised it up, spotlights glinting off the gold rim. “So, please join me in a toast. To Isobel and Noah and love that always comes back.”

The attendees raised their glasses, Alex included. Maria nudged his knee and Alex nodded. He’d heard. He’d heard.

He just wished he knew what to do about it.

–-

Maria had been right, Noah’s coworkers were more than capable of keeping the groom company during his bachelor party. Alex managed to get seated next to Michael on the first leg of the limo trip, leg hitched up over his in the jostle to get aboard, Michael’s shoulder behind his back. It would have been a lot more pleasant if Max hadn’t also been half on Alex lap, apologetic and stiff the whole way. Alex hadn’t seen Liz Ortecho anywhere, but Maria had pointed out Jenna Cameron at another table. He hoped Max would reach out to her or anyone else, not just shut himself up in his hotel room.

After the first casino, Alex tugged on Michael’s sleeve, drawing him away from the hooting attorneys. “Want to get out of here?” He asked, and Michael had nodded, ducking back in to say his goodbyes and meeting Alex by the slots. They walked through the windowless, clockless hall, dead-eyed people's faces lit by the constant visual jumble of the slot machines, their ears full of the sound of both real coins and recordings of past wins, the sensory mess of it making Alex’s head spin.

The night air was a revelation, cool and crisp and smelling of a city, but still far better than the stale recirculated mess inside.

Michael took a deep breath, like he was appreciating the fresh air too.

He turned to Alex, asking, “So, back to the bedroom?”

Alex made a snap decision. “Want to go for a walk instead? Just for a bit?”

“Yeah, Alex,” Michael said, voice soft, nudging his shoulder. “I’d love that.”

Alex nodded and stepped into the flow of the crowded sidewalk. Once they were out from under the marquee, the wide, stained sidewalks were nearly empty –- except for hawkers shoving cards with naked women on them into their hands, promising them ‘the best girls, the hottest girls, no cover, come on by.' Alex shook his head at each, and Michael rolled his eyes.

“So much for a romantic walk,” Alex said, voice low, and Michael chuckled. They were in a long, empty stretch between casinos, the sounds and lights at more of a distance, alone on the cement.

“Isobel’s obsessed with helping me plan our next trip. She wants it to be so romantic.” Michael huffed. “I don’t want to tell her that you and me naked in a room is all the romance I need.”

Alex snorted, brushing the back of his hand against Michael’s, close enough to hear the slight intake of breath that earned.

“I –- I wish I could –-” Alex started, trying to force himself to say half of what he’d said to Maria. “I wish I could, with you. Be up at that table. Be, be as brave as you.”

Michael stopped stock still, hand going to Alex’s wrist, holding on hard.

“Alex.” He said. Alex was looking at dusty sidewalk, at the slight scuffs on Michael’s well-shined shoes. “Alex. Look at me.”

He couldn’t ignore that order.

Michael’s eyes were wide, and drowning deep.

“I have never, never needed you to be out for me to be happy. Sure, I’d love to show you off. You’re hot and brilliant and perfect; of course I’d want that.”

Alex felt his cheeks heat and dropped his eyes, but Michael tugged his wrist to get his attention again.

“You’re plenty brave enough for both of us. Ok? I –- I don’t think anything’s wrong with you waiting or wanting to protect yourself. It’s not like I was waving a rainbow banner up there.”

“It’s just –- it’s so hard, for the guys who are out. Constant sh*t, constant bullsh*t. Worse bonuses, worse promotions, people just quit, take the dishonorable discharges, just f*cking quit rather than put up with it. And what about the next election? What if they change it back ? They had marriage equality in California and then took it away again. Our rights are always a matter of debate, never something we can rely on. I just want to leave with my honorable discharge, enough money so you can go to college and we can have a house and things can be ok and –-”

Michael swept a thumb across the inside of his wrist, the touch soft and yet so present for them.

Alex kept going, feeling the tap opening, thoughts just pouring out of him. “And it’s such f*cking bullsh*t, because any dunk asshole on this Strip could marry any woman he pulled away from a slot machine and it would be legal, but we’d be turned away from any Elvis lounge in Vegas. Six years, Michael. Six years we’ve put up with this bullsh*t, and we’re still worth less in their eyes than any f*cking drunk f*cking gambler and his date.” He could feel his shoulders tensing, his voice beginning to shake. “And I wonder if it’s wrecking us. Going to wreck us. How hard it is. If we’ll last. f*ck it, maybe I should just mary Maria and we can all just live together and –-”

“I don’t think Maria really wants to be our beard for life,” Michael said, voice gentle. “And I’d never ask you to do that.”

“I didn’t ask you to stay in Roswell,” Alex forced himself to say.

“What?” Michael looked startled by the change in direction.

Alex winced, chewing on his words before saying them. “Maria, she, she mentioned you’re lonely. Stalling out in Roswell. And, I –- I wouldn’t ever ask that of you. Ask you to stay –-”

Michael shook his head. “I’m not staying because of you, Alex.” He looked to the side. “Well, not just you. I guess –- I guess she’s right. A little.” He narrowed his eyes. “But it’s my choice, Alex. I’m spending my life how I choose. And I don’t think it’s a waste, being where I am, doing what I’m doing, doing honest labor and fixing broken things.”

“You, you don’t want to leave, leave Roswell?” Alex asked and Michael blinked hard for a few moments.

“I’ve thought about it, loads of times. I liked being in Colorado with you.” He smiled a little and Alex returned it, warmed and brightened. Michael kept going, eyes tracking a raucous wedding party as they worked their way across the Strip, tripping in their high heels as the crosswalk beeped at them to rush. “What could make me leave Roswell.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Nothing I ever want to happen. If –- if Isobel was gone from my life, or Max, or you –- that would feel like all my ties were broken. I’d be long gone, if that happened. But as long as I have you 3, I’ll call it home.” He quirked a smile. “And it’s not all bad. Crashdown still has the best food in the Southwest.”

“That’s true,” Alex said, accepting the lightening of subject. He turned his hand, gripping Michael’s wrist. “As long as you know it’s fine with me if you leave, if you want us to end up someplace else. I’d –- I’d follow you. If you let me.”

“Oh, Alex,” Michael said, slipping his hand down and gripping Alex’s hand, just for a brief moment, before letting it go and starting to walk again. “I’d want you anywhere I am. Anytime, anywhere.”

Alex fell into step beside him, needing to say one more thing.

“Maria –- she mentioned you could use some friends right now. The next few months, can you write to me about the guys you work with? See if some of them could be good to spend time with?”

Michael snorted. “I don’t think I’m going to find great conversationalists in the occasional workers of Foster’s Dairy Farm and Ranch. And it’s not like I can go to the Pony, since I’m banned as part of our Great Ruse. Not that I’d want to spend all my time getting drunk, but, you know; there’s only so much to do in Roswell.”

Alex persisted. “Even so. Or maybe there’s, like, an astronomy club, or something –-”

Michael laughed, a little embarrassed. “I don’t need you to arrange a playdate for me, Alex. I’ll find some friends. Pinkie-swear.”

Alex reached out, looping his pinkie around Michael’s, and squeezing tight for just a moment before dropping his hand. “Pinkie-swear.”

–-

Alex was kissing his way down Michael’s chest the next morning when someone began pounding on the door. He startled upright as Michael froze, eyes going wide.

“Is this my room or yours?” Alex hissed, unable to remember.

Michael sat up, murmuring. “Supposed to be yours. Maria’s in mine. I’ll be in the bathroom, if you want to –-”

“Yeah,” Alex said, looking over the side of the bed for some pants. He saw Michael’s dress pants and his BDUs, dragging the latter up and over his hips and zipping them up as he made his way towards the door, heart racing. Military police? Queerphobic Mafia? My Dad -– he looked through the eyehole and saw –- Maria.

She was raising her fist to knock again, eyes looking a little frantic. He flipped the security lock, undid the bolt, and yanked the door open. She looked him up and down, gave him a quick smirk, then stepped forward; he sidled back to let her into the room.

“Isobel’s weirdo aunt has some intense Polish tradition involving bride kidnapping that needs to happen before the service. The family of the groom needs to buy her with vodka and chocolate. The family of the groom -- ie, the hungover dudebros from Noah's law firm -- can't find their asses with both hands and a map.” Her voice was tight with irritation. “They’re going to collect Michael at his room in 10 minutes –-” there was a bang from inside the bathroom, like Michael had knocked the soap tray off of the counter and Alex chuckled.

Maria reached up, fingers hovering before gently tapping his upper chest. Alex hissed –- he’d forgotten about the hickeys.

“Not really my style, but good for you,” she said, eyes dancing.

“Guerin?” She called. Michael swung the bathroom door open, the smallest bath towel Alex had ever seen just barely covering him. She rolled her eyes. “You need to get to your room and be prepared to sell Isobel’s honor.”

“The things I do for family,” he muttered before heading over to the closet to pull out his suit. “You mind, DeLuca?”

Maria turned her back on him, giving Alex the full view to himself. He was mesmerized, Michael dropping his towel from around his hips as soon as Maria’s back was turned, bending to gather his underwear and slacks unselfconsciously.

“Alex.” Maria said, with a tone like she was repeating herself.

“Yeah?” He said, voice a little breathy.

“Jesus.” She muttered. He felt her cool fingers on his chin, reorienting his gaze to meet hers. “I need you,” she said extremely slowly, over-articulating every syllable, “To go down to the gift shop in the lobby and buy 6 handles of vodka and the biggest box of chocolates you can find. That will get this over with as painlessly as possible, make you look good to the low-rent Brooks Brothers Riot going on up there, and mean you can come to breakfast with Cam and me after. You got that?”

Michael was buttoning up his shirt. He’d noticed Alex’s attention and was giving each and every button far more care than it deserved.

Maria jiggled Alex’s chin until he pulled away with a huff. “Alex. What are you going to do.”

“Go and buy enough vodka to satisfy Isobel’s aunt’s Polish tradition.”

“And chocolate.”

“And chocolate.” He repeated. He knelt to grab his shirt from the floor and Maria nodded, leaning against the edge of the table, careful not to sit on the chair or the bed. Smart, Alex thought, thinking the table was probably the only surface they hadn’t made use of. Yet, he thought with a grin.

As he was rifling around his bag, he found the little blue box he’d bought at the airport in Istanbul and palmed it.

He got his boots on, and started for the door, before Michael made a small sound. Alex froze, and turned. Michael was nearly all dressed, but his eyes were following Alex. He glanced at Maria, who was reading her phone, but then raised his chin.

Alex strode across the room to him, sliding his hand into Michael’s hair and kissing him for all he was worth. “I’ll miss you during the service, but I’ll see you here,” he whispered. Michael nodded, looking a little stunned. Alex pressed another hard kiss to his soft mouth and then wrapped his arms around him for a long, tight moment. “Love you,” he said as he pulled back, eyes holding Michael’s.

“Love you too.”

Alex slipped the blue box into Michael’s pocket. He murmured, “That’s a something blue, if Isobel wants it.”

Then Alex walked backwards before turning around and getting to the door.

He could still feel the scratch of Michael’s beard against his lips as he paid for the vodka and chocolate, all the glitter of jewels in carefully locked and alarmed cases jazzing their way through the air along with the tinny repeated versions of pop music from the '80s. As he waited in line behind a man who seemed to be preparing to give the casino back most of the money he’d won the night before, Alex texted Maria.

Alex : Where do you need that delivery?
Maria : Room 2301. Come quick. This could not be whiter if it was a 90210 casting call.
Alex: lol, omw

When Alex arrived at the bridal suit, Max and Michael were holding two ties knotted together across the doorway to Isobel’s room and looking suitably stern under the watchful eye of someone who looked like she could be Ann Evan’s sister. Clustered in front of them, a gaggle of deeply hung-over-and-still-in-some-cases-beglittered attorneys of Noah’s law firm were trying to negotiate with a handful of M&Ms and what looked like the contents of a single, sad minibar. Alex tapped one of the more sober-looking men on the shoulder whose high-and-tight implied he at least was interested in military service, passed him the brown bag, and then backed away to help Maria hold up the wall further down the hallway.

She looked up from her phone, eyes smiling as he settled in beside her, shoulders bumping.

“You two have a good talk?” She asked.

Alex nodded, thinking of Michael’s stricken expression the night before. Then he tried to remind himself of the many, many more smiles they’d shared since.

“He said he’ll try to make some friends, won’t just stall out in Roswell.”

“Hmm,” she said, glancing down at her phone. She whispered. “And did you talk to him about not understanding why he stays? Why hasn't he moved with you?”

Alex tightened his jaw. “Sort of. I think I have a better understanding. He said he’d leave Roswell if he didn’t have me or Isobel or Max. I told him not to stay for me, but I don’t –- I don’t think he got it.”

Maria tipped her head to the side. “It’s good to have started the conversation, though. I’m proud of you, Alex.”

He rolled his eyes, leaning against her a little. “You’re my conscience, you know that?”

“I do,” she said, voice long-suffering. He cackled a little and then pulled out his own phone.

“How long do you think this expression of culture is going to take?”

“Well, I’m all done with it. Want to get brunch?”

Alex glanced up to see Michael standing with Max, a bottle of vodka in each of their hands and shaking their heads.

Maria’s voice was small. “I think he’s on brother duty for the morning. You can try the room service tomorrow, ok?”

Alex had had a pancake breakfast picked out for them, had planned to feed it to Michael, to see him grin around the syrup and maybe lick it off of him. He took a deep breath.

“Sure, looks like they’ve got this covered.”

Maria sighed and pushed herself to standing, flats easy on the carpet, heels tucked safe away in her purse. “If I ever get married and you see someone trying to buy me, you f*cking deck them, ok, Alex?”

“Copy.”

–-

The service itself was shorter and sweeter than Alex had expected. 30 minutes max, the words exchanged, the rings placed on fingers. Isobel had opted out of the bouquet toss, decided not to bother with the garter-pull.

All that were left were the pictures.

Since neither Maria nor Alex were in the wedding party, they were only needed for a few group shots. They were hanging around to the side, sipping ciders and counting the minutes until they could go get lunch, when Isobel’s voice rang out across the room.

“Alex and Maria!”

She was waving for them to join her up front, where the photographer was adjusting her equipment.

As they approached, she called out, “I want to get photos of all of our high school friends, in pairs. It’s for a photo wall, for the 10 year reunion. You two ok with that?”

“Sure?” Maria said, adjusting her hair and peach-colored dress.

“Just girls with girls and boys with boys, no need for every permutation,” she said.

Isobel pulled Maria in and they both grinned at the camera before the flashbulbs went. Then she stepped to the side, nudging Max in front of it and then gesturing Alex forward. Alex headed in, eyes flaring from the bright flash, but then getting ready to move away again.

“Not quite yet,” Isobel said, and then Max was moving away, and there was Michael. Rosy cheeked and a little out of breath, eyes a little glassy from too much attention. Alex stiffened, watching Noah’s coworkers on the other side of the room. Were any of them reservists? Working on the base?

“Come on, guys,” Isobel called. “Lean in like you like each other.”

Michael looked at him, smile small and private between them for a moment. Then he slung his arm around Alex’s shoulders and Alex slipped his around Michael’s waist. The smell of him, sweaty and warm from running around all day with the bridal party, filled the small space between them. Alex felt his smile begin to grow, his cheeks to warm.

“Alright,” the photographer said. “One the count of three. Blink on two. Three, two, one –-” The bulb flashed bright, but Alex was certain he was grinning bigger than he ever had in any school picture or commissioning photo.

As they moved away, Isobel murmured, “I’ll make sure Michael gets a few copies.” Then, much louder. “Alright, let’s get the partners in here!”

–-

That night, Michael and Alex made good use of the desk; and the next morning, Alex got to feed Michael pancakes as they looked out over the dawnlit Strip.

–-

The flight back to Turkey was long. Alex suspected the drive to Roswell was longer.

–-

Sent: April 15th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I f*cked up.

Oh man, I f*cked up.

Let me back up.

Ok, so I was trying to, you know, talk. To someone. Here. Like we talked about, that if I spent the rest of the season doing the Stoic Cowgirl Thing thing I would be, like, phenomenally out of practice being a normal human.

So the guys were joshing around and like, talking about how much they wished Mrs. Foster would cook something other than lasagna or meatballs. And I was, I was having fun ok? Fun. Like, actually, laughing fun. It turned out, they thought I was judging them because I’m older, but I wasn’t, but anyway. I helped Ed out when he got his foot stepped on by a cow, made sure he got it checked out so he wouldn't end-up with a limp. Taught a few of them how to ride horses right so they stopped getting blisters when they went out. They loosened up after that, seemed cool enough for a bunch of 18-year-olds. It was nice. It’s like what it used to be like with Max.

Anyway, so, Sergio is like, telling a story about his Mom’s cooking. And we’re laughing and I’m smiling along and they were like, everyone tell a story about your favorite meal; not, like, steak or whatever, just something nice that you miss from home. And I’m like -- got it. Canned soup and croutons. Got it. I’ve got something to share, finally, and it’s not going to sound sad and sh*tty at all.

So James is like, he misses his Mom’s marinara sauce.

And Ed is like, he misses his aunt’s chili.

And Sergio is like, he misses his Mom’s tamales at Christmas.

And I say: I missed canned soup and croutons.

And they all kind of pause and turn to stare at me over the bunkhouse table, and I’m like, smiling. And they’re like -- no, man, what did your family make for you?

And I’m like, oh, I cooked for myself.

They frowned, joshing me, like, of course, sure, now you’re an old man, but when you were a kid, what did your parents feed you?

And I was like, frowning. I mean, there was a while where someone made pancakes sometimes in the mornings, the kind of out the box, but yeah, real pancakes. Store brand syrup, better than the kind at the hotel, which was so good. But store brand is good too.

And James gets kinda quiet and he says, but like, not special occasion food. Just, what did the people who raised you like to feed you?

And I was like -- I don’t understand. I fed myself. I would get hungry after school, and cook a bowl of soup out of a can, and if I was lucky, there were croutons and it was Progresso. If I wasn’t lucky, there were no croutons and it was the sh*tty condensed soup that never really becomes full soup, right?

I mean, I know you know.

I know you know.

We’ve eaten it together, right? It’s good, right?

And they were just staring at me and I tried to explain. Things were just really busy sometimes. Parents just forgot to feed me sometimes, so I fed myself.

“And your Mom?” Sergio asked and God, I finally recognized the emotion on their faces. Finally and I felt so f*cking stupid. Pity. It was f*cking pity. Like, suddenly I wasn’t Maria-the-cowgirl or Maria-who-patches-us-up-after-we-get-stepped-on-by-a-cow. It was -- poor-neglected-Maria.

And I know I didn’t have it worse than some of the people I grew-up with. Kids who got kicked out, kids who got really hurt at home. Not just physical stuff, sexual stuff.

I know what I grew-up with wasn’t that big a deal compared with what so many other people went through, what you went through.

I know you know.

But none of them were at the table. And every single person there, they were home for Christmas or just to see family. They went home.

And so it was just me. And it felt so -- like I know that you’re right, I can’t just wait to see you. I need to do my own thing too. And that takes making friends. But reaching out, talking doesn’t happen in a vacuum, right? It doesn’t happen without someone listening. And what do you do when people you tell don’t react right? When you don’t even know how you want them to react -- except you’ve never made me feel like a circus freak for not having a favorite childhood food. Like, now I’ve had time to think about it, if I’d just said take-out they would have assumed my family were just bad cooks and they could have teased me about it.

But instead, I’m other. I am this other thing, this poor, sad thing. And they -- they’re not going to treat me like one of them anymore. They’re going to treat me as other. As this other thing.

And I can't stand it, Alex. I can’t stand it and I just wish I’d lied and told them tacos or chalupas or freaking naan or whatever. None of them went to high school with us, they don’t f*cking know what I like.

I could have just talked about that kickass bread you made from the starter you brought last time we got a room with a kitchen in it, at that extended stay in Houston. That was really f*cking good.

And the thing is -- it’s not that bad. It wasn’t that bad, making myself soup. Like, the bowls were too small and it would always slosh over the sides and burn me and then I’d have to clean up the kitchen floor or I would catch it, or the soup would be cold because the bowls were this really thin cheap china. But I knew how to do it. I knew how to feed myself. How to clean up. How to help make sure everyone else got fed, and still was able to deal with whatever came next from the adults.

We survived, is what we did. And f*ck them for thinking I’m a victim. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor.

Fine, I can hear that dumb Cher song playing in my head too. I just know you’re humming it.

God, I miss you. You’d know what to say. Just, exactly what to say.

I love you.

M--

PS: I’m going to keep trying. I promise I will. I just need a break from it, I think. I can’t wait to see you.

PPS: Isobel loved the Blue Mosque figurine you gave her for her “something blue.” Really. She said it looked like something out of Aladdin (which is a good thing, for her; she loves Robin Williams movies). She’s putting it on her vanity. Thank you, love.

–-

Sent: May 28th, 2014
From: Incirlik Air Base in Turkey

Dear M–-,

f*ck them, that f*cking sucks. You might not have had the childhood you deserved but you’re a good person and you did the best you could when the people who were supposed to care for you didn’t f*cking do it. You’re kind and smart and brave and strong and you tried to let them see a tiny smidge of where that came from and they didn’t get it and that’s on their f*cking heads. Their f*cking loss.

And I’d get it if you didn’t want to keep trying, and we’ll work through it if you don’t, but M--, I think you should try. Like, maybe just one-on-one? Like, tell a good story. About music or Liz or something cool you did that has nothing to do with your caregivers. You deserve to remember the good things about your childhood too.

I hope you keep trying.

Please.

Ok, and I don’t want you to freak out, but I had tough news. I’m going to be going on some flights that might be a little more dangerous. I will be fine, I promise. But I’m starting to work on projects that mean I’m getting embedded with Navy teams, forward-operator types. I’ll be back at base, but I might be going outside the wire sometimes. Still stationed here, but there might be a few weeks at a time where you don’t hear from me.

I promise I’m fine. Just a little shaky about it. It’ll be fine. I’ll stay safe. I’ll stay whole. I’ll come home to you.

I love you,

Alex

PS: I’m glad she liked it. Thanks for telling me. Aladdin, really? It’s most of the most famous mosques in the world! Sigh. Anyway, I'm glad she enjoyed it!

–-

Sent: June 12th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Since I got your letter, I’ve been having dreams.

I think I’m worried about you. I love you. I thought I’d tell you about them, just so you –- I don’t know. Just so you know I’m thinking about you. It’s just not the kind of thing I can talk about with the guys (who I am spending time with still, I promise; just not talking about food).

So. These dreams. They started after that plane crashed, the one coming from Malaysia? 370? Or maybe that’s just when I started remembering. This is what they’re like.

Every night, I save you.

Every night, I dream that I’m getting up with you for an early morning flight. That when the RPGs or the Kalishnikovs or whatever are arcing up through the great blue yonder, towards where your plane is hanging at 35,000 feet, I’m holding you. In my dreams, I have this power, this ability to keep things in the air. To move them if I can see them. To stop things from coming closer.

It’s something I’ve wanted to have, craved, my whole life. The ability to push a bad foster Dad back out of my room; the ability to slide that cupcake right out of Isobel’s lunchbox and right into my hands. I’ve wanted it. So bad, Alex. For so long.

And in these dreams, I have it. I have it, and I can keep those rockets, those bullets, far, far away from you.

And I know, look. I read the papers. We know how incredibly rare it is for U.S.-owned planes, particularly the kind you’re in, the intelligence-focused ones, to get touched by enemy fire. There’s no competing air power anymore, there’s barely any rockets of any kind. Not in Iraq. And I know that. I do.

But I’m scared, Alex. I’m scared. I’m always scared for you. When I’m out on the range, moving the cattle around; when I’m working in the milking barn, with the stink and the filth of it. I hear a plane fly overhead and I wonder if you’re looking down at someone like me, some Iraqi kid working on a family farm, looking up at you, wondering if you’re going to drop bombs or peanut butter.

(That was from a Doonesbury cartoon. I’d send it, since I think you’d get a kick out of it, but I don’t think the Air Force censors would like it).

I’m scared all the time for you. But not when I’m going to sleep. Because I imagine what it’s like to fly with you. To be pushed back and back and back into one of those seats I’ve only ever seen in movies, they look kind of scratchy, like polyester. Anyway, the sharp ascent pushes me back, pushes me tight against the seat, but if I needed to, I could push forward. Not with my flesh-and-blood muscles, but with my imaginary powers.

And you’d be beside me, and we could hold hands, and then you’d be working, listening in, figuring out what’s a wedding and what’s a convoy, what’s a refugee camp and what’s a training camp. And I’d just be sitting there, invisible, and protective. No one on your team could see me, but every arcing bullet, every firing rocket, they would just -- curve away from your plane. Like the calves swerve away from Buck, like I got out of the way of that one foster Dad. Except, this time, I'm too much trouble, too big, something to be moved around, not to be f*cked with.

I dream of making you safe, Alex. I dream of making sure you’re not to be f*cked with, that you’re something that’s safe, that’s free. I dream of a being enough to wrap my powers around the whole world -- around you. Because you’re my world, Alex.

I know you promised. I know you said, you’ll stay safe and come home to me. I know you said it and I believe you. But, love, there’s so much none of us can control. Accidents and IEDs, broken engines and broken promises. Nothing falling apart fast, something fallen apart even faster.

What do you dream of? I hope it’s something soft, something easy you use to put yourself to bed every night. That you're sleeping on something better than those cots you had the first time around. I hope it’s something safe, something free, even if it’s not of me.

I hope you have easy dreams, because I know your days aren't easy. I know you’re not frontline, but you’re in some kind of danger, or near it, every day.

But not in my dreams. In my dreams, every night, I save you.

I love you,

M–-

Chapter 15: 2014 [147,355]

Chapter Text

Sent: August 13th, 2014
From: Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

Dear M–-,

That’s a good dream. I wish it were true.

This was such a sh*tty week. Someone –- someone I know died. It wasn’t the enemy. It was –0 anyway. He’s gone.

I miss you.

I think I can come back in October. Can you take some time then? Where do you want to meet?

The protests look intense in the cities. I’m glad they’re happening; that video in New York was awful, and what’s happening to those protesters in Ferguson is so f*cked up. I get it if you need to go. But I hope you’re staying safe.

I love you. I miss you.

Alex

–

August 14th, 2014
Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

When PFC Rollins jumped off the closest overpass to the base, everyone in his training group got 3 sessions of mandatory counseling. It took Alex a month to schedule his first appointment, the mental health staff was so overwhelmed with new troops arriving.

The counselor was a woman in her early 30s with curly red hair; she had a long, new-ish pencil and a closed, thick notebook. Her office was a half-a-closet at the back of the base, windows dusty and yellow, sunlight milky and parched.

“First Robin Williams, now this.” She started once Alex sat down, shaking her head. “Tough month.”

“Robin Williams?”

She frowned a little. “These things happen in clusters sometimes, and a lot of news reporting on a big incident can push some people to do things they wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“I meant –- what happened to Robin Williams?”

She co*cked her head.

Alex tried to explain. “I don’t really watch the news, not when I’m out here.”

"Ah." She took a breath. “He died, Lieutenant Manes.” Her voice was sad but matter-of-fact. “A few days ago. He died by suicide.”

“Oh.”

“Did,” she seemed to be trying to recover. “Did you like his movies?"

"I guess so?" Alex thought of Isobel, her wedding gift, wrapped up carefully in blue paper.Something blue. "I likedGoodwill Hunting."

“Hmm. I was more of a Patch Adams gal myself." She shook her head, reorienting herself. "Did you know PFC Rollins?” she asked.

Alex shook his head. “We were both supporting the same SEAL team, but no major shared assignments or anything.”

She nodded a little, giving him some silence to fill. He’d considered being a pain in the ass about this, like most of the guys were probably doing; but what Maria had said about the war, tearing them up, it was rattling around in his head.

The thing was, what Maria didn't seem to know, was seeking mental health care or receiving certain diagnoses would make him ineligible for some clearances, some kinds of roles. And while he wasn’t intending to make the Air Force a career, he had his promise to Michael: stay in one piece and come back to him. And he was a lot more likely to be able to keep that promise with Top Secret or higher clearances. So he had a needle to thread in this conversation; not to mention, therapist’s notes could be included in any UCMJ proceeding, so there were entire acres of his life he’d never touch on, no matter how open her leading silences.

“I heard some of the guys talking,” Alex started, watching her lean in a little closer, tapping her pencil on her closed notebook, “about being worried about him. We didn’t do anything; we just thought he was having a hard time.”

She nodded. “That’s pretty normal. If you blame yourself, it’s a form of control.” She huffed a laugh. “It’s not very therapist-y of me to laugh, but it’s not, you know, a good form of control. But it’s a really, really common one.” She paused, “particularly for folks who’ve seen death or major injuries before.”

Alex refused to think about that moment, the smell of blood, how red it had been on the shed floor.

He pushed on. “How do people deal with it? What’s better than blaming yourself?”

She tilted her head and set down her pencil. “Well, it depends on the root of the issue, but I can’t really go wrong with a grounding exercise, body awareness, that sort of thing.”

“Grounding?”

She smiled: “It’s a way to connect yourself to the here and now. And it’s not just a therapy thing -- we did grounding before choir concerts, in high school. We’d all stand around in a circle and imagine lava was coming up from the center of the earth, coming up, and we’d trace all the layers it went up through, past bones and pots and pans and foundations and pylons, until it ate through our shoes and then our skin and then flowed into our bones.”

Alex must have been making a face because she laughed lightly again. “It’s a little gross, sure, but it helped kick stage fright’s ass. So, the first thing you do is find a place inside your mind that you trust. Then put yourself there.”

“So, I do that, and then, what?”

“Well, there’s no magic bullet. But when our brains start spinning around, they’re warping reality around us. Making us think we have powers to control the world in ways we simply don’t. Making us think we can read other people’s thoughts about us, or if we’re just perfect enough we can stop other people from hurting someone we care about, or exaggerating how big a threat is, or minimizing how scared we are.” She made a mark on her paper. “Anyway, all of that is taking us away from the moment. The actual reality of where we are, right here, right now. If we’re living inside of memories, we’re not doing that. So grounding –- in your body, in the moment, whatever –- helps with that.”

“Huh,” Alex said, trying to keep his voice even, even as he felt like he was trying to sit still on a chair with only two legs, while everyone else had all four. “Are you –- do most people not think about their memories all the time?”

She tilted her head. “I’d maybe say it another way. You do computer science, right?”

He nodded.

“You can try an experiment. Try a month where you keep track of how much time you spend thinking about bad memories, even when things are ok around you. Then spend the next month gently pulling yourself into the present, every time you fall into one of those memory spins. Then go back to normal. See how you feel.”

She reached into a folder, pulling out a list titled “15 Cognitive Distortions.”

“Try this on for size. And come on back if you need to.”

Alex stood, slipping the list into his pocket.

He didn’t schedule a follow-up appointment.

–-

October 20th, 2014
Idaho Falls, ID

Michael tipped his head all the way back against the bed of his truck, taking in the long, arcing contrails overhead where he was parked outside of the chain link fence surrounding the Idaho Falls Regional Airport. Every few minutes, the roar of a jet engine broke the quiet mountain air as it repositioned itself on the tarmac around the squat one-story airport. It had been a 20 hour drive north from Roswell, cool in the October air, but still beautiful.

Alex had been traveling for 20 hours too, crossing oceans, connecting through Dulles in Virginia and heading north for his new posting at Mountain Home AFB.

Michael had gotten here in plenty of time. By rights, Alex should be just at the Wyoming border, beginning his descent. The next plane he heard would have him on it, according to FlightAware.

Michael had a week's worth of clothes, food, along with Isobel's camping gear, borrowed on sufferance.

They were going to spend the week at Craters of the Moon National Monument, just the two of them.

He'd spent months looking at pictures of 1000 sq miles of volcanic rock, packed with lava tubes for spelunking, volcanoes they could climb. He wasn't sure if Alex had, or not.

Things had been distant lately, hard, since August. He didn't know what he was walking into.

He'd done all his freaking out on hours 2 - 18 of the drive. At this point, he was trying to be calm about it. 'Present,' like Isobel would say.

Michael wondered what all that black rock looked like from the sky: like Rosa's spilled paints, like a splash of dried blood on a cave wall?

Michael closed his eyes. He'd wanted to, oh, a dozen times, tell Alex the truth. Not just about him and where he was from, but about that night. The girls. He wanted at least one person to know the whole truth and not hate him for it. He didn't quite get how Max squared it, treating him like a murderer when he knew better. He would have understood if Isobel had been colder. He got that; he could take it. That's what he'd signed up for that night.

But Max knew, dammit. He knew what he'd given up for Isobel. And yet, he'd somehow simplified his memory until Michael was somehow the bad guy, the f*ck-up.

But Alex didn't treat him that way. Alex treated him like a good guy, a good partner, who did what he could with the cards he'd been dealt.

(Alex touched him like he was precious).

The sound of far-off engine caught his ear. He searched the sky, and there, there it was, coming out of the eastern sky:

Alex's flight home.

He lay back, counting through the periodic table of elements, left to right, right to left, top to bottom, then -- his phone buzzed.

Alex: I see you.

Michael scanned the crowd. He wasn't sure if, everything else being equal, they would be the kind of men to run tearfully into each other's arms in the parking lot of a regional airport. If they weren't so near a military base, if they weren't in rural Idaho, he didn't know if he'd really want to wrap himself around Alex and let his face go as soft as his heart felt seeing him shrugging that massive backpack on his shoulders and weaving through the crowd. He was pretty sure Alex preferred to save that softness just for the two of them, just for the quiet place they built between them whenever they were alone together.

When he caught sight of him, Michael froze. Alex lookedrough. Skin pale, eyes haunted, shoulders slumped inside his uniform. What did they do to him.

Alex didn't look like he would thank Michael for asking, not while his eyes skittered from truck window to truck window, every so often glancing up at the sky and then quickly back down to his boots. So Michael stayed as still as he could, lounged against his tailgate as Alex covered the last few feet between them, hand on his elbow as he slung his backpack off his shoulders. Michael half-crawled into the truck bed to strap it down and thought he heard Alex's breath hitch from the way his shirt rode up his side at the motion.

But that could have been the mountain winds.

"Ready to go?" Alex asked, and God, Michael had missed the sound of his voice, all those resonances and quavers no letter could carry across the world to him.

"Guerin," Alex said, and Michael realized he'd been staring. "Earth to Guerin, do you copy?"

"Copy," Michael said, word strange in his mouth, voice just below the roar of the F-150 that had just parked behind them. "Let's get on the road."

He flipped the tailgate shut, hand just brushing the front of Alex's t-shirt and yes, there it was, that intake of breath. He glanced up to see Alex's eyes, shimmering with heat and tucked a smirk into his cheek.

He slipped around to the driver's side door, letting Alex get the passenger door. He had the truck rumbling to life before Alex put his seatbelt on and it was Alex's hand on his thigh as they pulled out onto the highway.

--

The cabins were small, spaced pretty far apart, mostly made private by the white noise of the relentless high desert winds and the thick scrubby pines. They unloaded the truck in a steady rhythm that came from doing this for six and a half years. The beds were just bare, Park Service mattresses; Alex pulled out the sheets from Michael's duffle and began to make them, hospital corners and all. Michael wondered what it would be like to see Alex tuck-in sheets in his Airstream; wondered when he's see him strip off his shirt, roll his shoulders against the cool air, golden in the half-afternoon sun in a space that was more permanently theirs. Michael shuttered the one small window by the door and then approached, bare feet soft on the rough slats. He spread his palm across the curl of muscle around Alex's side, just above his ribs. He stretched his fingers into each lull and valley, reacquainting himself with the warmth and heat of him as Alex breathed into the touch.

Alex turned in his arms, draping his wrists over Michael's shoulders.

"See something you like?"

Michael looked at him, drifting a fingertip up, tracing the extra lines of crows feet, the lines of exhaustion, the new scar on his forehead, a thin strand of white hair. He didn't slide his eyes down his body, though he wanted to. There was something in the air, something between them that he didn't like. He gave Alex all the softness he could, trying to fill a long dry well in both of them.

"I always like you, Alex," he murmured. "You know that."

Alex hitched a breath, looking away, jaw clenching, like he was steeling himself.

"We should eat," he said, and Michael let him go. It went like this, sometimes. He'd go too fast, say too many words, and Alex would just wind himself tighter and tighter.

"Alright, PB&J work for you?"

Alex nodded, heading for the cooler beneath the window, Michael following, pulling out supplies as Alex checked the deadbolt to the cabin. They sat on the floor with the filtered sunlight around them, Michael setting out the loaves of sourdough he'd bought before leaving Roswell, Alex smearing them with peanut butter and strawberry jam, careful of the edges.

Michael thought about spilling the jam on Alex's chest, so he'd have an excuse to lick it off, but Alex still had a tightness around his eyes, that was as clear a sign as any he needed time to settle down, to settle in.

"When you were up there," Michael asked, voice quiet, "did you see the volcanic fields?"

"Hmm?" Alex asked, voice muffled around a massive bite of his sandwich.

"It looked like you came in straight over Wyoming, but I didn't know if you spiraled first, saw Craters of the Moon from the sky."

"I could see it a little, just as we were making the final approach, this black slash of ground."

"I figured it'd look different from above." On the drive in, the rocks around them had sometimes absorbed the sun like crushed velvet, sometimes reflected it in shimmering turquoises and blues and reds. "You know NASA sent the astronauts here to train, before the US went to the Moon, when they'd thought her pockmarks were from volcanoes and not comets?"

"I didn't know that," Alex said. He paused, then: "Have you ever been on a plane?"

Michael shook his head, curls tickling his ears: "Not that I remember. Before, maybe. But," he shrugged.

"There's so much we don't know, from before."

Michael nodded, jaw tight.

Alex took the moment to grace his hand down Michael's shoulder, tangling his fingers around his left hand, thumb working across the scars there, like he always did, like he was trying to remind himself of something. Michael returned his grip, pressure for pressure, warmth for warmth, but didn't push it father. He'd promised himself, after Alex's silences and evasion in their letters, that this time, he'd stay quiet, go slow, lock the doors.

"Maybe," Alex started, "Maybe after this tour's up, we can. You know. Go someplace. Together. For a while."

"Yeah?" Michael asked, voice as even as he could make it. "Where'd you want to go?"

Alex leaned back, setting aside his last sandwich onto the cooler, bracing his arms behind him, palms flat on the rough floor. "Oh, I don't know," he said, tilting his head lazily. "San Francisco, Seattle, New York during Pride, someplace we can just be for a bit."

"Yeah?" Michael said, leaning forward, hand on the floor by Alex's fatigue-clad hip, filling the space as surely as if Alex had tugged him in by the heartstrings. "You want that? Go somewhere, be out for a bit? Someplace it's safe?"

The familiar flash of worry from Alex. "Unless that's not your thing anymore?"

Michael rolled forward onto his knees, close enough to hear him breathing. "You're my thing, Alex. Being with you, that's my thing."

Alex's voice was hoarse. "I want to see you in the sunlight, sometime. Kiss you where people can see. Give you something good." He reached up, tracing the back of his hand up Michael's arm, across the flexing muscle of his shoulder as Michael held himself over Alex's body, waiting, waiting, always waiting for a sign he was wanted. Alex cupped the back of his neck, drawing him down, Michael kneeing closer between his folded legs.

"You're always something good to me." Michael managed. "Always, Alex."

Alex nodded, small and hard and clear as daylight. "That's my mission. I can see it, how to get there." And then Michael saw -- it was Alex, finally; not the airman, not the well-trained son. His Alex.

Michael felt a smile begin to curl across his mouth. "I see you."

Then he closed the distance between their mouths, and he could almost feel Alex's body relax into home.

–-

October 25th, 2014
Idaho Falls, ID

Michael looked down at Alex’s sleeping face, the soft way his cheeks met his temples, the slow slide of his hair against his dark skin.

He’d tasted just about every part there was to be tasted of this man, had Alex’s hands and body cover him in return. But if something changed -- he got kicked in the head by a bull and lost his taste of smell, if he lost his hand for good this time -- Alex would still love him. He knew it. And if Alex -- if Alex lost his eyes or his hands, he’d still love him.

Because, as much fun and joy as salving this lifetime’s worth of skin hunger was, at the root of it, this love between them was soul-deep, what he felt. It was something bigger than bodies, thicker than the air between them. It felt, sometimes, like they were building a castle out of air, between them, brick by rick, letter by letter, kiss, by kiss, finding the secret language that allowed them to both be happy in each other’s arms, that allowed them to touch and hold and keep real their lives, their happinesses together.

Sometimes, like at the beginning of this trip, it felt like they were beginning with less than nothing.

But they got there. That first afternoon, the night that followed; days of hiking through ice caves and cinder cone volcanos, cooking together, eating together.

They'd restitched themselves into each other's lives, one shared breath at a time.

Just like they always did, just like Michael hoped they always would.

Quiet moments like this, and if they were very lucky, he thought they build something that could protect not just them, but others.

Michael didn’t have any illusions about being a parent being easy or nice; he’d seen the wrong side of that way of thinking and it looked like idiot 27 year olds with 5 foster kids and no money. How that broke people down, broke people in.

But he could feel the way forward, sometimes, in the quiet of the night, when Alex finally fell to a deep sleep. He could see it, true and sure.

He’d told Alex to stay alive and to come home. And he wanted him to see it too -- to see how he was planning, the future he was making for it.

For them.

Alex rose to the surface slowly, maybe the first time Michael had seen him wake that way, not all rough gasps and urgent eyes, but soft, soft. Like in this moment, his body knew he was safe.

“Morning gorgeous,” Michael murmured and Alex mumbled a sleepy, half-formed reply and turned to bury his face in Michael’s shoulder. The light shone pale through the shutters of the single window, and the coals in the potbelly stove were doing their job of keeping the cabin warm; Michael pulled the quilt up higher over Alex’s shoulder anyway.

“I had a dream,” Alex said, half-sounding like he was still having it.

“Yeah?” Michael asked. They hadn’t talked about his dream, the one of him saving Alex with impossible powers. He figured they didn’t need to. But if Alex wanted to share, he was all ears.

“Mmm,” Alex said, stretching in a long, golden arch beside him. “It wasn’t a good dream.”

“Oh,” Michael said, voice worried. “That sucks.”

Alex nodded, tucking himself closer. “It was about what your life was like, if I was gone.”

Michael frowned, looking down at Alex hard. “That is pretty much my worst nightmare right there, love.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, waking up a little, voice quiet. “Mine too.” He took a deep breath. “You were living in the Airstream and there was this girl. Lindsey, from high school?”

“I think she’s dating Dirk, who’s now pretending he’s a hardcore biker and not, like, working at his Dad’s insurance company.” Michael said. To Alex’s look he said. “We had a graduating class of 150 and nearly all of them stayed in Roswell. I know what most of our classmates are doing.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Alex said. Then he paused, jaw tensing. “Has –- has my Dad ever –-”

Michael shook his head once, hard, tracing his hand down Alex’s cheek to cup it securely, drawing his eyes back to his. “I see him around town; of course I do, town the size of this one. But he hasn’t come to the ranch in years, and he gets his car fixed on base. If I don’t see him at the store getting groceries, I might drive past him going opposite directions. He’s never hurt me again, Alex.” He didn’t mention the lost income Sanders had had from all military customers after the first time he brought Michael on, or how every attempt Michael had made to get indoor work had seemed to make it past the interview round and stop, no matter how cleanly he dressed or how nicely he let Isobel design his resume. He didn’t mention the volunteer drive Max had roped him into which he’d suddenly been left off the roster for, and then later seen Jesse Manes handing out toys for on the cover of the Roswell Daily. He didn’t mention how Isobel never asked him for help with any of her events for the Air Force. Alex didn’t need to know all of that.

“I’m really glad,” Alex said. Then a funny look came over his face. “If we weren’t together, what would be different for you?”

Michael rolled away, hand rising to rub over his heart, mouth twisting. “I don’t like to think about it.”

Alex followed, peering down at him. “Not in, like, a bad way. I’m alive, healthy, but, maybe we’re taking a break, maybe you fell in love –-”

“It would f*cking suck, Alex!” Michael said sharply, trying to end this conversation. “I would f*cking hate not being with you.”

Alex took a hard breath. “It would help me, the next time I’m deployed, to know you would be ok. You wouldn’t just, like, drown in it, if I –-”

“I would.” Michael said, voice hard. “I would drown in it, so you need to keep your f*cking promise, Alex.”

“Ok, what about in a world I never existed?” Alex kept going, voice forced-light. “Come on, Michael. It doesn’t need to be doom and gloom. What if, instead of Roswell, you had ended up going to high school in, like Albuquerque. Or Santa Fe. What then?”

Michael nearly growled. He didn’t like this game. But Alex was smiling and teasing and so he tried. “Uh, I’d probably smoke weed.”

Alex snorted. “All the freedom in the universe and you’d go after the devil’s lettuce?”

"If I get into the habit of having weed and it's in my truck and you're there and we get pulled over, it could f*ck up your commission. So: no weed for me.” Michael managed a sort-of chuckle. “What, you want to hear about all the casual sex I’d be having?"

Alex was quiet for a moment. “Is, is that something –- how we’re doing this, it’s not like either of us is getting all the sex we want –-”

Michael rolled over on top of him, hands bracketing his face, fingers light on his ears, willing Alex to hear him. “Alex. Love. I am fine. Next year, we’ll be living together, f*cking like bunny rabbits and grouching about who needs to take the trash out. White picket fence, a dog named after some character from a sci fi show, I know you have one picked out. The works.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead, trying to smooth the frown down he saw developing there. “We’ll be fine. We just gotta get through this.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, reaching up for another kiss, something rough, desperate in his voice. “Yeah. We can do this.”

-–

Sent: October 30th, 2014
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M--,

I had a weird dream.

It was about when I was with you last week, I felt like I was watching you through the walls of a cocoon. I could feel myself changing, skin pealing off, guts ripping themselves apart, bones and blood and muscles all forming and transforming, carving myself into a whole new kind of animal.

And you were just there. Watching.

In horror.

Sometimes it feels like, every time I come back, every time I see you, I see a little bit of your hope for me dying. I see a little bit of you flinch at the uniform, the untidy ways I fit into your life and values, the ways I do match, the ways I don’t. And I just -- the military is so, so tidy. It gives me a sense of who I am and why, it gives me a sense of what I can get done, and what I honestly can’t -- and what I can do when working together with others.

I know that this isn’t just what I thought we would be doing, what we would be trying, how this would be going. I knew you thought we would be together in 4 years, and then I changed the game, moved the goalposts, and just -- undercut your entire plan.

And I’m not sorry. I know why I signed up. I know why you didn't want me to.

And maybe this is where things get easier, get simpler. You want things I don’t; I want things you don’t.

But, love, at the end of the day, I want you. I want you, and your mess, and your perfection. I want you in my life and I -- I’m hoping whatever I come back as after this tour is over, whatever kind of animal the next year carves me up into, I will still have the key to the Airstream hanging on my chest, still love you with all my heart. I want a place in your life.

Because, God, M--, you have a place in mine.

Yours,

Alex

–

Sent: November 5th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I didn’t know you were seeing that from me. I’m not meaning to flinch at the uniform, the mannerisms. Maybe you’re turning into something else, but the thing with butterflies is, they’re still made-up of the same star-stuff that they were going in as caterpillars. They’re still the same -- a little shaken up, a little turned around, but they grow and change. I know I’m not the same girl you fell in love with at 17, but I know you still love me.

And I know that nothing is lost between us, in these trips. I’d honestly not thought you’d noticed the way I was reacting but it’s -- good. In a way. To know that you do. That you have. That you see even the things I don’t try to put on my face.

And the thing is, Alex. I just want this to work. We can do this; I know we can.

Right now we’re just -- breathing. Breathing and breathing and just keep breathing, love. No matter what any place or person tries to carve you into, just keep breathing those two good lungs and come back to me. Same promise as in Tuscon: stay alive, and come back to me.

On a less serious note, you should have seen Max’s ridiculous new hat, after Isobel never gave his back after the wedding. It’s beige -- almost white -- like he’s some kind of racist-ass John Wayne character from a spaghetti western. Honestly, I think he would have gotten a black hat if he didn’t think people would assume he was copying me (well, only he’d think that; no one in our town thinks of us in the same breath anymore).

Ok, that’s what I’ve got for today. More later. I love you,

M--

--

Sent: November 10th, 2014
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–-,

It is so f*cking cold here. The sage smells different, the snow is on the peaks, and it’s just so f*cking cold.

Wish you were here to keep me warm.

I'm sorry about the last letter. I was in a weird place. Felt real low for a while, for a few months at least. Must have been work and the weather and what it was like there at the end in Turkey and -- I'm sorry. I love you. I wasn't trying to come down on you.

How’s work?

Love you,

Alex

PS: Are you going to watch the Rosetta probe landing on the comet? I bet you’d love it.

–-

Sent: November 15th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Work’s ok, back at Sanders’ for the off season. Did some repairs on the Airstream. Learning to repair electric cars, for the 5 people in this whole town who have them.

Isobel and Noah had their engagement anniversary party (which is apparently a thing). They said to pass on their love and thank you again for the Blue Mosque figurine. Apparently, it’s become ‘a conversation piece.’

You said the sage smells different –- it seemed kind of sweeter to me, last time I was up there. Was it sweeter for you?

Do you know what you’re doing for the holidays? I think Max already picked out my present; some T.S. Elliot. Never read him, but apparently he thinks our brains work the same, whatever that means.

Anyway, I love you a lot. Stay warm.

Love,

M–-

PS: I watched the landing over at Isobel’s. It was incredible. The first soft-landing ever on a comet in human history! Seeing footage from a thing so far away, that radiation scatter like snow on the dark side of the moon. So, so cool.

–-

Sent: November 20th, 2014
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

No time off between now and New Years, f*ck my life. But a nice block in January. I’ll have a training at Travis in February, so I was thinking –- want to meet me in California?

Love you,

Alex

PS: The sage is definitely sweeter. I kind of like it. I’m glad you got to see the comet land. It was good to see something so many people have worked so hard for come true.

–-

Sent: November 25th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

That sounds great. Isobel is going to be thrilled at the chance to plan a California vacation. Hope you’re ready for it.

We exchanged gift suggestions last year and that seemed to work, so, what can I get you?

Also, I heard some folks are getting sent to Sierra Leone and Liberia to help with the Ebola outbreak. Is that likely for you too? West Africa could be so cool to go to, but I’d still worry.

Love,

M–-

–-

Sent: December 3rd, 2014
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–-,

Hmm, can you get me a silly t-shirt from home I can wear while we’re exploring California? Then I can look at it and think about warmer weather while I’m bundling up in 5 layers for every PT session out here. The tackier the better, tbh.

What can I get you?

No idea if they’d need me in West Africa; it’s in Guinea too, right? I don’t know anyone who’s been sent, but who knows. We’re working on some stuff that might help, contact tracing of a different kind. It’s all social graphs, right?

Love you,

Alex

–-

Sent: December 12th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Can you send me a sprig of that sage? Then I can hang it in the Airstream and it will smell like where you are.

Tell me about social graphs.

Talk computer science to me, baby.

Love,

M–-

–-

Sent: December 20th, 2014
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–-,

I don’t know how well the mail will get to you, so if I don’t say it before, Merry Christmas. I love you.

Here’s your present; I hope the paper smells like sage too.

Can we plan on January 15 - 31st, meet me at the Empress Hotel in Chinatown?

So, a social graph is like if you took post-it notes and wrote down the name of every person you know, and who knows each other, and then connected them with strings, where the length of the string is the closeness of the relationship. Maybe different colors of string based on the type of relationship: romantic, sexual, platonic, familial, hatred, etc. Like a murderboard.

And you can use something like that to figure out who is related to who in a terrorist network. Like, with ISIS/ISIL/IS/Da3esh/Daesh, a lot of the leaders met in prison in Iraq. Last summer, there was a massive series of jail breaks and like 1,200 of them got out. But you can guess who the leaders and soldiers are spies are, based on who was in prison and who was let out and who wasn't.

For something like Ebola, it’s the same kind of contact tracing, mapping the relationships between people, where they went, where they met, how long they were there, what they did.

The thing is, it’s sort of Job #1 for spies, or really anyone who’s trying to hide a relationship, to keep that person off their social graph. No connections on Facebook, no regular calls, no mail between households, no photos together (or only ones with plausible deniability), no visits that can be directly traced to that person, no shared reservations, no legal connections, none of it. No way anyone outside of the relationship will ever know it existed; no proof of love.

Anyway, that’s what social graphs are.

I can write you a program to play with them, if you want. Or show you once we’re in San Francisco together. Thanks for asking, it’s fun to nerd out for a bit.

Love you,

Alex

PS: Sorry the other letters were short; I can’t really talk too much about work here and I’ve been working really intense, long hours. I do miss you and I love you so much.

–-

Sent: December 25th, 2014
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Merry Christmas. And yes, my love, I’ll see you in two and a half weeks.

That was cool to learn about the social graph. I wonder how many relationships are missed by it; how many hidden, for different reasons.

It’s interesting to think about.

Glad we don’t have to hide though.

Don’t worry about the short letters, I totally get it. I love you.

Maybe you can take pictures with your phone, show me in San Francisco?

I’d love to see more of the world through your eyes.

I’m yours.

Love,

M–-

Chapter 16: 2015 [155,270]

Chapter Text

January 15th, 2015
San Francisco, CA

“They’re calling him the what ?” Alex said, tucking his puffy jacket tighter around his ribs, fingers freezing around his iPhone. No one said San Francisco would be so cold. Even in the tightly packed streets of Chinatown, he was damn near shivering where he hunched against a red brick church’s wall; Michael wasn’t due to meet him for another half hour.

“‘The Taliban Captain,’” Jimmy said, laughing over the crackling line. “Something about his beard? Not like those clean shaven Baathist guys in Baghdad. One of those new ISIS guys, or ISIL or Daesh or whatever we’re calling them these days. Massive beard. Real soup catcher of a thing. We mostly use TTC for short.”

Alex shook his head. “That’s pretty f*cked up.” He took a breath. “But they’re doing ok? Your unit?”

A click on the line, maybe a censor clocking in, then Jimmy was back. “Yeah, it’s good behind the green line. There’s these night attack squads, and TTC is running the one in our quadrant? Those are pretty rough. And it’s no Kunsan with those fresh fruit stalls in the markets.” Another click. “But it’s fine for what it is. How’s Idaho?”

“f*cking cold,” Alex said. “The work is good though. Interesting.”

“Have they started phasing you out of the fun stuff?” Jimmy asked, and Alex winced, tucking himself closer to the red brick. “Since you’re getting out, when, this summer? Heading home to Roswell?”

“Yeah, about that,” Alex took a deep breath.

“You’re not thinking of staying in longer – what would your girl think? Mary, right?”

Alex glanced up as something like a two-stringed cello started playing down the steep hill; part of the street theater of the first real city he’d been in in months. He hunched a little closer to the wall as the light changed and a bolus of people bustled past, wheeled wire shopping carts rattling.

“Maria. No, yeah, you’re right, she’d hate it.”

A pause. “You know, you don’t have to design your career around her. It may not work out.” There was an edge in his voice.

Alex asked, cautiously; he’d heard a rumor. “How are things with Prita?”

“Oh, well,” Jimmy said. “She’s still in England. We’re, uh, we’re taking a break.”

Alex had heard from a guy rotating out of his unit that Jimmy had gotten divorced last year and had taken it hard; it was why he’d been trying for weeks to get some time for them to catch-up. This was the first time they had both been free.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex said, glancing up and down the street to see if he could spy that particular cowboy hat; all he saw were hoodies and the occasional baseball cap.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” said Jimmy. “It’s the life, it’s hard on couples.”

That’s the damn truth, Alex thought. He asked, “do you think it was the distance that did it?”

A long pause. “No.” Jimmy said. “No. It was the uncertainty. I know that for sure. She said it often enough. Never knowing where we’d move. We were able to stay together a lot of the time, but never knowing where she’d live? She,” he took a breath, “she likes doing community theater. But we had to move a few weeks before showtime last time and I think it just,” a crackle on the line like he was adjusting his headset. “I think it just broke something with us.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, not sure what else to say.

“Well, it happens. So if you know it would piss off your girl back home, why are you thinking of staying?”

“Kind of like you said,” Alex said. “They’re phasing me out of the work. There’s a big project, heading to Sierra Leone, to Liberia, to help with ebola. A real world test, a chance to help real people. But I’m not eligible for aid missions with only 8 months left on my contract. But if I take another 3 year contract, I might get called up to be the team lead, really get this right. Really protect some good people who need it. And I only did OCS 2 years ago, another 2 and I could make Captain.”

“‘Captain Manes,’” Jimmy said. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Certainly better than ‘Lieutenant Manes,’” Alex said with a grimace.

There was a shout on the other end of the line and Jimmy said. “Looks like my time’s up. Good to hear from you, Alex.”

“You too,” Alex said.

He hung up and leaned away from the brick wall, and wandered towards the musician on the corner. He was an old man, grey hair, weathered face. Alex remembered someone saying a lot of the older folks in Chinatown had fled the Cultural Revolution. He wondered what it would be like, to be in an entire community of exiles.

I guess I’ll sort of find out, he thought. He’d gotten them a room at Beck’s Motor Lodge after Googling further and realizing the Empress Hotel was a small business mall now. Online, Beck’s looked like a funky 1950s style place that wasn’t so fancy it would give Michael hives. It was right in the heart of the Castro, on the street where Harvey Milk’s supporters marched when he was shot.

It was why they were here. To spend a bit of time away from their lives, where they could be together in public. To see if it works.

He shook his head, hefting his backpack over his shoulder. It had just been getting to him, he knew. Ever since PFC Rollings – he didn’t know why that had hit him so hard. He just felt at an odd angle to the world. To everything. To Michael.

He hoped being here, in the daylight, able to touch and be close, like they’d been in their apartment in Denver, in the club in Atlanta – but he didn’t like to think of that anymore.

He took a deep breath and checked his phone.

Michael: Parking in that structure you told me about

Michael: be there in 15

Alex started walking to the Empress Hotel. Chinatown was a lot. Jingle-doored shops bursting with jewelry sharing a wall with a byzantine cookware emporium sharing a window with a hole-in-the-wall food shop where he could see some kind of steamed bun behind key-scratched plexiglass. The steep sidewalk was so clogged with people they spilled between parked cars and onto the asphalt, making any car driving up Grant Street crawl for it. Before he’d gotten his flight from Idaho, he’d search around and found a parking garage at the base of Grant. He wanted a place where Michael’s old gas guzzler could park for a bit, so they could explore together, maybe get some food, before driving over to the Castro. He’d bought a guidebook online, found this fortune cookie shop where you could buy dirty fortune cookies, and a restaurant that was 3 stories tall and only 10 feet wide where you could look out across the whole street. If they stayed late enough, there was an open air concert.

He hoped Michael liked it.

He hoped – maybe he would want to move here? If that were on the table, not going back to Roswell, but settling together somewhere else, somewhere like here, he’d have little enough reason to stay in. Alex could get a job in tech, Michael too with a bootcamp or community college or something. Or, hell, there were dairy farms in California, if he wanted that kind of work they could get jobs in the Central Valley together; Sacramento had a lot to offer for a quarter the price of San Francisco. He’d heard about it from his co-trainer at Travis; how you could make a life here.

He could hope.

He got to the Empress and managed to find a bit of wall to prop up, scanning the street until – there. Worn jeans, a thick snow jacket that looked like it might have started life as Max’s.

But under it was Michael.

His eyes were big, scanning everywhere, like he didn’t know where to look; his shoulders a bit hunched, stepping back a bit too far when a tiny older woman brushed past him.

Alex wanted to go out to him, to pull him in close, to hold his hand as he tried to time the crowds and the occasional car to get across Grant Street.

But instead he watched. He waited. He wanted to see if he still felt it, the gut-level pull, the gravitational force that pulled them together, again and again and again.

He had a moment of yawning terror when all he could see was how little Michael fit in here. He can learn; he’s always been so adaptable. Then Alex felt it, the yank, the pull, the force that always brought them together. He let it tug him off the sidewalk, through the crowds and up to Michael’s side.

“Hey, love,” he said and Michael startled, turning, and then sweeping him up in the biggest hug. He held on tight-tight-tight for a long moment, something he never did if they thought they could be caught, seen by anyone Alex might have to work with. But there was no Air Force base in San Francisco. They should be safe.

“Goddamn it’s good to see you,” he sighed into Alex’s ear. “I f*cking missed you.”

Alex tightened his arms around Michael’s waist, hands clenched in the small of his back, under his jacket. “You too, love. You too.”

He stepped back a bit. “Want to explore a bit before we head to the hotel?”

“Do we have to?” Michael asked, then laughed awkwardly, ducking his head and rubbing his right hand over the nape of his neck. He glanced around. “It’s just, ah, a little crowded here. Not used to – so many people.”

Alex looked around; for all he’d been thinking the same thing, he felt a pang. Can’t he see the adventure, the freedom in a place like this? Not just the inconvenience?

“I mean, I guess we can go straight to the motel.”

Michael frowned. “Are you sure? You – you had us meet here for a reason.” He pulled his shoulders back, putting on a brave face. “I’m fine, we can walk around some.”

“No, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Alex said, heart sinking. He reached between them, fingers just brushing the inside of Michael’s palm. Michael paused, then completed the motion, sliding his fingers between Alex’s and gripping tight.

“It’s not – Alex, come on.”

“No, it was dumb. This is a lot,” Alex half-laughed and lightly tugged Michael’s hand back down the hill. “Let’s head to the motel.”

–

Michael was certain he’d done something wrong. They’d walked down the trippingly slanted street to his truck, paid the ridiculous city parking prices, and were crawling through traffic.

Alex kept starting conversations like – “Hey, that’s the Twitter building. Did you ever –”

And then he’d stop.

Michael would ask, “‘Did I ever’ what?”

And Alex replied. “Never mind.”

It went on like that, with Salesforce and something called the Moscone Center and the silence was getting weirder and weirder. Finally, they reached Beck’s Motor Lodge and pulled-in to the first open parking space Michael had seen in blocks. And then Alex just sat there, not moving, not hefting his backpack over his shoulder, not checking the reservation code again. Just, sitting.

His hands were flexing on his knees.

“Alex?” Michael said, hating how soft and worried his voice sounded.

He tried to remind himself this was Alex. He was allowed to be soft with him.

“Love, what’s the matter?”

Alex was staring down hard at his knees, face tight.

He could barely hear the question. “Would you ever want to move here?”

Michael frowned, Isobel’s pale face in that graffiti scarred cave flashing in his mind, followed by the cost of gas he’d seen rising and rising and rising for the 20 hours it had taken to drive here; the congested streets; the abject human misery that was the massive unhoused population; the tall, staring windows of the Victorians that probably cost as much as a block of houses in Roswell.

Isobel Isobel Isobel Isobel Isobel.

He tried to keep it light. “Not likely,” he gave Alex a smile, nudging him with his shoulder.

Alex stayed stiff, not looking up from his knees.

Michael tried again. “I, uh, I thought the plan for after August was coming back to Roswell?” He tried a smile, reaching over to tap where Alex’s dog tags were under his black t-shirt, never-used key tucked between them. “Still gotta show you the Airstream.”

Alex finally glanced over at him, something hard and hurting in his eyes Michael had no idea how to interpret. “But, if I didn’t want to?”

“Where’s this coming from?” Michael asked, back getting tense. Can’t leave Isobel, whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif –

“Just, my contract’s up in August –”

“I can’t wait to have you back home,” Michael said, voice firm. “Maria, everyone, they’re going to be so glad to see you.”

“But, how will it work, at home? Exactly? Will I, what, keep pretending with Maria?”

“Uh, I didn’t think so? I thought – I thought that was just for when you were in the Air Force. And you’re out, in 6 months –”

“8.” Alex said. “8 months.”

Michael’s smile was wilting. “Yeah, sorry. 8 months. I thought – I thought we were on the same page. You’d come back, and we’d do our thing.”

“And what is our ‘thing,’ Michael? How would any of this work?”

“I thought – I thought that was the point of this last contract. To get enough cash to be able to make those choices once you were out. But if that’s not – look, with my two jobs, I can support us there. If the cash didn’t work out with the Air Force. It won’t be fancy, but we’d be ok.”

Alex swallowed. “It wouldn’t have to be so hard, if we were someplace like this.” He waved his hand back behind him, to wide, noisy the street with its huge rainbow flag flying over it, to all those tall, blank-eyed, expensive houses. “It would be safer.”

Michael bit his lip. “I’ve been ok in Roswell these past 6 and a half years, Alex. I’m not out, sure, but what is ‘out’ someplace like that anyway? And being able to walk down a street covered in rainbow flags isn’t everything. There’s good stuff in Roswell, too.”

“Like what?” Alex’s voice was sharp.

“Maria.” Michael said, trying to keep his voice even. “Luminaria in December. Chiles. The Crashdown.” Me, he wanted to say. Me. I’m in Roswell. But he didn’t think he could, not to Alex’s hard brown eyes.

“I bet we could find a diner, some chiles, and some paper bags with candles somewhere in California.”

“And Maria?” And me.

Alex waved a hand. “She could visit.”

“She couldn’t, Alex. She’s working her fingers to the bone running the Pony. There’s no such thing as a day off, much less –” he took a breath. He never wanted to make Alex feel guilty for how long these road trips were, how much they cost in gas and maintenance and lost wages. We don’t need any more barriers between us.

“Can’t we just pretend?” Alex said, desperation in his voice. “Like you wanted to in Denver?”

And Michael’s shoulders settled. He could do that. He could pretend.

Seems like I have to.

“Sure, Alex. Let’s pretend we’re moving to San Francisco.”

–

Alex lightened up after that, holding Michael’s hand, showing him every bar and cafe he’d picked out for them to visit. Michael let himself be led along, enjoying how happy it seemed to make Alex happy to make believe this could work.

But he’d looked at the prices on one of those realtor offices that seemed to be tucked into every spare space; those slightly rundown houses over the p*rn shops or stuffed roof-to-floors again cute little Italian places were all north of three million each. Alex was kidding himself if he thought he could walk from being a First Lieutenant into someplace like that.

But it couldn’t hurt to pretend, for just a little while.

–

They’d barely gotten their bags unzipped before Alex was wanting to go out to dinner. Michael managed to divert them from one of the $10-an-appetizer places to just getting ingredients at the grocery store down the block. But it started to get tense after they made microwaved dinners together. Michael had figured they’d hang around the room like usual, getting used to each other’s bodies, enjoying the quiet space.

But Alex wanted to go out.

“You didn’t pack anything to wear?” Alex said; it was maybe the third time he’d been trying to nudge them out into the street outside, crowded and only getting louder. Michael had been stalling, bone deep tired from the long drive and sleeping in his truck.

“I packed my clothes, Alex,” he said, voice even. “Maybe tomorrow night? It’s a Thursday, there’s not a lot going on.”

“Wicked Grounds has a Thursday nights only event, I thought you might want to go?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a kink cafe, I found the bus route –”

“Maybe – maybe we can go next week?” He tried half a smile. “We’ve got the room for 2 weeks. Maybe tonight we could just stay in, be here, together?”

“How about we just walk down the block? Just to see?”

Michael closed his eyes. He wanted to be held and to hold Alex and to sleep, but he couldn’t seem to get a word in edgewise. It was like living with a sexy, military-oriented Isobel.

“Ok,” he said, hauling himself off the bed and beginning to shove his feet into his boots.

They walked down Market Street, electric wires for the buses zinging and creaking overhead, crowds getting thicker and thicker. Alex was quiet. He still pointed out the occasional sign, but his voice was dull, irritated. Michael managed a smile when they passed a bar with the bi pride flag waving above the grungy entrance. Alex’s shoulder bumped his, but with the puffy coat and the crowds, he barely felt it.

“We can just go back if you’re going to sulk,” Alex finally snapped as they waited to cross a rainbow painted crosswalk.

Michael felt pressure behind his eyes, but tried to keep his voice even. “I’m just tired, love. Can you give me a break? Just for tonight?’

“Give you a –”

And then Alex paused, turning to face him, letting the light count its way down, letting the people beside them on the sidewalk make their way around them. “You drove this whole way, that’s what, 20 hours?”

“Yeah, plus an overnight,” Michael said, confused.

“Oh,” Alex said, then he stepped a little closer and very, very slowly laid his head on Michael’s shoulder. “You must be tired.”

Michael brought his hand up, cupping the back of Alex’s neck. “Yeah, love, I am.”

He felt Alex take a deep breath, easing a little closer. “I’ve been being a pain in the ass all day, haven't I?”

Michael huffed a laugh, softly winding his arms around Alex’s body, burying his face in his neck, letting the crowd around them be damned. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“A royal pain in the ass?”

Michael shook his head, relief moving down from his shoulders to his too tight back.

“We can walk right back, cuddle and go to sleep. Then decide what we both want to do tomorrow morning after breakfast?” Alex said.

Michael nodded, finally feeling a real smile rising on his face.

They walked up Castro Street, giggling at the business names – Hand Job Nail Salon, The Sausage Factory Restaurant and Pizzeria, Aegean Delights – before Michael paused, and tugged them across the street, and strode back half a block, finally having had enough of a sense of traffic to jay walk.

“Where are we going?” Alex said, laughing as Michael pulled him into the Castro Fountain, an old school soda jerk joint. He kept his grip on Alex’s hand and pulled out his battered wallet with his other hand, getting the server’s attention.

“One slice of Rainbow Cake, please,” he said, flipping his hand at a covered cake sitting under a glass bell on the countertop. He paid and then tugged Alex over to the antique metal tables with attached, swivel-out stools.

He’d seen it in the window and he thought it might be exactly what Alex was hoping to get out of this.

The cake was bright. ROYGBIV in eye-watering colors. It smelled great, vanilla and cream and rich, rich butter. The server was wise enough to bring them two forks. Once they’d retreated behind the counter to play on their phone again, Alex murmured.

“What’s this?”

“This,” Michael said, cutting out a piece of green cake and holding it up to Alex’s mouth. “Is what I would get you for your birthday, if we lived here.”

Alex opened his mouth, eyes closing in appreciation as he ate the bite.

He cut out a piece, feeding it to Michael, and they went back and forth like that, piece for piece, soaking in the silliness, the lightness of it, just for a few minutes.

They made it onto the street, clouds lit up like watercolored God over the cresting top of the hill, and Michael pointed to a bar with a big Sierra Nevada Pale Ale sign in the window, all green mountains with snowy peaks and bright, bold font. “That could be our regular dive bar.”

Alex smiled a little, ducking his head. Michael pointed to a coffee shop across the street. “That’s where I’d get your morning coffee before you headed downtown for your job – where do you want to work?”

“I don’t really know,” Alex said, considering. “Someplace with ping pong tables in the conference room. Somewhere I can do real work, help real people.” He snuck a smile over. “And get paid real money.”

Michael nodded. “I’d work at some ag tech start-up, making IoT devices for cattle management.”

“Is that something that farmers need?”

“Who cares?” Michael said with a grin. “I bet I could convince some investors it was.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Alex cracked up.

–

January 22nd, 2015
San Francisco, CA

“You said Wicked Grounds had their open classes on Thursday?” Michael asked, breathing finally slowing after a bit of wake-up sex that had started off sleepy and slow and had ended up shaking the bedframe until it rocked against the wall and only a quick bit of work with a flat motel pillow had kept them from denting the plaster or getting management called on them.

Alex frowned, pulling up his phone. A few taps of his fingers, and he turned the screen around to show a supremely ugly, web 1.0-style website. After making a face, Michael looked closer. It was a comprehensive community kink calendar, arranged by month, with pop-ups to describe each event that included cost, type of event, venue, presenters, everything they could want to know.

“Wow,” Michael said, handing the phone back.

Alex nodded. “Yeah, the community is really well organized here.”

“So,” Michael waved at the screen, “from there, it looks like there’s a hypnosis class, a ropes 101, and a play party this week?”

Alex nodded.

“And the ropes course was … tonight?”

Alex nodded again.

“Do you want to go?” Michael asked, keeping his voice light and playful. “I mean, we’ve been pretty good with our money this week, we could afford to spend $25 a person for a class.”

Something in Alex’s eyes lit up. “I mean, if it was something you wanted?”

Michael bit back a sigh. This was something they’d been doing since that near-disastrous first day, just checking over and over and over again. The see-sawing feeling of instability made him queasy, but it was better than guessing and getting it so, so wrong. It had to be, right?

“I’d love to.”

–

The coffee shop was dark-walled, with one window filled with a rainbow pride flag and the other the black-and-blue with a bleeding heart leather pride flag. The baristo waved them towards the back. Michael took Alex’s hand and led them down the dark hallway.

Their $25 each bought them a brown paper bag with a skein of colorful rope and a pair of safety scissors at the door. The scissors had a flat edge, the kind paramedics used to get people out of clothes. Past the check-in table was a narrow room with five rows of little black chairs. Alex and Michael tucked themselves into a corner. The room slowly filled up, people of a huge range of genders, classes, and hair colors filling the space.

A woman with grey hair came out of a door in the back of the room, wearing a complex web of carefully knotted ropes black tanktop. “Welcome to Ropes 101,” she said with a grin. Michael saw Alex’s eyes catch on the twisting lengths of rope around her torso, widening just a touch.

She went over some basics and then pulled a volunteer from the audience to demonstrate some basic knots on. The man looked like this was the best day of his life, and Michael suppressed a grin. He could understand that feeling.

They all took the hour, practicing knots on each other. The room had more giggles than sighs; it was a comfortable space, more like a knitting circle than a sex party. When the hour was up, they headed out, but Alex paused, hovering over a little corner shelf of books for sale on the way out. Alex's eyes had caught on something.

It was a black cover, shiny, with a stark photograph of a person tied in a complex knot, just the sheening curves of their muscles and the delicately lit loops of rope shining through. It contrasted nicely against Alex’s black tshirt. The title had something to do with “shibari.”

Alex leaned down, and after hesitating for another moment, grabbed the book and strode to the front counter. Michael trailed behind, hovering until Alex reached back for his hand.

He paid for the book, slipping it and the paper bag they’d received with the class into the larger bag the baristo handed them.

Michael found himself sneaking glances at the bag, the entire bus ride back to the Castro.

They slipped inside their motel room and Alex turned, pulling the book out of the bag. “Want to try something from here?”

Michael co*cked his head. “Could be interesting.”

Alex bit his hip and looked down at the glossy black cover, thumb stroking over the spine unconsciously. “I heard about it, from one of the guys. sh*tty jokes, but, you know, the idea of it, as an art form? And something that could help you go down, feel safe down there?”

Michael relaxed into a smile. “I’d love to try it out.”

“Ok,” Alex said, drawing out his skein of rope and gesturing for Michael’s as well. “I think I’ll need both.”

“I’ll just make myself comfortable while you get ready.” Michael said, kicking off his boots and laying back on the springy motel bed.

Michael closed his eyes, body warming, tingling, considering what it would feel like to have all of those careful knots, those perfectly laid lines of rope across his skin like he’d glimpsed on the cover. By the time he felt the bed dip as Alex knelt on it, he was half-hard.

Alex murmured from his right. “Are you sure you’re ok with this?”

Michael nodded, not opening his eyes. “I’d like your hands on me.” Sensing Alex’s concern, he gave half a smile. “Worst comes to worst, it’ll be like that ropes course Mr. Sven made us all go to as part of a team building exercise –”

“Ugh,” Alex said. “That was the worst. You know it was only because they had to get the gym fumigated –”

“And Mayor Bernhardt paid for it to try and buy the Seniors’ votes. Yeah.” Michael chuckled. Then he felt Alex’s hand on his chest, pressing down, just a little, just gently.

“f*ck,” Michael said. All that anticipation left his skin taut and ready and that pressure was just enough to tip him over and down.

“You want to take your shirt off?” Alex asked, flexing his fingers in the faded white cotton.

Michael thought about it; it was a hand-me-down from his foster family around 2005. No love lost there. “I think I’ll last longer if you’re not working on bare skin.”

“Fair enough,” Alex said. “I’m going to do a simple series of knots.”

“Ok,” Michael said, already drifting.

What might have been minutes or hours later, Michael heard Alex’s voice in his ear.

“Hey,” Alex murmured.

“Hey,” Michael replied.

“We’re going to take this slow and steady. I’m ready to do that knots over the back.”

“Ok.”

Alex gripped his shoulders, pulling him forward and Michael let him. There was something almost meditative about it, letting himself be moved like a doll, like putty in Alex’s hands. He could feel the cool competence Alex had been learning, the tight focus and precision Michael felt like he was starving for whenever it wasn’t directed at him.

And then, they were ready.

“Want to see?”

Michael nodded, prying his eyelids open. It looked – well, less intimidating than the black rope on pale skin in the photos, since there was only so serious cherry red and purple shot with bubblegum pink could look. But the shapes of it …

“It’s beautiful,” he managed.

He glanced up and Alex was lit up from the inside, eyes intense.

“Another time,” he said, rough, hand tracing a knot that was twisted up in the fabric of Michael’ shirt. “We’ll do this and I’ll get you off, see you straining against the knots, enjoying every bit of pressure and enclosure I put around you.” He took a breath. “But tonight, I’d rather just untie you, hold onto you as you come down, and then get something simple to eat here. That work for you?” He graced his fingertips over Michael’s cheekbone.

Michael hummed in pleasure at the thought, catting into palm.

He wriggled against the knots, just for a moment, and something in him clicked, that his body’s shape was being defined by something Alex had tied with his hands.

He sank into his mind like a stone. Alex had his hand in his, thumb working softly over the scarred skin. “You still with me?”

“Always,” Michael whispered. “Always, Alex.”

And there it was, his secret grin, his smile just for the two of them. From the Emporium, the motel, the apartment in Denver, from beside the bones of dinosaurs: there he was, his Alex.

“Ready to come out?”

He took a deep breath, then another, then another. Then he nodded. Sooner I’m out, sooner I can feel his palms against my chest again, he managed to think.

“And now, we go in reverse,” Alex muttered to himself.

The twists along his back came undone just as easily as they had been tied, each release a bit of relief and a bit of loss.

And then they reached the web of knots across his chest. Alex paused, looking at them, frowning a little. He plucked at one knot, the thin cotton of Michael’s shirt twisted up between the loops of the rope.

Michael watched him, began to feel him worry, anxiety rising like a flood, so much worse to witness in this soft space. His hands were frantic, tugging at the knot, ropes threatening to bruise, breath coming fast and faster. The tide of fear threatened to choke him, to strip away all this safety and comfort and drown them both.

Michael hauled himself to the surface. “Scissors,” he managed. “f*ck the shirt. Scissors.”

“Scissors?”

One short, sharp nod. Then Alex was scrambling for the brown lunch bag, pulling out the safety scissors. He tried to work it under one edge of the rope over his arm, but Michael flinched, the cold of it startling him in his soft state.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Alex said, moving to his white t-shirt. His hands were shaking, and Michael muzzily realized it must have been upsetting, to see him flinch away from his touch. He tried to stay soft.

“Tell me if it pinches,” and Michael held his breath as the cool, hard metal glanced across his skin. One quick tug and it dropped, the rope dropped to either side of him, and his shirt had a neat hole over his left ribs. Alex was looking at it, the clean edge of the cut. He set the scissors down on the bedspread, fingers drifting towards the hole, like he wasn't sure he had permission.

“You can,” Michael said. And he did, stroking his fingers along the exposed skin, lightly, then hard, pads of his fingers, tips of his nails, knuckles, his palm.

The sudden mix of sensations had Michael arching into his touch, all the fears rushing back away from him and leaving him high and floating again.

“You can,” he started again, somehow knowing it was what he wanted as he writhed into Alex’s pulsing touch. “You can cut the rest off too.”

“Michael” was all Alex managed before he had the scissors in one hand, the other grip tight on Michael’s hip, holding him down, holding him still. He froze, letting the cold metal open his shirt up, inch by cutting inch, to the cool air of the motel room. The slick sound of the metal on cloth, the sensation of his clothes being cut away from his body, it left him panting ragged and hot, moaning with satisfaction as Alex straddled his hips and dove in for a kiss.

Michael wanted to buck up, to finish, to move things forward, but he remembered what Alex had said about holding each other, and he let him set the pace, kisses slow and slowing, until Alex tipped over onto his side, and arranged Michael across his chest.

His voice was quiet when he said. “I’ll get you a new one. We went by a Goodwill on the way, we’ll get you something to replace it.”

Michael shook his head, smile on his face. “I’ll just steal yours.”

He could hear the hitch in Alex’s breath and curled up against Alex’s side, body swaying backwards and forwards as their breaths came down.

Minutes or hours later, Alex murmured. “A class like that, that’s something we could probably only do in San Francisco.”

Michael just burrowed closer, trying to hold onto that softness and safety inside of him.

–

January 29th, 2015
San Francisco, CA

The rest of the trip was good. They spent their days exploring Golden Gate Park and the Leather District, Chinatown and Japantown and the Fillmore, touching the frigid Pacific and the murky Bay on the same day.

Pretending, pretending, pretending.

And after 2 weeks was up, Alex kissed Michael through the window of his truck as he idled at the corner of Mission and First, under the thick shadow of the Salesforce Tower. As he drove away, heading towards the Bay Bridge and all that blue-grey water, Michael watched him get smaller and smaller in the rearview window. The brown paper lunch bag with its safety scissors and its rope and the book with those dark, lovely photos were safely hidden in the bottom of his tool chest. Michael was wearing Alex’s black shirt.

–

Sent: January 29th, 2015
From: Travis AFB, CA

Dear M–,

It’s beautiful here in California, wish you were here. Nice to have a solo vacation, explore a little. Can’t wait to see you again. Hope you’re doing well at the Pony.

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: February 4th, 2015
From: Travis AFB, CA

Dear M–,

The training is going ok. God the trainees are so young. Were we ever that young?

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: February 11th, 2015
From: Travis AFB, CA

Dear M–,

It’s raining here. Who knew it rained in California?

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: February 15th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

Rethinking wanting to move to California yet, now you know you’ll have to get wet :)?

Love,

M–

–

Sent: February 19th, 2015
From: Travis AFB, CA

Dear M–,

Never :D.

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: February 25th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

It’s been ok out here. I’ve been teaching a lot of people how to put their chains on – folks are heading up to the ski resort on the rez, since we got good snow up there this year, but apparently everyone and their mother forgot how chains work in the meantime. Well, it’s $30 for a lesson, so that’s a nice little bit of cash in my pocket.

The thing about San Francisco. We’re still just joking around, right?

Love,

M–

–

Sent: February 28th, 2015
From: Travis AFB, CA

Dear M–,

It’s been cold this week, I went on a hiking trip to visit Yosemite, it was so beautiful. There were snow flurries on our way out, just gorgeous. I really think you’d love it. There’s so many places in California that aren’t in cities. We could live in Marin where it’s all foggy or Half Moon Bay by the ocean or someplace like Livermore, with easy access to farmland around. Lots of options that aren’t San Francisco.

It’s good to hear about the class. I bet you could teach people stuff like that here, there’s so many transplants who would need the help.

Love,

Alex

PS: Here’s a postcard I bought of Bridal Veil Falls. The rocks are slippery as hell, but the view from the base of the falls is worth it.

–

Sent: March 5th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I put the postcard up in our Airstream, next to the other ones. I love seeing other parts of the country through your eyes. Maybe when we’re back here, we can have a yearly road trip? There’s, what, a dozen national parks within a day’s drive of here?

Things are getting ready to get started again for the calving season at Foster’s Ranch. I’ll see if I can get someone to print out a picture of the cuter ones, I like the idea of being able to see more of each other’s days.

Love you,

M–

–

Sent: March 8th, 2015
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

I think I’ve been to every national park within driving distance of Roswell; my Dad used to take us there on these awful forced marches, wilderness backcountry camping stuff. I was always so cold and so hungry. In Yosemite, we stayed in these little cabins, a little village, like the ones we had in Idaho, but closer together. It was really comfortable and you’d love it there, I know.

What about LA? It’s an easier drive back to Roswell. There’s a lot of defense contractor work down there who work with the Air Force. Not the high flying tech worker lifestyle, but still, lots of easy access to deserts and open places. And Tejon Ranch is one of the largest bits of private land owned by anyone in the U.S. and it’s still a working cattle ranch.

When can you visit again? I’m back in Idaho again, obviously, but I could drive south a bit for a weekend. Maybe Nevada? If you really want to go camping, I’ve heard Great Basin National Park is pretty cool, and I’m sure you could keep me warm.

Love,

Alex

PS: Here’s a picture of the Lehman caves at Great Basin – they look pretty cool!

–

Sent: March 13th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I’m not really sure LA is my speed :). When were you thinking of meeting up? I’ve never been to Great Basin. There’s a flight from Boise to Albuquerque that’s about the same travel time as the drive to Great Basin for you, if you want to come visit me here.

Love,

M–

–

Sent: March 18th, 2015
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

Things at work really picked up, I’m not sure I can do the whole day trip thing. There’s a really cool project to help with contact tracing in Liberia and Sierra Leone; I’m sidelined on it, since I’m out in 5 months. I wish they would let me keep working on it though, the current manager is ignoring the way that burial rites spread the disease because he’s unfamiliar with non-Christian funeral traditions. Anyway.

I was looking at apartments in San Francisco. They’re so expensive! But it’s all so gorgeous there. I found this little two bedroom in Japantown. It’s just a long term sublet in a condo building, but it’s a quiet neighborhood, so I think you’d like it; not too noisy (for a city).

Love you,

Alex

–

March 21st, 2015
Roswell, New Mexico

“You know, I could be charging you for this,” Michael said, flat on his back under Max’s Jeep. Max rolled him another beer and Michael floated it into his hand, twisting the top off with his powers as he kept carefully untwisting the oil cap.

“But then who would pay you in Dos Equis?” Max drawled, feet kicked up on his garage couch. It was well stained, but mostly by Michael; coming over to do routine maintenance on Max’s Jeep was just about the only way he could get Max to talk to him anymore, and he was just irritated enough about it he never bothered putting down a towel before sitting down in his greasy clothes.

Michael took a long drag of the offered beer though. It did taste good, nice and cool after a long Saturday morning’s work. He’d been waiting to bring this up, since his trip to San Francisco; after this morning’s letter, he knew he needed to sooner rather than later.

“So,” he started, voice purposefully low-key. “How’s Isobel doing?”

“You’d know better than me, you see her more often, since I started getting weekend shifts and overnights now Charles has had his baby,” Max said. “But at family dinner last month at Mom’s, she looked good? Noah’s practice is going well it seems, and she’s happy.”

Michael nodded to himself, knowing Max couldn’t see. “I thought so too, when I saw her for bagels yesterday morning. It’s good, right? Better?”

He could almost hear Max’s narrowed eyes. “Better than what?”

“Oh,” Michael said. “You know.”

“I really don’t.”

Michael took a hard breath and said it all in one go. “I’ve been thinking of trying out California this summer.”

“You can’t.”

Michael felt a rising tide of resentment-rage-hurt-pain-fear-anxiety, and pushed it all down. He tried to put a joking tone in his voice. “I didn’t know you were my Dad, telling me where to live.”

“I can’t take care of her alone, Michael. You know that.” There was the sound of creaking springs, like Max had gotten up off the couch, come over to loom beside the truck. “We need to be aligned on this.”

Michael mouthed ‘aligned,’ to himself, but tried to keep a civil tone. “I’m not saying I want to leave the planet –”

“Yet,”

Michael sighed. “Yes, ‘yet.’ California’s only an 18 hour drive away, 25 if I’m in San Francisco –”

Max scoffed. “You? In San Francisco? What would you do, fix Teslas?”

Max could have dropped the Jeep on him and it would have hurt less. “There’s a program at UC Davis for agricultural engineering. I was looking it up. I could start at a community college in SF, get my general ed covered that I didn’t get taken care of in Denver, then finish out the program. I’d be a better engineer than most of those idiots in town or on the base. It’s only a few hours flight and a few hours drive to come home from there. Anything that happened, I could be here in less than a day.”

“If ‘anything’ happened, you’d need to be there in an hour, Michael.” Max snapped. “What if she kills someone again? What if she hurts Noah? We’re not going to have a full day to stick around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting for you to get back here from Frisco. I can do a lot for her, but you’re the one who knows how to hide the bodies.”

Michael flinched. It wasn’t often they talked about this, but f*ck, when they did, Max never pulled his punches.

He heard a sound like boots scraping on concrete, and then the sound of cloth settling. He glanced over; Max was sitting beside his legs where they poked out from under the Jeep. He took another swig of the beer, bracing himself.

Max’s voice was quieter, less commanding, more anxious. “Where’s this all coming from, Michael? I thought you were – well, not happy, but planning to stay here. You bought that Airstream and everything. Did something go wrong at the Ranch? You get fired?”

Michael nodded, trying to keep his voice even. “I didn’t get fired, Max. I’m just thinking of the future.”

Max gave a heavy sigh. “I get wanting to see the ocean, be someplace a little more,” he paused. “Open.” Then he took a deep breath. “Maybe in a few years? Isobel and Noah haven’t even been married for a year yet. And she can’t tell him so –”

“But couldn’t she?” Michael asked, suddenly desperate, feeling the straight jacket of the past 6 and a half years of lies tightening around him like a badly fitted harness until he couldn’t breathe. “ Couldn’t she tell him?”

“No,” Max barked. He slapped his hand on the concrete, standing. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Denver was bad enough, we barely made it out of those 6 months without you. Isobel needs us both here, to keep an eye on her. If you’re in California, she’ll worry you’ll snap and kill again –”

The harness had weights on it now, heavy, heavy ones, right over his breastbone, pressing down, down, down.

Max was still going. “Like I said, maybe in a few years. If you want to work towards that, towards leaving us, I can try to dial it back at work, make more time to keep an eye on her. But not with 2 months notice.” A long pause. “Please don’t do that to me again. Not now.”

Michael swallowed hard. “It was just an idea. Stupid, really.”

Max’s voice was kinder and he patted the hood of the Jeep. “Not stupid. Everyone wants to dream sometimes. But we’re just both some guys from Roswell, right?”

“Right.”

–

March 22nd, 2015
Roswell, New Mexico

This was probably the hardest letter Michael had ever written. He was on the 6th try. The first 2 had stains, droplets running down them and off the edge. The 3rd he’d torn, pressing his pen down too hard, straight through the college ruled lined paper. The 5th he’d just started ranting, spilling secret after secret after secret until he flung the whole mess into the firepit beside the Airstream and burned it to ash.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Chapter 17: 2015 [158,907]

Chapter Text

Sent: March 27th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

Sorry for the delay, some family stuff came up. You know how it goes.

So, it seems like you really want to try out California. And I’ve been – well, I’ve been dancing around it, but I can’t move this summer.

I just can’t.

I want to be where you are with every single fiber of my being && Isobel and Max need me == ?

I don’t know how to solve that equation, how to square that set.

Maybe you do. You probably thought of this already, but you said you’d been wanting to do more of the Sierra Leone project work, right?

Do you think they would offer you another contract?

Not the whole 4, but just something a bit shorter, like last time?

I think, I really think, with a few years head start, I could tie up enough loose ends here to actually come out to California with you. Or Denver. Or wherever.

I’d miss you so, so much, but I was thinking about what you said, and I get it, not wanting to be in Roswell. f*ck knows I don’t want to be here most of the time. But isn’t that part of growing up, doing things we don’t want to do out of duty?

Anyway. I love you so, so much. I can drive up to Idaho so we can talk about it, if you need me to.

I love you,

M–

–

Sent: April 1st, 2015
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

I don’t get it.

You hate my job. You’ve always hated it. Now you want me to do more?

What is holding you down in Roswell so hard you can’t even think of leaving?

Yes, I want to do more on the project. And 3 more years – I’d be a Captain. Better pay, better benefits. For me. For us. If I kept serving in the reserves after, I would be that much closer to my 20, and a real pension. Something we could live off of for years if we lived lightly enough. Not San Francisco money, but enough of a backstop we’d always have something.

But M–, love, I don’t understand why you’re asking me this.

What is keeping you in Roswell?

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: April 4th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

You’re right, I’ve never been the biggest fan of the United States Air Force or what serving has been like for you.

I wish you’d never had to join.

But the thing is, you like it. Right? It’s what you want, where you want to be?

And I can leave Roswell. Just not right now. Not on such short notice. Like I said, I thought we were moving back here. I’d been planning on that. For years, even.

And I can be flexible, I can always be what you need me to be, but not just so fast this time.

I love you so much, please don’t think this is because I don’t want to live together. I do, so, so, so much. But if it can’t be in Roswell, it can’t be this summer, as far as I can tell.

Please tell me if I’m missing something. I want to make this work, so, so, so much.

I love you,

M–

–

Sent: April 7th, 2015
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

I’d never really planned on coming back to Roswell.

I thought we’d talked about that.

I guess not.

I don’t really have to choose for another few weeks, months even if we wanted to stretch it, but the sooner I commit, the sooner they’ll bring me back into this project.

I just need you to be sure, like, really, really sure this is what you want.

It’s your life too. I know … I can see it’s been hard, for you. Going without, for so long.

Please be sure. I don’t want you to have regrets.

I love you,

Alex

–

Sent: April 14th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

It’s the only way forward I can see.

I don’t have to like it, or want it, for that to be true.

I love you,

M–

–

April 28th, 2015
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Alex pressed his phone to his ear tight enough the skin was starting to tingle. He was off base, told his team he needed to buy new running shoes at an REI in Boise, to extravagant teasing from everyone who heard. He was still on light enough duty that taking off an hour early on a Monday wasn’t the end of the world.

But he really needed to hear Michael’s voice, if only for an instant.

Maria picked up. “The Wild Pony of Roswell, how can I help you?”

“Hey,” Alex said. He could almost hear Maria straighten.

“Alex,” she breathed. A muffled thud, like she’d sat down right on the bar’s ergonomic rubber floor mats. “I missed you. How’re you? We can’t wait to see you in four months.”

“Doing ok,” Alex said, voice exhausted even to his own ears. “Is anyone else there?”

“At four o’clock on a Monday? The only people here are the ones who work here, Alex,” she said, with a laugh in her voice that took away the sting.

“Oh, um, do you know when anyone else might be there?”

“Probably not for a few days – calving season and all, right?”

“Right.”

“Would you like me to pass on a message?”

“Uh,” Alex said. “No, it’s ok. He’s been pretty clear on what he wants.”

“I’ll bet,” Maria said warmly. A quick pause. “You doing ok? You sound kind of, thin.”

“No, yeah, I’m fine,” Alex said. He took a quick breath. “I uh, might not be coming home in 4 months.”

“You’re getting early release?” There was a note of forced cheer in her voice.

“No, uh, I might extend my contract. Just for a few more years. Gotta earn those Captain’s bars, am I right?”

A long, cold pause. “No, no, Alex. I don’t think you do. Since when do you care about rank like that? What if they send you back to Iraq? What if you get hurt ? f*ck, Alex, we’ve been waiting for –”

“I’ve got to go, Maria. Don’t – no one else needs to know I called.”

“Alex –”

He hung up on her, heart racing. His hands were shaking. Michael might understand what this meant to him, could mean to him ( should mean to him ), but Maria never would, and no amount of arguing would make it so.

He didn’t want to be told he was wrong.

–

April 20th, 2015
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

I re-upped today. Like you told me to. Want to meet in Great Basin next month? When would work for you?

Love,

Alex

–

April 27th, 2015
The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael was drinking a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale the next time Max found him at the Pony; he teased him about ‘wanting a taste of California.’

Michael decked him.

That was the first night Michael had spent in jail in 6 and a half years.

Sheriff Valenti put KENW on the radio overnight to keep him company.

They ran re-reruns of news shows; it seemed like every single one of them mentioned Obergefell v. Hodges oral arguments at the Supreme Court the next morning, talking heads debating marriage equality as if it had nothing to do with anyone’s lives.

He used his powers to turn it off after 15 minutes.

Maria gave him a ride home in the morning.

–

Sent: May 1st, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

Sorry for the delay, things have been a little rough around here. I could swing Big Basin May 22-24, if I drive overnight?

How’s work? Did they let you back on the major projects again?

I love you,

M–

PS: Do you have to go through any new clearance stuff? Should I expect to get interviewed again?

–

Sent: May 4th, 2015
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

I was just about to write about that – yeah, it looks like I’ll need to go through a clearance review to get my TS. That was one of the sweeteners for me taking another contract, since the clearance is good for 5 years, so I’ll have at least 2, maybe even 3 years of it for free. That is a real benefit, if I end up at a defense contractor.

Just like last time, that means that they can ask you about anything we talk about in these letters. I know you remember.

Work has been great! I’m not only back on the team, my commander made me the lead for one of the project areas, now he knows I’m sticking around for a while. That means they’ll be sending me to Freetown for a month late this summer. I can’t wait, I’ve never been to West Africa before.

If you haven’t already taken off the time, it looks like I’ll be at Nellis in Las Vegas the second week of June.

Want to go to the Grand Canyon with me instead? It’s a shorter drive for you than Big Basin.

Love you,

Alex

–

May 7th, 2015
The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

“You get that I don’t want to?” Maria said as Michael watched her scrub the sh*t out of a heavy tumbler. With only 20 minutes before opening, she had to work fast and multi-task. “But if the interviewer asks me something from the letters and I don’t know it –”

“No, no, I get it,” Michael said, sighing hard, pressing his face against the bar he’d just finished scrubbing. “It’s why we’re still using the letters, right? They’re talking about adding sexual orientation to the DoD’s non-discrimination policy, but it hasn’t gone through yet; marriage is still illegal in over a dozen states. It would be just our luck to have gone through all this crap for all these years and then f*ck up his career with a slip-up.”

“Yeah,” Maria said, voice hard. “His career.”

“It’s not all on him –”

“He’s a grown ass man, Michael. He made a choice.”

Michael paused, looking down at the scarred and pitted bartop.

A soft hand crossed it, warm palm on his wrist.

Her voice was quieter when she said, “Maybe he’ll stay out of war zones the whole time this time. That contact tracing thing he’s doing, going to Sierra Leone? That’s just about the best thing he could be doing in the U.S. Air Force.” She took a long breath. “I’m going to the protest up in Albuquerque at the end of the month, want to come? After what happened last summer with the Yazidis and all those beheading videos, a lot of folks didn’t want to keep protesting. But the core group wants to try again press conference in front of Senator Heirich’s office, asking for a shift to diplomatic resources, to use soft power to stop more young men from feeling like they need to join Daesh.”

“I think we both know how hard it is to convince someone they don’t need the military to make himself strong.” Michael’s voice was flat, hurting.

Maria squeezed his wrist just a little tighter, bringing him back to the here and now. “But we have to try, don’t we?”

“Yeah.”

–

June 15th 2015
Grand Canyon National Park, AZ

Michael pulled his truck up outside of the Grand Canyon Lodges. He’d been dodging local radio news chatter on tomorrow’s Obergefell decision for 13 hours of driving; couldn't bear to turn it off now it seemed so close, so real. He didn’t know what it would be like to lose rights he wasn’t even sure he would be exercising in this lifetime.

Things felt so unsettled with Alex.

He felt like he had to keep his dreams of a white picket fence, of children, of a life together, under wraps, particularly if Alex wanted to live in a condo in Japantown or somewhere dense and noisy in LA. How can I even bring up kids if we can’t agree on what state to live in , how we want to live .

He didn’t know when they’d gotten so far apart.

Alex had flown from Nellis, taking days off midweek was easier on his unit this month. He’d picked some tiny airport with a shuttle right into the park; he’d texted to say he’d already checked them in. Michael was bracing for – he didn’t know what. The Alex who’d nearly given up in Denver? The one who met him with fire in Las Vegas? His sweetheart in Georgia?

Would he even want to talk about the DoD decision to finally put sexual orientation into the anti-discrimination list? That the last external barrier to them being together publicly had finally fallen?

But it had never been about the law with them. Not entirely. Not really. Not while Jesse was alive. Haunting them. Unspoken, always there. Always there. Always driving Alex away. Farther and farther and farther.

Michael was here for Alex, however he was. Just like he’d been in Idaho. Just like he’d been in San Francisco. He would go where Alex asked and stay where he was put, in the hopes he’d just choose to come back.

And, on that long, pre-dawn drive, Michael had realized that was what was hardest for him.

He’d promised. Alex had promised to come home to him. Not to haul him off to another place entirely. Maybe ‘home’ meant something different to him, but to Michael it had always been painfully clear: the Airstream, the faded draft of the title with both of their names on it, sitting in his back cupboard, ready, ready, ready for when Alex could be more public with him, even if just on a piece of paper filed with the county clerk.

Because, at the end of the day, that’s what all that radio chatter had been about: a piece of paper, filed at the county clerk’s office. There was a lot of social stuff tied to it, baggage both lightweight and heavy, and a lot of legal benefits.

But he didn’t think he and Alex were anywhere near ready for that, right now, not when it turns out they didn’t even know what ‘home’ meant to each other.

Michael took a deep breath, heaving himself back up and out of those dark thoughts. He didn’t want to start a weekend away with Alex full of resentment and bitterness. He wanted to be light. Happy.

Easy.

So he squared his shoulders, swung himself out of the truck, and headed to room 208.

Alex opened the door on his first knock, smile bright, and something settled in Michael’s chest.

He stopped inside, dropping his bag on the floor and Alex just wrapped him up in his arms.

“Hey,” he said, soft and low in Michael’s ear.

“Hey,” Michael managed. It was trying to flood over him, the Supreme Court decision, the fears about Isobel, the tone in Max’s voice when he said “some guys from Roswell.” But he pushed it back, it all back. He ran his hand up Alex’s back, feeling the muscles flex and ease under his fingertips.

“Miss me?”

“Every f*cking breath ,” Alex said, hand sinking into Michael’s hair and tugging him in closer, shuffling back until his back was against the white wall.

He wrapped an arm around Michael’s waist, pulling his hips flush and f*ck , he could feel how hard Alex was for him, feel him starting to move against him. All thoughts, worries, everything but this moment drained away and Michael kissed him back, plastering him against the wall and grinding his hips in closer. Alex was making plaintive sounds into his mouth, hand fumbling between them.

Michael reached into the tight, grinding space and undid their buttons and zippers, hand reaching into Alex jeans the same moment Alex’s fingers touched his co*ck.

Michael pulled away with a gasp, before diving in again, letting Alex set a punishing pace and just following him, a half second behind, until Alex flung his head back against the wall with a thump and then they were in perfect sync, Michael’s body tightening, driving in short, sharp thrusts until –

White out, pure relief, and the deep satisfaction of feeling Alex spill into his palm moments later. He sagged against him, hat falling to the ground, body beginning to shake.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Alex murmured into his ears, and in that long, impossibly perfect moment, Michael believed him.

–

The Grand Canyon made Michael’s heart swoop, seeming so impossibly large, the red stripes and perfect whites and the constant sound of the wind. They celebrated the Obergefell decision with beers from room service and a late night walk to the canyon’s edge, to just see the vastness of time made real before them.

The next morning, Michael got a flock of ravens to chatter back at him as Alex laughed. He saw his hand go for his phone, and then ease away.

Someday , he promised himself. Someday we can take a picture together .

–

Sent: June 22nd, 2015
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

Looks like they’re sending me to West Africa for 6 months, not 1, to implement the project. We’re wheels up on Friday. f*ck, I really wished I could have gotten to see you again before I went.

I hear they have great Ground Nut Stew and beautiful fabrics. I’ll bring you some?

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: June 26th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

You’re in the air now, I suspect, flying all the way across the world. I’ll miss you so, so, so much.

I love you with everything that I am,

M–

–

Sent: June 27th, 2015
Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

They’re letting us work out of the university’s computer science department. This project is so cool. We’re working with this incredible guy, I., who learned to use computers from a random Fulbrighter’s visiting Mom in his 20s and is running all of the databases for tracking all of the information on Ebola for the whole country now. We’re able to use those datasets and get a really solid understanding of spreading patterns. They have these secret societies that underpin the whole society, and many have their own masks. Societies for men, for women, for men and women. And some are new, there’s one that emerged with the Kamajors during the civil war, with the belief their masks would make them bulletproof. The Kamajors are a group of hunters within the Mende tribe one of the 16 – 16! – tribes of Sierra Leone.

It’s just cool to be someplace where people talk about tribes without stuttering, understand large, complex family groups. And where it’s warm.

I do not miss Idaho.

I do miss you.

I could write forever about all the cool stuff here, and I already got two bolts of fabric, I thought we could attach them to frames and hang them in our apartment in California or Albuquerque or wherever we end up. One is blue, kind of like your truck, and the other is black-and-white and the patterns kind of remind me of the crop circle exhibit at the Emporium. All circles and lines and wavy shapes.

It’s good to breathe free air here, I hadn’t realized how cramped I felt in Idaho. Being off the continent is always like this for me. I’m just certain there’s no one I’ll see from back home here.

You know what I mean, I think.

I don’t want to overstate things – it’s hard here too. Living during an epidemic, wearing masks all the time, being frightened someone will infect you with a disease like Ebola, it’s rough. But I feel safe enough here and it feels really special, getting to help in this way.

Thank you for pushing me to do it. I know you didn’t want to and it sucked and still sucks, but M–, I’m glad you did it. I love you.

How are things with you?

Love,

Alex

–

Sent: July 20th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

That sounds really cool. Things here have been fine, working at the ranch again this summer.

I’ve started growing sunflowers with Sanders, there’s an annual harvest festival contest we’re hoping to get into. The prize money won’t cover a round-trip ticket to Sierra Leone, but it would get us a nice night out in Las Cruces or El Paso or wherever we end up.

I love you,

M–

–

July 21st, 2015
Roswell, NM

“Are you sure you need this liquor cabinet over there?” Michael grumbled.

Isobel hollered from the kitchen. “Yes! It’ll go so much better on the rose rug than the ivory.”

Michael shared an aggrieved look with Noah and bent his knees to lift. He’d tried to convince Isobel to let him come over before Noah got home so he could just use his powers, but she said ‘you need to make more male friends, Michael,’ and had ordered him to appear at 5:15pm sharp.

Together, the two men huffed and whuffed as they carried the carefully taped liquor cabinet across the room to rest on the rose colored carpet. The gold finishings did look better there, though Michael would rather get kicked in the kneecap by a steer than to say it.

Noah slapped him on the back. “Want a drink?”

Michael looked down at what must have been $1,000 of fine liquor and thought of the stack of postcards in the Airstream. He’d taken to reading and re-reading them every week or so. Tonight he was reading through their letters from 2011.

“Nah, I’m good.”

–

Sent: August 9th, 2015
Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

I went to Big Makit again – that’s Krio, or the local creole for “Big Market” – and bought some more fabric. There’s just something so vibrant, so wonderfully alive about it. It reminds me of all of the jewelry Diné and Pueblo people sell under the eaves of the Palace of the Governors in Sante Fe, all those reds and silvers and turquoises.

You know the sun sets at the same time every day? Or near enough. Comes from being so close to the equator. I’ll be slow to reply to the next letter, I’m going to do a 3 week onsite training series in Makeni, then Bo, then Kenema. You know the British built a railroad here? Only one short line, but there’s a whole museum’s worth of trains. One of the guys on my team is o b s e s s e d with trains and goes there just about every single weekend. I finally got around to going with him and while it was cool enough, I don’t really get the like, fetish levels of intensity there.

Oh! And that’s another thing. Ok, so you know how the Zuni have fetishes, the ritual objects that some white people collect? There’s a tribe called the Kissi people here and they have fetishes too. It makes you wish there was a different word for it, but these secret societies are incredibly cool. Part of me thinks they’re the reason Sierra Leone and Sierra Leonians came out of their civil war so much more in-tact as a society than most other cultures are after that level of violence and conflict.

They’re secret, so I only see the outside edges of their influence, but you can really feel them, moving under the water here. Just these drags of connection and force and intention and mutual support and connection.

It’s a factor I’m trying to include in my contact tracing work.

It made me think about how it’s ok to have secrets from some people, as long as you can share them with others who share that secret. Like maybe you can build a whole entire life that way, just not in solo isolation.

Love you,

Alex

–

August 24th, 2015
Turquoise Caves, Roswell, NM

Michael had learned a long time ago the pods gave off enough heat to keep him from freezing to death on cold desert nights. He was tucked between what he liked to think of as Isobel and his pod’s. He had a Lonely Planet Guide to West Africa he’d ordered through Interlibrary Loan and was reading about their secret societies.

He heard the crunch of boots in the passageway. He thought of getting up, but the Johnny Walker tucked under his knee made a persuasive case for staying on the ground.

Max’s judgemental hair flopped into view and Michael rolled his eyes at it.

Max stood there for a long moment, Michael thought he might have drifted off for a second there.

He had his arms crossed, staring down at him.

Another long blink, and he was gone.

He’d left a bottle of water and some Chewy bars.

Michael went back to his book.

Long minutes later, he used his powers to hurl the water bottle against the cave wall so hard the plastic burst, spraying him and their pods in a fine mist.

He ate the Chewy bars though.

–

Sent: August 25th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I hear what you’re saying. I don’t think everyone needs to know our business at all times, for sure. But how big are these secret societies? Pretty big, right? Entire communities, with rituals and relationships and stuff? Not just two old cowboys out on the range together?

Maybe something is lost, with some kinds of secrets, and not others. Secret societies are societies , not just tiny groups. They need all of those structures and members to be safe and healthy. Secrets kept by just a few people, I think sometimes those can be the worst things in the world. The most corrosive.

Sometimes we don’t have to a choice, don’t have anything else to do but hide.

But not all the time.

I love you,

M–

–

Sent: September 13th, 2015
Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

It’s hard to know what kind of secret any given thing is sometimes. How much it will hurt to hide; how much it will hurt to tell.

I did see something really cool from one of the local religions. Kind of a local religion? Like, technically, most people in Sierra Leone identify as Muslim (¾) and Christian (¼). But there’s also a ton of animist beliefs, ongoing relationships with pantheons, just so much fascinating complexity.

Anyway, when I was in Makeni, UNIMAK – University of Makeni – had a group of students we’d been training in data science and they hosted us for a dinner. They brought in, I guess it would be performers? It’s so weird using white people words for this. Basically, it was a cultural dance and we were invited to see it, like festival days in the Pueblos.

There were musicians and dancing, and then this person emerged from the crowd. She was wearing 5-10 different dresses, all layered on top of each other. And she had these layers of fabric around her face, so I couldn’t see anything, and then this tiny, like doll-sized white mask with almost Geisha make-up? It was fascinating, and she wanted to dance with everyone, all hips and swaying. And then I realized: she was in drag. Or trans? Or performing femininity for a spiritual or religious reason? The students laughed and nudged me into dancing with her; it was fun and silly and they were very tolerant of my lack of skills in their style of dancing. They said she was a goddess and her name was Jolie.

And then the performer/ritualist/dancer disappeared, and a tall person dressed as a man appeared, grinning, and smiling, and then he moved his hips and he was the same body as Jolie had had? I don’t know how to describe it respectfully, whether he was inhabited by Jolie or performing her or possessed or something else entirely.

Anyway. It was a privileged to be included in that moment, to see that raw, different way of handling sexuality and gender.

So many ways of being in the world. It’s a good reminder.

We’re at the halfway mark. I should be back in country in January.

Can I see you?

I love you,

Alex

PS: I think they’re scheduling the security clearance interview for October, if that’s ok?

–

Sent: September 28th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

That works for the interview. I’ll be ready.

That’s a cool story, and a good reminder how many ways there are to be human.

Where do you want to meet in January?

Love,

M–

–

October 1st, 2015
The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael was pretending to be a barback, hovering while some stiff in a starched suit from the US Postal Inspection Service interviewed Maria, watching them in the mirror. He was going to scrub these tumblers so f*cking clean, all within easy earshot of her bar side interrogation.

“Thank you for meeting with me. As you know, these interviews are vital to maintaining our national security.”

“I know, I’ve done them before. Alex and I have been together since high school, and I was part of his last clearance process.”

“I see that. And when was the last time you two saw each other?”

Maria gave a sad smile Michael felt in his heart through the mirror. “January, 2014 in Las Vegas. But distance makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

“And he writes you, sometimes weekly, sometimes longer?”

Maria nodded. “I know the censors look through them when he’s deployed, we don’t have to be coy.”

The white man took a note in his black binder, settling it a little more squarely on the bar.

“And is that distance your choice or his?”

A false smile. “Mutual. I’m the sole owner and proprietor of this bar. Not an easy thing to do as a woman in this county. It takes all of my time.” Michael saw her take a breath so hard it made her shoulders hover up around her ears for a moment. “But Alex has all of my heart.”

The man gave a smile; it looked fully genuine. Michael wondered how many disaffected wives and angry girlfriends he had to interview; maybe he enjoyed seeing true love from time to time.

“I can see that. Seven years together –”

“Eight. We started dating in the fall of our senior year. At the homecoming dance.”

He made a note.

“And how’d you meet?”

“Oh, Alex and I have known each other since the cradle. Mom and his Mom were good friends. Had a shared hatred for his father.”

Michael stiffened, hands freezing. But Maria just gave the interviewer a level look.

“That would be Master Sergeant Jesse Manes?”

“A real piece of work.”

“Hm.”

Maria sipped her water. Michael forced himself to unfreeze, to go back to scrubbing the carafe he was working on.

“Does Lieutenant Manes share your disapproval of the Iraq war?”

“I just want him home. The war being over seems to be the fastest way to achieve that.”

“He’s not in Iraq right now. He’s on a humanitarian mission –”

“I know.” She cut him off, hand slicing through the air. Then she rolled her shoulders, giving him a customer service smile. “I know,” she said, softer. “But it’s not going away, right? The threat? Or deployment to a war zone, and all that comes with it?”

“That’s what he signed up for.”

She nodded, meeting and holding Michael’s eyes. “What we both did. Doesn’t mean I don’t want a better future, for him, for both of us.”

The man made a note.

“Is there any reason why Alex Manes would not be able to faithfully and honestly continue to service the United States of America?”

“None in the world.”

“Does he harbor any subversive tendencies, any reason not to comply with lawful orders?”

“None.”

“Any debts?”

“No.”

“Any close and continuing alien contacts?”

Michael choked a little, covering it with a clatter of plastic glasses in the sink.

“No,” Maria said, cutting a scowl at him.

“Drug use?”

“Nothing illegal.”

“What about marijuana?”

Michael remembered a night in his truck, the light of the joint, the final thing between them as the stars rose around them, how Alex’s face had looked in the warm red glow of it.

Maria shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“Not even in high school?”

“Like I said, his father was a piece of work. Alex didn’t have a lot of room for experimenting, to be a kid.”

He noted that down.

“And other relationships – 22 months is a long time not to see a girlfriend.”

She met Michael’s eyes in the mirror again, then narrowed them at the man. “Alex is faithful. I know that.”

“Affairs, trysts, they can be sources of blackmail –”

“I have no doubts in my heart about who he loves.”

The man held her gaze for a long moment, then dropped it, taking a note.

“Do you think Alex Manes is a trustworthy person, qualified to hold Top Secret security clearance? That he can be trusted with important secrets?”

“Absolutely.”

–

Sent: October 16th, 2015
From: Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

It sounds like the interview went well! I’ve been provisionally cleared. I’ve got a conversation about promotion with my new commander scheduled when she’s in-country reviewing the project next week. Fingers crossed!

I find myself missing the fall a little here. Not that we got the East Coast colors back home, but the air changed, got a little crisper. I miss that change a bit.

The project is going well. We’ve been deploying it alongside the national health service and it’s working, helping us track cases, reach communities before it spreads.

We had another cultural dinner, this time with fire dancers. God this is a cool country.

When we see each other, where do you want to meet? Looks like I’ll still be at Mountain Home at least for the first month in 2016. If I get promoted, who knows what then.

I love you,

Alex

–

Sent: November 2nd, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I could drive up to Idaho again? January 15th again? We haven’t gone to Yellowstone yet. I know you said you’d seen all the national parks around home, but I don’t think we’ve done that one. How long do you think you’ll be around for?

Love,

M–

PS: I'm still scrubbing wax out of my jeans from Halloween at the Pony -- we filled the whole thing with luminaria. It was so beautiful, we had this whole outdoor seating thing. You'd have loved it.

–

Sent: November 17th, 2015
From: Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

We could do a week? Yellowstone in winter sounds chilly but good. We could use your snow tire expertise. I think I’ve had my fill of sweating and humidity for the year here :D. Find some cozy cabin, snuggle up?

I’ve missed your skin. I’ve missed how you touch me.

People touch each other so much here. Students hug me, professors sit right up next to me. I’ve adjusted to it, better that than be a total stiff, but I miss your intentional touch. A touch that means something.

I love you.

Alex

PS: The conversation about promotion went well, I should know by December what the board decides!

–

November 27th, 2015
Sanders’ Junkyard, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael rubbed his fingers over the 2nd Prize Sunflower Grow challenge medal. Somehow the festival committee had scrounged up enough coin to get them made of real copper, shiny and gently greening already. He tucked it into his toolcase in the back of his truck, little and shining, right by the scissors and the gently cut rope.

He was pretty sure he could cover the 10 days off he’d need to see Alex in January without putting it in hock.

Pretty sure.

He gave it one more soft rub and then he turned around to smile at the first customer of the day.

–

Sent: November 29th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I’ve marked it off on the calendar: See Alex Manes, Touch Alex Manes, Cuddle Alex Manes, January 15 - 22, 2016 :D.

Do we start needing to use the ***s again? All this talk of touching has me all hot and bothered :D.

I want to touch you too. Feel the lines of your neck as you struggle to get that much closer to kiss me. The rasp over your stubble over my lips as I work my way down your throat. The way you feel under me.

God, Alex. I miss you. I miss you so damn much.

I love you,

M–

–

Sent: December 15th, 2015
From: Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone, Freetown, Sierra Leone

Dear M–,

I got the promotion! We did a little ceremony, just my unit here, all the forms and bunting the Radisson Blu could handle. Hahaha.

I’ve got some big news, but it’ll keep until we see each other again.

I’ve packed up my apartment here, all the fabrics and fetishes and everything, all in a few boxes on their way already back to Idaho. It’s empty here.

When we’re living together, we can fill the house with stuff, from home, from our travels. Put these letters in a special box, like we talked about in Atlanta.

The record of when we had to be apart, kept in the place where we get to be together.

I love you. See you soon.

Love,

Alex

PS: I mailed you something too, should get there for Christmas.

–

Sent: December 28th, 2015
From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

Dear Alex,

I got your box – that’s a really nice necklace, thank you. It’ll go great with my earrings from Turkey :D.

I’m sending this one to Idaho, to make sure you get it. It’s late, but I thought you’d like it.

See you in Montana.

Love,

M–

–

Sent: December 31st, 2015
From: Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Dear M–,

A luminaria with the Wild Pony logo on it. That’s just about the most home-y thing I could think of. I love you so much.

I booked us a little cabin in the park, with Canyon Lodge and Cabins. No cooking, but we can make do. There’s a queen bed, me and you, what more do we need?

I love you,

Alex

Chapter 18: 2016 [172,906]

Chapter Text

Sent: January 1st, 2016
From: Jimmy Kravitz (212-555-2930)

Captain Manes, I think you’re really going to love this one.

See you soon!

–

January 1st, 2016
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Alex pressed his forehead to the white tile of his shower in his officer's quarters. He shivered. The hot water was icy by the time it reached his hips, all its heat absorbed by the wind-chilled muscles of his shoulders and back.

I wish Michael were here , came a quiet, hurting voice. He had been having that thought more and more, ever since he re-upped. It had never been far from his mind before then either, not really, no matter how he pushed and tried to focus, it was always there, waiting.

Maybe I should just move back , he thought wildly, and ground the heels of his palms into the cold wall. He could feel hands around his throat at the thought of Roswell, the broken-rib tightness in his chest. That Michael had thought he could want to come back there –

Is that what home is, to him? He kept asking himself, over and over and over again. Is it a place ? A place I can’t be? (not yet, not before I know how to win).

He wanted to talk to Maria. Not through a letter, not through a mask, he just wanted his best friend’s head on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his ear. He wanted her not to be mad at him or pissed about the war or whatever. He wanted her back. He wanted Michael back, for good.

Maybe he would step out of his shower and they would all have teleported to his room, be lounging on his bed, cowboy boots kicked up on the bedspread, laughing and drinking and snacking and waiting for him to join in.

He held onto that image with everything he had.

He let it go when the shower lost all the heat it had to give.

–

January 1st, 2016
Albuquerque, NM

Michael was slouching at the edge of the crowd in front of Senator Heirich's Albuquerque district office, shoulders hunched against the flicker of snow. Maria was in the crowd holding anti-war signs for the cameras. There were only a few dozen people, but it was a slow news day so KANM and KUNM had sent their stringers, along with Univision.

A woman in an ivory headscarf bumped Michael’s shoulder as she passed, her hands full of shiny paper. Photographs, he realized. A school portrait? She was handing them out to the crowd, but she’d missed him. He was aiming to be missed. He wanted the war over as much as anyone else here, but he didn’t really want his mug on TV and anyway, he was shivering. He’d had to restitch the shoulder of his jacket in the dark last night; a hank of old barbed wire had ripped it open during choring. He'd done a sh*t job and the cold was seeping in. He hoped Maria had budgeted for coffee on the way back, because his truck’s heater was a bit finicky right now.

The press conference ended, people milling away. He saw the woman in the white headscarf press something into Maria’s hands. Maria looked down; he say her eyes go wide, mouth open. She had her listening face on though, so he didn’t step in to try to help. Not that she’d want me white knighting around anyway .

When the woman slipped away, Maria slipped her wallet open and gently slid the picture in, giving it one last look before pocketing it back again.

She looked up, searching the crowd for him. She caught his eye and nodded, and then jerked her chin towards the car.

Michael followed.

–

January 2nd, 2016
Mountain Home Air Force Base, ID

Alex was checking and re-checking the drivetime from Mountain Home to Yellowstone when Sergeant Peters knocked on his cubicle wall.

“Captain?”

Alex turned in his office chair and co*cked his head.

“Major wants to see you.” He lowered his voice. “I overheard something about transfer orders.”

A flutter of excitement worked its way through Alex’s chest.

He was nearly certain he’d be sent to the Sixteenth Air Force in Lackland, TX, back where he’d done BMT. That was his big news for Michael he'd written about in his last letter: they’d only be an 8 hour drive apart. What had seemed nearly impossible 8 years before now seemed a far gentler life than they’d been living.

He stood, following Sergeant Peters to the Major’s office. Alex thought about yesterday’s text from Jimmy. It would be good to catch up with Jimmy; maybe he would be in a better place with Priti. He had to be back from Iraq by now, and from his text, Alex figured he was in Lackland too.

It would be nice to have a friendly face in what would be his last assignment.

The Major was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with close-cropped blond hair. The word was she’d joined the Air Force to pay for college and then bounced right back in after getting her CS degree. She was fair, foul-mouthed, and fiercely committed to protecting her people from as much administrative bullsh*t as she could. She was exactly the kind of officer Alex hoped to be someday.

“Captain Manes, please sit down.”

Alex sat, the Reagan-era chair creaking under his weight.

“I have your orders. Normally, you would get more R&R before we sent you overseas again,” Alex’s heart cratered, vision starting to blur. She tapped the Air Force blue folder in her hand on the desk, then laid it down flat and square, smoothing her hand over it.

“We got Hassan Saeed Al-Jabouri on Christmas.”

“I heard,” Alex said. It had been the talk of the base, the ISIL governor of Mosul killed in a coalition air strike.

“We also killed 5 kids on Christmas, near Fallujah. Their Mom and Dad, all 5 of their kids, all dead, from an air strike from one of our planes, our bombs.” Her voice was slow, deliberate. “We are bad at targeting. Everyone is, but that doesn’t make it any better. And I could give you some bullsh*t about every civilian we kill gets put on a recruiting poster for ISIL, but I could give a f*ck what those 12th century f*ckers put on their f*cking Facebook posts. Kids, Alex. I’m so damned tired of seeing kids get blown to bits because we got their neighbor’s schedule wrong.”

She took a deep breath, shoulders settling.

“That’s where your contact tracing tool is going to go. That’s why I’m sending you to Iraq not in a month, but tomorrow . We’re taking back Mosul, Captain Manes. We’re taking it this year. And when we do, I don’t want the streets to run with innocent blood. I want it as clean a war as we can fight. And your project is part of that.” She frowned a little, squaring the edge of the folder with the lacquered edge of her desk. “I don’t need your agreement to send you over. That’s why they’re called orders,” she gave a ghost of a smile, “but this will be in the sh*t, Alex. I know you only took a two year tour. I know you’ve got people.”

Alex bit his lip, thinking of the deposit on the cabin in Yellowstone; of Maria’s face; of Michael’s.

He thought of those kids.

“I’ll go.”

She wrapped her knuckles on the folder and slid it his way. “There’s the details of the unit you’ll be joining. I believe you’ve served with one of them before – a Captain Jimmy Kravitz?”

Alex flipped to the page, scanning it over quickly.

“He recommended me?”

“Requested you.”

“He shouldn’t have.” Alex swallowed, adjusting his tone. “It was kind of him to remember me.”

“From Korea, right?”

“Yes.”

“And England?”

“Yes,” Alex worried he wasn’t coming across as forthcoming. “We’ve stayed in touch.”

“It’s different now. Mosul is going to be different. ISIL is different.”

Alex thought of the beheading videos, the mass executions of those accused of collaborating with security forces. “I’ve gathered.”

“I have you on the next flight out tomorrow morning. There’s not a lot of room for personal belongings –”

Alex thought of his key to the unseen Airstream, the box of postcards. His tiny storage locker on base with a half-dozen souvenirs and his paperwork and medals. Nothing he would need to take with him on deployment. Everything I need in my life I can carry in a duffel bag . He’d used to be proud of it; was still supposed to be. He wasn’t sure if he was anymore, but he was sure of this mission, of the righteousness of it.

“I travel light.”

–

January 2nd, 2016
The Wild Pony, Roswell, New Mexico

“It’s for you!” Maria shouted over a rowdy bachelorette party that had taken over the Pony’s booths for the night. Michael was behind the bar, kneeling as he tried to fix the wobbly tumbler shelf once and for all; a rare invite back into the building. The shrine to Alex with his service photos and all of the decoy photos with Maria tacked up above the bar, edges of some of the pictures curling, their big smiles still white and bright in the dim bar light.

Michael looked up at Maria, heart slamming in his chest. There was only one person who would call him here; call him at all lately, with Isobel focused on Noah’s new office renovations and Max in his seasonal funk.

“Is he ok?” He mouthed, and Maria met his eyes, holding them steady.

“It’s for you.” She held out the black bakelite handset.

He took it.

“This is Michael.”

“f*ck it’s good to hear your voice,” Alex said. There was a rough burr of static on the line. Michael reached out with his powers, trying to see if there was a loose connection on his end. Nothing; the failure to connect was on Alex's end.

“Yours too. Is everything alright? Did we lose the Yellowstone reservation?”

There was a pause, full of static. “Sorry about the line, I’m an hour outside of Boise, on a pay phone. We can talk. Actually talk.” A long, staticky pause. “I can’t make it to Wyoming. I’m sorry.”

Michael felt a wave of cold flow over him, but tried to sound cheery. “That’s ok, I can come to you when you know where you’ll be based. Are you still hoping for Lackland?” At Alex’s long pause, he stumbled, “I figured that would be your big news, since the Sixteenth Air Force is based out of there.” No reply. Michael tried again. “The big news you mentioned in your letter, the one you wanted to share when we saw each other in person?”

There was a crash of static and Alex voice came out of the void. “I’m going to Iraq.”

The static was in Michael’s ears now, his head, his eyes, his heart, “You’re – what? Why?”

“They need me there, Michael, there’s work I can –”

“ They need you?” Michael choked, far too loud, covered only by the music and the drunken laughter in the bar. He covered his mouth with his hand and suddenly Maria crouching on the floor with him, hand on his, gripping so tight he could see again. “You promised to come home. Stay safe, stay whole, and come home to me. That’s it. That’s all. That was our deal.”

Maria was searching his face, eyes wide and terrified. He mouthed “Iraq” and watched that crash over Maria too. Michael whispered into the phone. “Keep your damned promise, Alex.”

“I made a promise to the Air Force too,” Alex’s voice was weak, like the line was shaking between them, unable to carry the weight.

That shut Michael up. He didn’t know how he could say anything to that. What he managed was, “You’ll be in Kurdistan again, someplace safe?”

“Baghdad,” Michael must have made a hurt sound, since Alex said, “Air Force offices are in the Green Zone. It’ll be safer than the odd Thursday night at Chez Manes.”

“sh*t, Alex,” Michael said. He pulled himself back in again. “Where can I write you?”

“Same address as before, it’ll get forwarded to me. And Michael –”

“Yes?” He was hoping for a reprieve, some kind of rope, some way out of this pit they were in.

“Tell Maria I’m sorry,”

“She’s here,” Michael whispered and handed the phone to her.

“Alex, what’s happening?” She said, hand over the receiver. She listened for a long moment, face growing harder. “What do you mean, you’re going over there to help? Are you quitting the Air Force to join Doctors Without Borders? No? Be f*cking real for once, Alex. The military kills people. That’s it’s job!” Her frown was getting deeper. “No, Alex, I won’t take it down a notch, you’re asking me to keep doing this like it’s ok for me, like you can just keep doing this without consequences. You know how many kids they killed this month —”

She pulled the phone away from her face, staring into the handset. “He hung up on me.”

Michael buried his head in her shoulder. Through the cruel noise of the bar, he heard her whisper, “He’s going to kill people over there.”

He pulled back, trying to hold her eyes, hands on her arm. “No, he isn’t, Maria. He won’t be in combat. He’ll be behind a desk.” She shook her head, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket. She pulled out a picture. It had the face of a little girl on it; she looked like she was about 5.

Maria’s voice was hard, thrumming with barely suppressed tension. “Her sister is a U.S. citizen. She was at the press conference at Senator Heirich’s office. She was handing out this photo.”

Michael could barely focus. “Ok?”

“Her little sister was killed in a U.S. air strike. The kind that guys behind desks plan and order.”

“Alex is one guy, Maria. He’s not any more responsible for this war than you or I are – if he’s guilty of killing that little girl, then so are we, for the meager taxes we paid and votes we gave to the people who voted for it.”

Maria’s face was dead serious. “We are guilty.”

Michael clenched his jaw, shaking his head. He didn’t know what to say to her either. He just wanted to go home to his Airstream and look at the postcards.

Maria’s face softened at his expression. “You want to stay here tonight?”

Michael wanted to with every piece of him. “No,” he said. “We can’t take those rumors again.”

“I’m going to f*ck every Chad, Dick, and Harry as soon as this charade is over, see if I don’t,” Maria tried to huff, and Michael smiled, the way she wanted him to.

She stood, placing the handset in the cradle. The picture of the little girl was still in her hand.

Michael looked up at her from the floor. “What was her name? The little girl?”

Maria startled, and looked down at the creased and folded picture, the little girl’s smile still bright and mischievous on the shiny paper.

“Sara.”

Michael nodded. “Sara. I’ll remember.”

Maria reached up, tucking the photo’s corner under the side of the selfie she’d taken with Alex in Las Vegas and holding it in place as she found a pin to keep it there.

“I will too.”

–

Sent: January 2nd, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I just got home and I’m so scared for you. I want you to come home safe. I know you can’t until this deployment is over, but love, please. Do whatever you need to to come back to me.

Love,

M–

172,484

–

Sent: January 10th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m guessing it will take a while for your letters to get here, two weeks again? I hope you had a good flight and are getting settled in well. I’ve been re-reading our postcards, we’ve been through so much, we’ll get through this too. I’ve been working to figure out how to wrap things up here in Roswell for when you get out in a year and a bit. It’s slow going, but we’ll get there.

It might make planning easier if we have a city in mind. I still think San Francisco is too expensive, but what about trying Denver again? I have to admit, I miss seeing the mountains. Or somewhere in Tennessee?

Love you,

M–

172,906

–

Sent: January 20th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

I sorry I scared you on the phone, I didn’t mean to. It’s pretty boring here, being real. The Green Zone is pretty safe, like I’d said. I get invited to go outside the wire sometimes, but I don’t go; I’ve got you to come home to. Denver might be nice, I like the cost of living, and you’re right, those mountains were just incredible.

Jimmy is here, from Kunsan, from England. He's changed; I don't think we see eye-to-eye anymore. But it's good to have a familiar face, as long as we stick to work. It’s nice to have a bit of normalcy.

I love you,

Alex

–

Sent: February 1st, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I’m really glad you have a bit of normalcy, you deserve it. Ok, I went on PadMapper and found a few places we could afford in Denver. I started to look up classes, but it's the same as last time. I figure we have until, what, April 2017? So I could start classes in August, or even summer quarter if it's available. That’s doable.

I’m trying to think of other news, but it’s pretty much what it’s always been. It’s cold here, the Pony is the Pony, not much changes. I miss you. I love you.

M–

173,951

–

Sent: February 16th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

Maybe Albuquerque? You’ve always had something pulling you back to Roswell, so maybe being a bit closer to home would be easier? At least as a starter move?

Work is work here. I’m proud of it, but it’s done at 6pm and then I work out and then go to read or whatever. I miss you.

Jimmy got his pay docked for being an asshole to an Iraqi guard. I can't imagine risking your entire career, everything you've worked for, because you're messed up about a relationship. He needs to get his head on straight about Priti; she's moved on. That's it. He needs to get it, it didn't work out. That happens sometimes. It's better to make a clean break than keep dragging things out for years and years like Mom and Dad. Anyway, I'm not talking to him anymore. I tried to look-up Charlie, but it's like she's disappeared off the face of the earth. I heard there's a poker game somewhere around here, I'm going to see if I can get in on it.

I should be out April 20th, 2017. We’re so close, love. We can do it.

I love you,

Alex

PS: I had a question tho -- what are the numbers on the letters? I didn’t want to ask before in case it was a code or something, but it looks like someone else’s handwriting.

--

Sent: February 27th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

What kind of poker? We always play 5 card draw here on the ranch, but every now and then someone comes by all obsessed with Texas Hold 'em. I wonder what it's like out there.

Albuquerque could be nice, it would be easier to be closer to home. But this is our future, together. Where do you want to be?

I love you,

M–

PS: About the numbers -- you know how my friend puts the letters in the post for me when I’m on the ranch? They’re from her. I told her to knock it off but she won’t. Ignore them, ok, love? She says it’s her fee, for helping.

174,518

--

Sent: March 10th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

If I could live anywhere in the world, hmm. I really liked Korea, but I don’t know if you have a passport or would really even want one. I’m not sure I want to go to Atlanta again, at least permanently. Maybe when I’m back, we can sit down, talk about what we want in a city, and make some plans?

I found the game; they were playing for Iraqi dinar or any other foreign coins folks could bear to part with. It was half foreign-exchange quiz show, half poker. And yeah, it was Texas Hold 'em. I've never played 5 card draw, you'll have to show me when I get back.

At work, I’m trying to prove the value of my tool, so I’m keeping close track of how different strikes do, in terms of collateral damage. It’s hard and painful work, but necessary.

I love you,

Alex

PS: About the numbers: I don’t get it -- they’re going up with every letter. Sometimes a little and sometimes a lot.

--

Sent: March 30th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Things are starting to bloom around here. I don’t know what kinds of flowers they have where you are, but I hope they’re beautiful. Things are busy on the ranch, there’s a new barn we’ve been getting underway. You should see the calves, they’re just about the sweetest things, all legs and slobber and big brown eyes.

We can pick up the talk about the future when you’re done.

When do you get back? We can plan on that for sure. Maybe the Grand Canyon again? Or we could try Yellowstone.

I love you,

M–

PS: Please, ‘Lex, it won’t help to know. She’ll get over it. She has to. I’ll talk to her again.

176,519

--

Sent: April 15th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

I should be back June or December. I wish I could be clearer, but those are the two windows they gave me.

I won a bunch of old Turkish coins in poker last night, I taped one to this card so you can see, hopefully it won't delay it too much. Aren't they cool?

Things got more interesting here. I really think we’re making good forward progress.

I love you,

Alex

PS: I tried googling the numbers. What are they, M--?

--

Sent: April 31st, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

That coin is cool, it looks so much like the U.S.'s ones. Who knew olive branches and wheat were so common? What other stuff are you seeing on the coins you're collecting?

Things are good here, the Pony is doing well, I booked a few parties which helped to fill things in during the day. I’ll plan on us seeing Yellowstone together. Do you know when you’ll be back now?

I love you,

M–

PS: I’m dead serious Alex, just ignore them.

177,641

--

Sent: May 14th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M—,

I'm glad you like the coin, I've got a whole stash we can put in a shadow box when we get a home together. We could frame all the fabric from Sierra Leone in storage, just have bits of the whole globe around us in our own little world.

I'm working to get more teams to buy into my work, but I need more time. The decision-makers are in the field and I need to convince them, but it's hard to get on their calendars when they're not in the Green Zone often.

That's where the bad news comes from. My commander wants me to stick it out until December. I’m so sorry, love, this isn't what I want either.

Love,

Alex

PS: I looked up the last 10 numbers and they all came to the same search result. iraqbodycount.org. Is that where this is coming from?

--

Sent: May 30th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I can't say how much I'll miss you, but I think you know. I like the idea of decorating with all the stuff from your travels. I can add some funny bar tabs. Maybe we could get my old coat mended once I don't need it for overnights on the farm. With you to keep me warm, I won't want to be out star gazing or following lost calves around anyhow. Maybe I'll finally take Sanders up on his offer to join his shop as a mechanic. Regular hours, some kind of regular pay, with a home to come home to it might be worth it.

I love you,

M–

PS: Yes. I’m so sorry, Alex, I told her to stop. She says she has to.

179,182

--

Sent: June 9th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M-,

That could be good, being a mechanic is a good, transferable skill. But you won't need to focus so tightly on that one job once we're in Denver (or wherever we end up!) since you'll have a chance to take classes, see what else you really love doing. I want that for you. I want to do that for you, help you do it.

I love you,

Alex

PS: I don’t know what to say. Why is she doing this?

--

Sent: June 23th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I looked at the classes again, and I can register for Spring quarter anytime before October 30th. So as long as we're on track, I can get started on that then. It's hard to imagine this all working out finally, after it's been hard for so long. But I love that you always remember.

I love you,

M--

PS: f*ck, I don’t know, I -- she has a whole bunch of reasons and I said to leave you out of it but she said she won’t and -- please ‘Lex, please just ignore them.

180,374

--

Sent: July 8th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M-,

I figure we trade off being hopeful, right? As long as one of us has hope, we can keep going. I'm hoping it's you today, this has been such a sh*t week. I made a bad call when cleaning a dataset and someone nearly paid for it. I have a lot of people backstopping me, so it's never just me making a call. But f*ck, it's scary.

Tell me something you're hopeful about?

I love you,

Alex

PS: Does she think I’m a killer? That I’m over here -- what, burning babies to death? She thinks that of me now?

–

Sent: July 17th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I'm hopeful that in 6 months, we'll be sitting naked in our own apartment, overlooking the snowy vistas of suburban Denver, enjoying hot cocoa and each other. If you can't aim for anything else in that picture, aim for the cocoa :D.

News on my end is slow, there's family drama with Max and Isobel, some client Noah was helping skipped bail and he tried to nudge Max to just not go after him. It was a whole thing. Thankfully, it's mostly simmered down? I don't even know. Noah's being way nicer to me now; maybe he figures he has to have at least one of Isobel's people on his side.

What are you hopeful about, Alex?

I love you,

M-

PS: Please, Alex. If you can't ignore the numbers, try to remember she's doing this because she thinks it will help you in the long-run. At least that's what she said.

181,303

–

Sent: July 30th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M-,

Hmm, what am I hopeful about. Hot chocolate does make a good motivator, but I'm really hung-up on that image of you without your clothes on. That's a pretty good thing to hope for <3.

Sorry to hear about family drama, that doesn't seem like the Noah I've heard about. You never really know, I guess. Maybe he just got really caught up in his activism? I can see that happening a lot these days.

My work really helped this month, I'm proud of that.

I am so f*cking tired, I'm working on two timezones at all times, trying to keep the folks at Mountain Home and the folk here in alignment. I need more sleep.

I love you,

Alex

PS: I don't buy that. She’s sending me the Iraqi death count, she’s not doing it for my mental health. What does she want me to do with that information?

--

Sent: August 10th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

That's really good to hear, I hope you feel really proud of yourself for making that happen.

The family stuff is really in the past now, everyone is back to being friendly again. I wish Max would get a girlfriend already. Or Liz Ortecho could move him back to town and put him out of his misery. I wonder where she is now?

Tell me something cool you saw recently that you'd never see here at home. I could use a jolt out of the summer craziness on the farm.

I love you,

M-

PS: I don’t want to be your go-between on this. She should be talking to you directly about it.

182,134

--

Sent: August 20th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M-,

Something cool I saw, hmm -- it was Ramadan last month and there were these huge, absolutely massive family parties. I didn't get invited to one, but you would see them, entire streets shut down to put big tables out in the middle, full of food for whoever wanted it. It was really cool.

What is something quintessentially Roswell you saw recently? I'm only homesick for you and our friends, but maybe you can convince me otherwise :D.

Liz is in Denver, doing her PhD. I saw her, when we were there. She was looking good!

I love you,

Alex

PS: That’s fair, sorry.

--

Sent: September 6th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

You ... saw one of the few decent people in our graduating class, your friend, and my brother's long-lost love and you ... just didn't mention it? Don't ever tell Max that, he'll kill you.

How was she? Was she ... did she not want to see us? Was there a reason you didn't tell me?

After what happened to Rosa, I was really scared for her. I really ... Max needed to know she was ok. I wish you'd told me she was, so I could give him some peace.

--

Uh, ok, something quintessentially Roswell. I saw Wyatt drunkenly cheering for Donald Trump during the Labor Day Parade yesterday. It was a f*cking sh*t show.

That's Roswell for you. The whole U.S., really. Maybe the whole world.

Sorry not to be the bearer of hope this time.

I love you,

M-

183,077

–

Sent: September 20th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear M-,

I can't talk politics. Liz was fine. I was supposed to text her to come over but I must have forgot. I'm sorry you're upset. There's nothing I can do about it. Seeing her wouldn't make Rosa any less dead, or Kate or Jasmin. Maybe Wyatt's that way for a reason.

Things at work are so rough. I got it wrong again and now -- it's hard, is all. I wish I had more hope I could really help, but it's hard seeing it at this very minute. I'm sure it will come back, it always does.

I love you,

Alex

PS: That number wasn’t right; we found 15 bodies, not 13. The two extra weren’t reported because they were claimed as combatants, but that wasn’t right.

--

Sent: September 21st, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Captain Peter Chavez
United States Air Force
Forward Operating Base Prosperity
Baghdad, Iraq

Dear Maria,

Alex lost writing privileges for 4 weeks because of something he said in the last letter. I’m so f*cking sorry, Maria. He’s f*cking exhausted from the extra PT he got and he’s been put on half pay. I think it was either that or an Article 15. I said I’d send this from him, just to make sure you know what was going on.

Best regards,

Captain Peter Chavez
United States Air Force

--

Sent: October 14th, 2016
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

I can’t do this anymore. If this is what – what you both think of me. I can’t.

Alex.

–-

Sent: October 28, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

What does that mean, you 'can't do this anymore.'

I hope you were just having a bad day. I tried to call, but they said you weren't on base. I thought you weren't leaving the Green Zone?

I love you,

M-

--

Sent: November 15, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

Maybe your last letter got lost in the mail. I waited but I didn't get it. Are you ok?

Are we ok?

I love you,

M-

--

Sent: November 29th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

I love you. I tried to call again and they said you had my name blocked, not to take calls or messages from me. With my name. I -- is this how it ends? With a 19 word postcard?

I love you,

M-

--

Sent: December 14th, 2016
From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Dear Alex,

This will be my last letter. I never want to hear from you again.

Don't come looking for me, I'll be long gone by the time you get this.

You can't imagine what you put me through. What I gave up, am still giving up.

I never want to see you again.

I love you and I can't stop, but I won't let this hurt this much anymore. I would rather never feel again than feel this way.

I'm yours,

M-

--

December 29th, 2016
Forward Operating Base Prosperity
Baghdad, Iraq

Alex pried his eyes open. He felt like the sand was in his blood, grinding every gear he had. The awful, crunching feeling of it was everywhere. He shifted against his pillow, fingertips touching envelops. White, with that thin black pen Michael always used. No kill count numbers on the letters the last few months, but Alex had set up a Tor Browser on his personal laptop and had been keeping track on his own. Their numbers weren't perfectly accurate, but they lived inside his every waking moment all the same.

He felt a loose sheet of paper sliding under the envelops, crunching gently under his pillow; he didn't need to look to know what it was. It was a no contact form, to inform the mail room to return letters from a particular sender upon receipt. He'd put Michael's name and Maria's, just like he had for the call center. Another was his paperwork to re-up, this time for 2.5 years, enough time to maybe make the next step rank in pay.

He had no idea what he'd do then, where he'd go, but he needed the time to figure it out, not have another career cliff to deal with in April on top of everything else.

It just needed his signature.

He let the pages go, rolled over, sat up, grinding his palms against his eyes. He was in a portable, hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but at least he was alone. Everyone else in this unit had made it home for the holidays. It wasn't quiet, but at least no one was looking at him, wondering what his problem was.

The room was nearly as bare as he'd found it, no bookcase or table, just the bed and a footlocker. Before the break-up, he'd kept up his practice of sending Michael's postcards home to be kept in his storage locker at Mountain Home for safe keeping, in case a rocket hit the base, he didn't want their memories destroyed. Yet something else he'd have to deal with when he left Iraq.

There was a thick stack of postcards he'd bought in bulk at Ramstein on his way here. He'd thought about burning them, but didn't want to go to the trouble.

His commander had immediately approved his request to add on another 6 months to his time at FOB Prosperity when he'd asked back in late October, and he'd probably let him do it again.

He'd started going outside the wire around then too, just like he'd always promised Michael he wouldn't. But who the f*ck cared. He needed to get buy-in for his tool from the people actually setting the targeting, actually confirming the strikes and investigating afterwards. Drones and satellites could only tell you so much, and he needed to be trusted by the people on the ground to get the data he needed to improve his work. He needed this all to be worth something, to save some of those lives he saw ticking up the counter every goddamned week.

He wished Charlie were here. Or Mimi. Or Liz. Someone who liked him, and not just what he could do.

He knew he was competent and effective. He was an airman and that was something no one could take away -- not Maria, not Michael, not even his father.

That was the other benefit of spending more time with the operators working outside the wire. While he wasn't engaging in direct combat with Daesh, he was getting a lot better sense of what it would take to fight against an armed and willing opponent. If he ever ended up back in Roswell -- now less likely than ever but that sinkhole of a place had a terribly pull on him sometimes -- he wanted to know what it would take to win once and for all against Jesse Manes.

With Jesse out of the way, maybe he could find a way to clear things with Michael again. It might take years but as Michael had clearly demonstrated, he wasn't going anywhere.

Or maybe he was. In his last letter, he'd said he would be long gone if Alex ever came looking.

God, Alex hoped so. Maybe all this time, the thing holding Michael down, pulling him back to Roswell had been Alex.

Maybe with him out of his life, he could move on, stop wasting his life in that sh*tty cowboy town.

Maybe that would make this alright, this horrible, crunching, caving-in feeling in his chest he'd been living with like an untreated wound, hot and achy and zinging with pain when he least expected it.

He would survive this. He had to.

He looked at the postcards again.

He swallowed once, hard.

He signed the forms.

--

December 30th, 2016
Foster Ranch, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael lay in the cleared dirt out front of his Airstream, fingers wearing and wearing and wearing at the edges of an envelope. He'd written it all out, his secrets, his fears, his hopes, and his dreams.

The white picket fence, the kids, the dad band, all of it, in black and white.

He'd even signed his real name.

He had to try, just once, just one final time.

He had to make Alex understand.

But maybe he did understand. Maybe he understood Michael all too well. Maybe he knew what Michael was in his bones and it still wasn't reason enough to stay, to try, to keep trying, even when it got hard.

It had gotten really hard, that summer.

He'd been so pissed at Maria, and had told her so, but the thing was, she'd told Alex what he had to already know. If he didn't, he'd been fooling himself on a scale and with a severity Michael had never seen a human achieve.

19 words and a bit of paper, that had hurt. He could say that, a few beers in: that had hurt like of son of a bitch. It was like he not only wasn't worth fighting for, he wasn't even worth the postage to put it in a letter. Maria had seen those words; the censors on base had seen those words; the f*cking letter carrier had seen those words.

It hurt.

He ran the envelope between his fingers, ridges dry on his stressed callouses.

He'd kept the break-up letter, catalogued it mechanically in the same box he'd kept all the others. He guessed his collection of their correspondence would never been complete. He couldn't see Alex volunteering to hand over his half of the letters now, or ever.

He couldn't bear to lose the last touch he'd probably ever have of him.

He was his, unwillingly, unwantingly, and seemingly unendingly.

It hurt like a f*cking motherf*cker.

Michael thought about just filing this last letter unsent, thick with secrets and pain and hope, letting it be the end of the story. Their story.

He shook his head at himself. It wasn't his story to tell, not without Isobel and Max's say so.

He glanced up at the stars, wondering for the millionth time which one was his, which one had someone on it who gave a damn about him anymore.

Then he flicked the letter into the fire, using his powers to seat it right in the red heart of the coals, and watching the hottest part of the flames long after it had burned to ash.

Chapter 19: 2017 [189,108]

Chapter Text

Sent: January 1st, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M–,

It’s weird to write that, but it’s also weird to be writing a letter to my Mom after all this time. I hope this is the right address. Greg said it was. I emailed him. The card probably looks weird too, but I’m not at the Brandenburg Gate, I just picked up a big pack of cheap cards the last time I was in Germany.

I got recommended for the Air Medal and my commander said he would send a letter notifying my family about it, but I couldn’t think of anyone to send it to. My next of-kin contact form is blank now. If you get this, let me know, and I’ll have him send it to you, if that’s ok?

I didn’t just pick up writing postcards randomly. I had someone I was writing to for, God, for years now. Every little thing that happened in my day, I would think ‘should I put this in the letter’? And every letter I’d get back, I liked to think the writer was thinking that too, multiple times a day, just, thinking of me.

That’s where the postcards were from. Why I bought them. I’d use those if I didn’t have a lot to say, to save on postage, I guess. I used to write letters too. Pages and pages and pages, all in a shoebox back in my storage locker in Idaho. I always started them “Dear M–” and so when I sat down to write this to you, that’s what came out. Sorry if that’s weird.

It’s just, I have all of this love left over and nowhere for it to go. I can’t write who I was writing. Not anymore. But I don’t have anyone else to tell about my day. My life. My guys live through it with me every day, they don’t need to hear me bitch about it at night too.

That’s where I’d write, am writing. Before dinner, I’d take a walk, in whatever place I was. Around the barracks, around the base in Kunsan or Warner-Robins or Mountain Home or wherever. Here I just wander around the trailers we all live in. It’s not much to look at, but it’s what I’ve got.

Honestly, this base kind of reminds me of home.

Then I come here, sit down on my cot, and start writing. Just a little update, or a question, or some kind of bit we were committed to tossing back and forth. It just seemed so normal.

Then it didn’t.

I should ask how you are, because I do want to know. I want to know how you’ve spent the last decade and a half, what your favorite flowers on the rez are, how many people you can fit into your house (Greg said you had a house?).

Anything you want to tell me about your life and how you’re living, I want to know.

Your son,

Alex

PS: Sorry there’s so many cards in this one envelope, once I started I couldn’t seem to stop and I didn’t want to use up 15 postcard stamps.

–

Sent: January 15th, 2017
From: Shiprock, Dinétah

Dear Alex,

It is so good to hear from you. Greg had asked if he could share my address, and I was glad to give it. I have missed you more than my bones could stand every day. I regret that I didn’t know how to reach out. But you did, and for that I’m grateful. Now, you didn’t ask why I left, why I didn’t take you with me, why I didn’t come back to get you when I heard what he was doing to you.

I’ll tell you if you ask. I’ll answer direct questions honestly. But I won’t dump all over you.

So, you asked how I was. I’m good. As good as any of us are after what happened to us all on November 8th. I’m glad I don’t work for the feds, having to walk by that man’s face every day for the next 4 years, I don’t know how I’d stand it. Anyway. I work at the tribal college, tutoring in computer science. Bet you didn’t know your Mom could code! I picked it up after I left, but I’ve always been interested in computers. Having my own space and more time than I knew how to fill after leaving a house full of four growing boys … it made me want to do something that took me away from everything I was worried about or scared over. And it did that. I’m in a stable, fulfilling place in my life. I have friends, a boyfriend who loves me, family all around me.

So that’s how I spent the last decade and a half, building my career, teaching hundreds of kids the difference between an array and a hashmap, and developing relationships I could trust and manage.

It’s because I work with so many college kids I picked up on the pronoun thing you were doing in the letter. I thought about ignoring it, about dancing around it, but I wanted to say: if you want to tell me the gender of your fellow letter writer, I’ve got a big rainbow pin on my bookbag and have since well before DADT was repealed. Maybe I’m reading you wrong, but I f*cking know how he was, and how a lot of folks around here are, but that’s not me. I don’t have an ounce of hate in me for anyone who doesn’t deserve it. So that’s that.

My favorite flowers? I’d say the maize flowers in the rock art in Farmington, NM. I love that they look just like the maize today, like we’re all eating the same food.

I can fit about 12 in my house, if folks are ok sleeping on the floor. Maybe more if they really like each other. Are you hoping to come visit? You always have a place with me.

When Greg was in the Navy, he got R&R over in Italy once. Do you know where you’re going for your next break? More soon, my next student just arrived.

—

And I should have said, the Air Medal! Congratulations on the recommendation! I would be honored to have the letter, I’ll keep it here for you when you get home. Is there any unclassified version of the story behind it you can tell me?

Your Mom,

Mindy Begaye

–

January 15th, 2017
Sanders’ Auto, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael was shaking as he pounded on the door to Sanders’ trailer. It was too f*cking early in the morning but he’d been psyching himself up all night and it was either now or never.

He heard him shuffling to the door before the old man yanked it inwards.

“What’s the goddamned emergency?”

“I need to get out of here. Know anyone who’s hiring a one-handed ranch hand, preferable two to five states away?”

“Come on in, kid –”

“No!” said Michael, throwing his hands up. “If you don’t, it’s fine. I’ll just start driving, I’m sure I’ll see a help wanted sign somewhere between here and the ocean.”

“Which ocean are you aiming for?”

“I don’t know!” Michael ground his palms into his eyes, bending over at the wave of feeling. “I just can’t f*cking stay in that Airstream he’s never been to anymore, with all of the postcards and gifts and the f*cking lease wrapped in a f*cking box with a bow, the f*cking lease with only my f*cking name on it. f*ck!” He kicked the porch and a nail flew up, landing in the gray-yellow dust.

Sanders gave him a long look. He stepped back into his trailer and slammed the metal door in Michael’s face.

Michael’s breath caught in his chest, strangling him before it could get either to his brain or his lungs. Was this it, had he finally pushed the button that drove Sanders away, where would he go –

The door swung open again, and Sanders was holding an unaddressed white envelope, half-crumpled in his fist. He shoved it toward Michael.

“Here.”

Michael didn’t move. He stared at Sanders’ fist, held at chest height, deep creases still greased with motor oil.

The older man shook the envelope, like Michael was a half-tamed dog who needed to be encouraged to come and get a treat.

Slow as breathing, Michael reached out for it.

It had a slick weight he didn’t expect, and when he uncrumpled it, he saw it wasn’t unaddressed. In the old man’s scrawl that he was more used to seeing on parts receipts and the daily chalkboard schedule on the shop wall, he just saw the words, “The Kid.”

“What is this?”

Sanders waved his hand at him to open the damned thing.

He did.

Inside was nearly $3,000 in crumbled and then carefully smoothed out $20s, ragged $50s and a half-torn $100. The rest were more than a few dollar bills, $5s, $10s, and a stubborn nickel backed into the far corner of the envelope.

Michael looked up, a world of questions in his eyes.

Sanders ducked his head, speaking to his boots, “Ever since I knew who you was, I tried to put something away every month. Sometimes it weren’t much, but each month it’s what I could gather.”

“What’s it for?” Michael asked, holding the envelope like a butterfly, a wild frog caught on a school trip, far from the cruel crowds of kids.

“For you, idiot,” Sanders said. “For when you really needed it.” He took a breath. “Look, I don’t know if you intend to stay in this place as long as me, but I never made it more than a few years here without skipping past the county line. Most like as not over into Texas for a day or two in the slow season, just a chance to see a different sky, breathe a different kind of air.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe if I hadn’t met your Mom, I wouldn’t have the need. But I get the travel bug every now and then. And I know you’ve been spending all you could working and alone, and it seems –” He gestured at Michael’s whole hunched over and twisted up being, “Anyway, I suspect now is as good a time as any for you to have some choices you didn’t have to pay for.”

Michael whispered. “I never expected this.”

Walt’s voice was sad. “I know you didn’t, kid. And the money’s yours, just because I would use it to spend a week or two in Waco doesn’t mean you need to.”

“‘Waco’? What the hell’s in Waco?”

Sanders gestured across the entire junkyard. “None of this. That’s the point, to get somewhere-not-here. Well, this year, maybe not Waco. I don’t think I could stand to see that clown on every Fox News-spouting who-knows-what about who-knows-who.” He shook himself. “So, maybe pick a place that’s not as likely to happen, if you’re going to be gone during the inauguration.”

Michael’s voice was small when he said, “What’ll happen if I go? What if I’m the same person when I get there? It’s just a waste of money to be miserable someplace else.”

Sanders shrugged again. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. You can always try for a day or two and just come home if you hate it.” He took a breath. “Like I said, it’s your money. But, kid, the thing is –” he seemed to stall out, rocking back on his heels for a second before squaring his shoulders. “I know it’s not just the alien thing that’s a secret you’ve been carrying all these years. Maybe take yourself someplace where you’re – you’re not the only one, you know? Where you can let more of your guard down, see how others make it all work out so that they’re happy.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere he’s been, anywhere we –”

Walt frowned, fingers moving like he was ticking off locations. “Ever been to Memphis?”

–

Michael had written the city name on postcards, but he’d never really been to Memphis. He wasn’t the only person wearing a cowboy hat, and there were enough bars and the city was big enough he felt he might be able to try out dancing again, if he could stand to be touched.

He’d driven here, watching the desert turn to grasslands turn to hills turn to what he gathered were the local breed of mountains. He booked a little motel room in the downtown, someplace a bit nicer than he usually would pick, but nothing like anything Alex would like. It was country music kitschy and dumb and he kind of loved it, just like he loved the new sheepskin coat he’d gotten in trade for some work he’d done on a neighboring farm’s milking machines. The thing about having money in his pocket was it made it easier to take chances, to call off work for a half-day to take that odd job that might just pay well.

Michael arrived late at night, late enough he barely caught the front desk attendant before she went to bed, but when he woke up, it was to the sound of a city around him. He wandered downstairs and out the door and it was – different. He felt different. Like his legs were longer or his hat higher, and seeing people’s eyes glance over him as opposed to recognizing and cataloging him, it was almost pleasant. To be unnoticed and unseen, not watched and commented on. It felt itchy and good all at once.

The motel had one of those big wooden racks in the lobby right beside the sliding door filled with bright, slick trifold after trifold after trifold of every possible tourist trap for three counties or three states, whichever were closer. He remembered seeing them, when he’d sneak into places like this to use the bathroom when he was driving those long haul routes to visit Alex.

He couldn’t find what he was looking for. No rainbow flags, no obvious signs of where, as Sanders said, might not be “the only one.” He just kept thinking of the Eagle bar he and Alex had been to, what it felt like to be in a small crowd, not the hustling maw of San Francisco, but something more approachable, more his size and fit.

He wished he hadn’t smashed his phone, a cast off of Isobel’s. He could have bought a new one with the money, but really, who was he going to call anymore?

And, anyway, he had wanted out of Roswell like he wanted a new skin, something that fit, something that hadn’t been touched lately. Wanted to be long gone like he’d told Alex he would; last promise he kept to him, and all. Something he could have touched without it feeling like a betrayal, of himself if not of anything else.

But he was going to try, dammit. He was going to try to be touchable, if only for a few hours.

He sidled over to the front desk, “Do you all have a computer I could use?”

The man looked him up and down, and then nodded, “sure, there’s a,” and he used air quotes so sarcastically Michael could almost hear Alex’s voice coming through them, “‘Office Center’ down the hall. Printer paper costs $.10 a page, just so you know.”

“I don’t need to print anything,” Michael said, before nodding and following his directions.

He was the only one in there at 12pm on a Tuesday, but all the same he kept his eye out. He tried typing in, “gay bar memphis” and some options came up. He knew better than to use “queer” or “bisexual,” these places always expected men like him to be comfortable being called “gay” even when that wasn’t even the half of it. Or maybe only the half of it. He didn’t really get into quantifying how he felt about men or women, in what proportions or whatever. It was more a feeling, not something he wanted to weigh out like wholesale beans.

He scrounged a pencil from behind the monitor screen and found an old envelope. He noted down the address of the club, open and closed hours, and then tucked it into his back pocket.

He idly looked up a few music venues where he could listen to music for the price of a cup of coffee or a beer, jotted those down too, and headed out to wander the city.

–

The Pumping Station was so much closer to Michael’s speed than anything he’d seen in San Francisco or Atlanta it nearly gave him whiplash. Pool tables, beer on tap, a fairly innocuous front window. It’s not that he wanted to hide anything, but he also had his own reasons for not wanting attention.

He drank a few beers, shot a round of pool, considered trying to hustle someone but he’d never really picked up the rhythm of it. He people watched for another beer and then headed back to the motel, location sufficiently scouted. He’d spend more time there the next night, now he’d gotten the lay of the land.

He called Isobel on the motel phone.

“Michael, where are you, Max is worried sick –”

“I’m fine,” he said, using his powers to float chips in a conga line out of the bag he’d picked up at the gas station on his drive here. The beer had been good, but he hadn’t wanted to splurge on the bar food and his stomach needed settling. “Max needs to mind his business.”

“You are his business.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

There was a long pause, then she sighed. He could nearly hear her examining her nails in irritation.

“If you won’t tell me where you are, can you at least tell me when you’ll be back?”

Michael ran the numbers in his head, “The money runs out in two weeks. So, around then.”

“What money?”

“None of your business.”

A huge, aggravated, sisterly sigh followed.

“If you’re not going to tell me anything, why did you call?”

Michael felt a pang; he wished he was better at just calling the people he loved to talk to them. Once it was no longer an option with Alex, he just sort of lost the tone on that social muscle.

Without really meaning to, he muttered, “I’ve just been thinking.”

“About?”

“Like,” he said, feeling his way around the subject. “Do you ever think that all the hiding we do, it makes other kinds of hiding easier?”

“What kinds?”

“You know,” he said, waving his hand.

“Are we referring to your galactic class mind or how your dick wants to spend its time?”

“It’s more than just my dick, Isobel.” He said, feeling some hardness coming into his tone.

“Sorry, your dick, heart, mind, soul, body. Don’t tell me again. I could give you the lecture backwards.”

“Don’t sound like a prick about my sexuality and I won’t give you lectures on it.”

She made an apologetic noise.

“But yeah,” Michael said. “Do you think I’d, like, have stopped putting up with the closet bullsh*t earlier if I could be out about my species, about, everything?”

“I mean,” Isobel started. Then her voice got a little more focused. “Are we talking your closet bullsh*t or Alex’s?”

“I really think of mine as a glass closet,” Michael said, voice prim. “Like, I’m not lying to anyone except by omission, and it’s no one’s f*cking business who I love or f*ck or care for except the people I love, f*ck, and/or care for.”

He took a long breath. “But maybe I’m just full of sh*t? You don’t have to hide that you like men, not before you were married and not after. Neither does Maria or hell, Mimi. It’s just the background noise for them. But for me, I’m f*cking aware of it every second of every day, just like I am about not being able to use my powers, about having to do every f*cking thing the hard way if there’s anyone anywhere f*cking near me who might f*cking notice.”

“Sounds like you feel the same way about your powers as your orientation,” Isobel said neutrally. “So there’s your answer right there.”

“But there’s no f*cking coming out as what I am!” Michael said, voice rising until he quashed it to a grating whisper. “No f*cking universe where I can be all rainbows out on the whole alien thing.”

“Hey, marriage equality happened, we never thought that would come.”

“There’s no Stonewall for aliens, and no Barney Frank or Obergefell either. There’s just us, a minority of three, and two of us don’t even want to be what we are –”

“Hey, I don’t mind being what I am. It’s just not a big part of me –”

“That’s such bullsh*t, you could be running the world and instead you’re running the back room of Noah’s office –”

“I do more than that and you know it –”

“Why are you still in Roswell, then, Isobel? If not to force yourself to be small, to hide yourself and your powers behind being the queen bee of petty drama in a mediocre f*cking cowboy town –”

“To keep an eye on you, idiot!” She hissed. He paused, biting his tongue, the weight of lies piling down on him, down, down down.

Michael worked his jaw. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Three bodies in the desert says I do.”

It was just on the tip of his tongue, the urge to yank the string, pop the parachute, and see how far they would all fall together.

He didn’t.

“I’ll –” he cleared his throat. “I’ll be back in a few weeks, ok? I promise not to murder any teenaged girls between Memphis and Roswell.”

“Michael –” He heard as he pulled the handset away from his ear to hand-up.

He liked to think he could hear contrition in her voice, but he couldn’t be sure.

–

The next night, he rocked up to The Pumping Station right as the sun set, warm jacket keeping him company on the chilly walk over. He ordered a domestic, keeping it simple, and found a bar stool to post up at. A Thursday night and it was full of regulars, but nothing wild.

“This seat taken?” He heard over his shoulder, and he ducked his head as he shook it.

The man who slid onto the seat beside him was broad, clean-shaven, and smiling. Another man sat beside him, giving Michael a nod as he pulled out his wallet. The second man was tall and thin, wearing a black leather motorcycle vest and well-shined boots.

“You want the usual, babe?” The broad shouldered man nodded.

Michael pressed a smile into his mouth. They were already more out as a couple than he and Alex had ever been, and he could almost taste how much he hated that. Next time I’m with someone, I’ll let the whole world know. No more secrets, he told himself.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. “I’m Cal, this is Vinnie.”

“Michael.”

“You come for the show?”

“Show?”

“It’s open mic night. Bev and Chris picked Tuesdays so if we’re terrible, they won’t lose out on receipts.”

Vinnie slung his arm over Cal’s shoulders. “You’re never terrible.”

“The man who brought his own marimba was,” he said evenly.

Cal paused and then nodded sagely. “That he was.”

Michael swallowed. “Are you two playing something?”

“Sure,” Cal said. “I’ll sing some old country love song and this old fool will play the guitar.”

“Do you play?” Vinnie asked, peering around to meet Michael’s eyes.

Michael held up his scarred hand. “Not anymore.”

“sh*t,” Vinnie said. He squinted down at his hand, “industrial accident?”

Michael had a whole host of lies he’d told everyone from Max to the woman at the pharmacy when she’d caught him lifting pain meds and as they waited for the sheriff to come. It was nearly autopilot at this point, so when he opened his mouth and the truth fell out, he was as surprised as they were.

“My first boyfriend’s Dad caught us, took a hammer to me.”

The two men’s faces settled into serious understanding. Cal pulled his polo collar to the side, showing a long, white scar. “Got gay bashed in Dallas, what, ‘97?”

“‘98, it was after Ellen came out.”

“Yeah, you’re right, it was after Buffy premiered.”

Vinnie reached across the bar, wiggling his fingers. The skin on the pinky was shiny and taut, an old scar but one that nearly froze the movement.

“Mama Olsen didn’t use a hammer, but an iron will do a lot of damage before you can get away if you’re small enough.”

Something clunked together in Michael’s heart, like the pieces of a broken engine finally finding the grease they needed to restart again. It felt like his first heartbeat since mid-October.

“You didn’t have to show me that,” he said.

“I know,” Cal replied. “But where else in the world can I share that story and have someone actually get it?”

Cal nudged Vinnie back across the bar. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, kid. Your boyfriend, he make it out ok?”

Michael thought about it for a few long breaths. “No, no I don’t think he did.”

Cal nodded. “I hope he does someday.”

“Me too.”

They were quiet for a long moment.

“I think I’ll sing some Bobby Bare tonight,” Vinnie said. “You up for ‘Hills of Shiloh’?”

“Sure thing, honey.”

“I don’t know if I know that one,” Michael said.

“Oh, you’ll get it,” Vinnie replied. “It’s all about ghosts.”

—

When the call went out, they headed up to get in line and Michael slowly sipped his beer, wondering over and over and over again why he’d told them all of that stuff. He considered everything from ‘fellow aliens with Isobel’s powers,’ to ‘weird truth drug in his beer,’ but he couldn’t come to a conclusion.

Cal and Vinnie weren’t world class singers or players, but they were good natured and clearly well-loved by the crowd.

Have you heard Amanda sing in the Hills of Shiloh?
Whispered to her wedding ring in the Hills of Shiloh?
Heard her humming soft and low,
Poor Amanda doesn’t know
Twas ended forty years ago in the Hills of Shiloh.

When they were done with their set, they came back to sit with him, gently ribbing their fellow performers under their breaths until Michael smiled. Vinnie had a mouth on him, but Cal would drop in these quaint one-liners that had Michael bubbling in his water glass more than once. He thought Cal might have been timing them for when he was drinking, just to see what happened.

When the last performer finished and the bar staff were rolling-up the wires of the speakers, Cal spun on his chair and fixed Michael with a bright grin.

“Want to learn to hustle pool?”

Michael snorted but followed them gamely to the pool table.

What commenced was a two hour master class in every way you could tip, spin, flirt, dare, badger, and straight-up cheat your way into someone else’s pocket winnings. They staked him and let him practice with them, easily winning back their $20s and $5s, but seeming to enjoy the chance to share their knowledge.

“Where’d you learn all this stuff?”

“Well, after Mama Olsen did her trick with the iron, I split out of Cincinnati on the first bus I could pay for.” Vinnie said, voice even and eye on the solid red 3. “That got me about as far as Knoxville –”

“And he wasn’t up for working on his knees, so he had to learn to work with his hands,” Cal said.

Michael noticed he’d slid behind Vinnie and had a subtle hand on the sway of his back. Michael bet it was costing them more than they were showing to tell these kinds of stories, and he appreciated the effort more than he could name or really understand. It sung to some hollow, unechoing part of him, to hear them.

“Anyway,” Vinnie said. “I picked up work sweeping out the VFW and some of the old timers took pity on me, played me a few games, taught me the ropes.”

“And they’d learned to cheat in Saigon.”

“It’s like drag queens,” Vinnie said primly, sinking the red ball and moving to the striped orange 13. “Hustling pool has a lineage.”

“Drag queens?”

“They’re matrilineal,” Cal said. “You have ancestors everywhere you look in places like this.”

“Hmm,” Michael said, and for a moment the clean, sharp pain of being cut-off from any found or blood history hit him harder than he could remember since he was 7. “How do you go about adopting ancestors?”

They were quiet for a long moment, letting the low clink of glasses and the quiet tap-tap-tap of pool balls fill the space.

It was Vinnie who spoke. “You’re settled into a place, have your own groove. And they are there, have always been there. You make some space for them, they make some space for you, and eventually, you get to talking.”

“I have someone like that,” Michael said. “He’s not queer, not that I’ve ever known him to be anything else but I think he would have told me. He just sort of, started taking me in, giving me a place to stay.”

“You’re sleeping rough?”

Michael shook his head. “No, I’m staying at the motel down the street, paying night to night. Two queen beds and just one me; it’s strange to have so much space to myself. But this friend, he gave me the cash for this little vaycay.”

“Sugar daddies are sometimes nice to have around,” Cal said evenly and Michael nearly snapped his cue laughing.

“Sanders normally makes me work for his money, but I was going through a rough time. The uh, guy, from the,” and he raised his hand; they nodded. Nice not to have to say it again. “Broke up for good, looks like. I was in a funk. He gave me enough to get out of town, stop me sulking before I got my head stoved in by a cow or a badly winched engine from lack of care.”

Vinnie’s face got serious. “Are you looking to hurt yourself?”

Michael shook his head. “No, that’s not it, I just –”

He rifled his hand through his hair, cue forgotten on the green table. “You know when you’ve been living for someone for so long, and they’re not there, and you get kind of lost?”

“That’s a tough way to be.” Cal said. “I’m sorry you’re going through it.”

“Thanks,” Michael said.

The two did some kind of couple telepathy, and then they seemed to have made a decision.

“Why don’t you come over –” At Michael’s look, Cal corrected, “it’s not a come-on, kid. Just, we can get you a home cooked meal, maybe talk you through some of this what you’re going through.”

“Why would you do that?”

Vinnie slung his arm over Cal’s shoulder. “Like we said, when I rolled into town some old guys gave me a head start on my issues. I’ve always meant to pay it back.”

“Pay it forward?”

“No, I’m paying them back –”

“But he’s forward –”

Michael held his hand up. “Not tonight, but I could be here at opening tomorrow? We could play some pool and keep talking?”

They had another of those entirely silent couples conversations. “Sure, kid, sounds like a plan.”

–

Michael didn’t think they would show, but they did. They hustled some more pool and drank a few beers. No big revelations came across the wire, but to Michael it was profound in its own way, just feeling his shoulders ratchet down a notch or two over the course of the evening.

The Saturday night crowd the next night was rowdier, younger, but they still managed to find a little corner of the room. Michael made some money, used it to buy his opponents drinks, and it started to unravel, what a whole life here might look like.

Cal invited him over for Sunday brunch, saying it would just be a small friendly group.

Michael tried to polish up his boots that morning, but in the end said "f*ck it"; they'd invited him knowing how he looked, he could keep looking that way.

He did buy a pack of muffins at a little Vietnamese market so he wouldn't be arriving empty handed.

He walked the few blocks to the address they'd given him, peeking at the map he'd snagged from the brochure rack at the motel.

Theirs was the only house on the block with a white picket fence. Michael let himself in the gate, walking past heaps of roses on a well-weathered brick walkway that meandered left to right before reaching the steps to the porch.

"Michael!" Cal said, throwing the screen door open and waving him inside with a big grin.

Inside there were a half-dozen other men, sitting on couches or idling in the kitchen as Vinnie worked at the stove.

Michael scoped them all out quickly and found a bit of counter to tuck his muffins onto. There was a full spread, but he felt better for having had something in his hands when he walked inside.

"I'm so glad you came --" Cal said, right as the doorbell rang. He gave Michael an apologetic nod and ran back to the door. Michael met the eyes of the few of the men, but they were engaged in conversation, so he let himself wander over to the bookcases that filled a full wall.

There were shelves and shelves of music books, music history books, music theory books. But they weren't what caught his eye.

Given pride of place at the center of the bookcase was a family photograph: Cal and Vinnie and two college-aged kids with huge smiles. Michael looked around the house, and he saw another, of them younger, framed photos of a girl playing soccer, and a boy on stage in some kind of play.

He walked the room, staying out of people's ways as they eddied around the food, but drawn like a hook through his heart and his belly to catalogue each photo, each smiling, grinning, proud face.

"Jim's in the other room, finishing up an essay. He'll be out in a minute," Cal said quietly. Michael startled, but managed to hold it in.

"Carrie's out in California, classes start at Cal State Humboldt next week and she wanted a chance to settle in. Plus I think she needs break from her Dad and Papa being all up in her business sometimes," he said with a wry laugh.

Michael blinked hard. "They look really happy."

Cal shrugged one shoulder. "They're young adults trying to survive a fascist presidency, I think they're a mix of things right now."

Michael shook his head, holding out one finger to trace the arc of Jim's grin in what looked like a family Halloween shoot -- they were all characters from the Munsters. "No, they're happy."

"We met them when that wasn't really the case. You know about ACEs?"

"You gonna teach me to be a card sharp now?"

Cal chuckled. "No, it stands for Adverse Childhood Experiences. Basically, the sh*t that happens when you're too small to protect yourself and how it impacts people down the line."

Michael could feel himself curling in on himself, but he tried to keep listening.

"Anyway, what they talk about a lot less is protective factors. Having people who are there for you, who make up for some of the bad stuff." He took a breath. "With Jim, it was his grandpa. He'll be by later for Sunday dinner. For Carrie, it was her mother's roommate. Janeese fed her when she was hungry, got her into daycare when her Mom couldn't cope, and found us. She found us," his voice broke. "Her Mom wasn't too comfortable with the idea of us, well, being us, but Janeese laid the groundwork."

"How'd that work?"

"Believe it or not, they watched a hell of a lot of Will and Grace."

"And that worked?"

Cal shrugged. "Enough for her to be willing to try it out. And when she saw how happy Carrie was and how we weren't trying to take her away, well, it helped there too."

"Where is Janeese now?"

"California," Cal grinned. "She moved out to Richmond when Carrie was in high school and she drives up to check on her at the college at least once a month."

"She sounds like a good friend."

"She is."

Cal stood for a long minute. "Look, I don't know what the future holds for you, or what past you're carrying on your shoulders. But, kid, whether you go back home or to a new adventure entirely, can I give you some completely unsolicited advice?"

"Now you ask?" Michael said with a smile to soften it.

"Yeah, now I do." Cal took a breath. "It's ok to hope. It's ok to make a plan, even if you have to change it a hundred, a thousand times. It's ok to keep it a secret and keep it tiny, but you can decide what you would like, even if you never get there, there's power in hoping."

Michael flexed his hand. "I don't know about that."

"Just my two cents." He rolled his shoulders. "Anyway, come on back to the kitchen and let me make you a plate."

Cal didn't bring up his advice again, but Michael couldn't help it rattling around in his head, making him quieter than he normally would have been.

It echoed with each of his steps on his way back to his hotel.

The next morning, Michael checked out of the motel. He loaded up his truck and drove around, looking at the river, the trees, trying to carve the feeling's he'd had here into his heart.

At opening time, he headed to the Pumping Station. Cal and Vinnie came in, catching his eye and bellying up beside him.

"I'm heading back home," Michael blurted out. "But I wanted to say goodbye."

"I'm glad you did," Cal said. "Want to play a final round?"

Michael nodded.

They all played quietly, letting the low hum of the bar rise up around them like a quickborn tide.

Cal was about to sink his final solid ball when Vinnie leaned over. "You've always got a place to crash here, if you need it." He cracked Michael a half a smile. "In case you ever want to try the whole rock star thing before you're 30."

Michael snorted, but when Cal opened his arms for a hug, Michael dove in, giving a hard squeeze before pulling back. Vinnie nodded to him, sunk the final ball, and took Michael's $20.

"I hope to see you around soon, kid."

"Thanks," Michael said.

He took the final swig of his beer, brought it back to the bar, and headed out.

He picked up a pack of postcards at the last gas station before he hit highway 40.

Chapter 20: 2017 [189,929]

Chapter Text

Sent: February 2nd, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

It's good to hear you've got so much good stuff going on. I had the commander send you the letter and I changed my next of kin again, I hope that's ok.

The funny thing about what you were talking about in that letter, is in this kind of place, it really doesn't matter what the laws or courts say or do, what matters is what the man at your back does. All the talk about unit cohesion, sometimes it seemed to me that people thought it was empty talk or an excuse.

It wasn't.

It was a threat.

Or maybe just a prediction.

So let's stick to talking about Maria DeLuca, my girlfriend of 8 years, who broke up with me because she couldn't stand me being in the Air Force anymore. Or something. I don't know why she did what she did, but she did it. It hurt like hell but it's over now and I'm focused on my job.

You know, it's funny, I'd been holding back for a long time. Not taking the harder missions, skipping out on training abroad, anything that might take me away from her. From getting too wrapped up in work I couldn't be wrapped up in her.

That's over now.

I've started taking more assignments outside the wire, spending a few days at a time embedding with the teams using my social graphing toolkit I developed. Hearing bullets whizz by my MRAV is never fun, but it is a real thing I've gotten used to.

Because my work requires, well, populations in order to function, a lot of my work is done in cities.

There's this one camp I visited last week, it's actually partially run by an old buddy of mine, a guy I first met in Korea. He has this whole tight team, a mix of SEALs and Air Force guys. It's a cool unit. I'm hoping to go again this weekend. The weekend starts on Fridays here for local staff, and Saturdays for us. It's just a thing here!

Anyway, thanks for writing. It takes 2-3 weeks each way for letters, so that's a funny rhythm to get used to. Thanks again.

Your son,

Alex

--

Sent: February 16th, 2017
From: Shiprock, Dinétah

Dear Alex,

That sounds like a tough situation. I can't say I'm not worried about you going on these "harder" missions, but it is your body and your life and your choices. I'll keep my worries to myself, but you should know someone is waiting for you on this side of the deployment, if you don't have anyone else to think of.

I've included a postcard, just some tourist thing from the gas station, but I figured you might not have any pictures of Dinétah with you. You deserve something pretty to call home.

What makes the team you're meeting with cool? I remember what you used to look for in friends in middle school and I'm curious how that has grown and changed.

Speaking of, I saw Kyle Valenti is a doctor now on Facebook! Michelle posts about him all the time now. He even moved back to Roswell, he's doing his residency at Roswell General.

He was not kind, if I remember right. I wonder if that's changed now he's a doctor. It doesn't always, all too often doctors and nurses are people who like control over others and who build that into their professional lives.

Mimi DeLuca isn't on Facebook, but I can call her if you ever need me to give her a piece of my mind. She was in our graduating class and I think I still have our class directory. I doubt she's moved houses, she always loved that old rambler out on the east side, even as a teenager. All those candles and herbs her grandma used to use; it was always fun to visit. Is that where Maria's living now too?

It's ok if you don't want to talk about her, but sometimes it helps to reminisce, give voice to the good things even when there's more bad to remember than good.

I love you and I hope you stay safe.

Your Mom,

Mindy

--

February 18th, 2017
The Wild Pony

"Haven't seen you in here in a while," Maria said as she handed over a beer and palmed Michael's $5 off the bar top. They were the only ones in the Pony except for a few quiet drunks in the way back, nursing tall bottles with their caps down low.

"I wasn't around here for a while." Michael said, taking a grateful swig. His job had been waiting for him at the ranch when he got back, shock of shocks. The Fosters were even kind enough not to ask where the f*ck he'd been for the past 2 weeks, taking his 'I'm just glad to be back home' on face value and sending him out to fix one of the milking machines that had been on the fritz.

"You're back now?"

Michael rolled the base of his beer around on the bar top, making a perfect circle. "Yeah."

"Look." She said in a firm voice. He watched her draw a breath, set her shoulders. "Michael --"

"I don't want to talk about him." He needed to say it. "I never want to hear his name again."

"Ok." She said too quickly. "Ok." She took a breath, then gestured behind her shoulder. "Do you want me to take the shrine down?"

He shook his head. "It's your story too." He moved to stand, suddenly too itchy to stay still, but all he could think of was his cold trailer and a stack of empty postcards with the MEMPHIS sign on the front. He sat back down.

Maria pulled a bar stool out from behind the bar, quickly scanning the room to make sure no one needed her.

"Where'd you go?"

"Tennessee."

She frowned a little, idly scrubbing at a stubborn bit of congealed beer on the bar. "I didn't know you had people out there."

"I don't." He took a sip of his beer. "I might now? I don't know. It was friendly."

"Southern charm is a real thing," Maria said, flipping the bar rag to go after the spot with a clean side. "You listen to any live music?"

"I nearly performed some."

Maria raised her eyebrows.

Michael nodded, "Yeah, there was an open mic night and I hooked up with some guys --"

"'Guys,' plural?" Maria asked, eyes twinkling.

Michael flapped a hand at her, "Not like that --"

"But you could, you know." Maria said. "I've let it be known I'm broken up with -- " she took a breath. "There is no reason you shouldn't get some joy out of this godforsaken town."

"I don't think there's much joy for me here anymore. If there ever was."

"Then why stay? I read the letters. You know I had to for the clearance interviews," She whispered, "I never got why you couldn't go."

"Just couldn't," Michael said, body tightening against a fight. "Can we just leave it at that, 'Ria?"

She frowned, but leaned back. She took a breath.

"Did you mean it, when you said you didn't want to hear anything? When he was a kid, he'd go off sometimes, sometimes for a few weeks, or a few months, on some strike or tangent or something, but he tends to revert to the mean, if you know what I mean. He'll circle back eventually. Do you really want to not know if he tries to?"

Michael shook his head. "I can't do it again, 'Ria. I can't. I have to move in a straight line --" she gave him a look, "a non-circular line, fine. I need to move forward."

"You need to talk to someone, can't just bottle it all up inside."

"I'll crawl inside a bottle and write him angry notes that I'll never send if it gets to be too much, don't you worry."

She frowned.

Michael's voice cracked. "Can we just let it go? Please?"

She frowned harder, but then she nodded.

"So, with these guys-it-wasn't-like-that-with, what do you all do?"

"Uh," Michael said, trying to think of how to summarize it all. "Played pool. Listened to the open mic. Cal invited me to their place for brunch, I got to see pictures of their kids." He took a breath, clenching his fist until the scars stung. "Played some more pool."

"That's a lot of pool."

"They actually," he laughed and took a sip, "Vinnie taught me how to cheat."

"Yeah?" Maria said, an acquisitive light in her eyes. "How about this. You show up here from time to time so I know you're alive, and I'll point you to any likely patsies for 25% of the take."

"10%."

"20%" she shot back.

"15%."

"Done." She said, reaching her hand across the bar. "I'm looking forward to this new stage in our relationship: bartender and regular."

Michael chuckled. "We'll see how my Tennessee skills hold up here. 15% of nothing is still nothing."

"I have faith in you." Maria said. "Just don't run up a tab and we'll be fine."

--

Written: February 18th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

I’m so f*cking mad at you. I can’t even f*cking think about you.

Maria isn’t though.

You’d think she would be, after all the sh*t you put her through. We put her through.

But f*ck if she isn’t hopeful and kind and strong and you and I were just dragging her down into our muck and f*ck. f*ck.

I f*cking hate this.

I miss you so goddamned much.

I f*cking love you,

Michael

--

Written: February 28th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

February was such a cold month for us, so many times. In 2009 I found out you were going to Kunsan and you'd be on the other f*cking side of the planet. The next year, we had that time in Georgia, and that was so, so good. I loved seeing you there, going out with you there. Then in 2011 I find out you're going to England. Then 2012 you're in Alaska? I'd entirely f*cking forgot about Alaska. I should have known back then that the Air Force would have a stronger hold on you than I did. It's not every Airman they let fly through so many bases, so many interesting roles. They were clearly grooming you for the important sh*t your'e doing now. I'm sorry I couldn't offer a better alternative to war.

If you haven't guessed, I'm going through the letters.

Again.

Anyway, where were we. 2013. That was a good f*cking year. The longest stretch we ever lived together. And we were so good. Not perfect, but f*ck, it was good. Then 2014 you were in Incirlik, in Turkey, which was so f*cking far away but at least it wasn't Iraq. 2015 was hard, we'd just had that time in San Francisco and it was so ... it was so many different good and bad things, all at once. I think that's where the cracks really started to show, but maybe I was just kidding myself. Maybe it was in Denver, or the shed, or the back of my truck. It'll be 10 years next year, I don't even know what to think about that.

2016 was Iraq. Again. Always f*cking Iraq. Funny how you're always there.

I wonder if you're there still, still looking up at that slightly-different night sky.

Maria wouldn't tell me if she knew, I asked her not to and she's been nothing but trustworthy when it comes to stuff like that. Or anything at all, really.

I just can't think about you without feeling this way. I just can't.

The only thing I wish I'd done different is I wish I'd been the one to make a fuss, to say no. All our years of this, I've never said no to you. You push me away, you pull me back in, and I go where you want me. I wish I hadn't just kept hoping that maybe this time you won't go.

I don't think we were good for each other, Alex.

Because, remember how I said to you on the phone, the last f*cking time I heard your voice, I asked you to 'be f*cking real.' Well, I should have been real with myself a long time ago. What were you going to do, really. Come and live in my f*cking trailer with me? A middle class kid with a guitar and money for jewelry slumming it with a f*cking reprobate like me? What was I ever f*cking thinking.

What was I thinking.

Still yours,

Michael

--

March 1st, 2017
Foster Ranch

Michael peeled himself off of his unmade bed and hauled his aching bones to work. He tried not to think of all of the words he'd written, what they said about him. What they meant.

He tried to focus on the work between his two worn hands or, when that was too boring to keep his attention, where he might go to find another piece of the console he had started pouring every spare minute into reassembling.

Last night had been an aberration, an example of what happened when he let himself drift. Get too nostalgic.

He needed to keep focused, to move on.

If he couldn't leave Roswell, he could try to make sure it didn't cage his mind.

--

Sent: March 4th, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--.

Maria's splitting her time between the apartment above the bar and her a Mimi's house. I wouldn't bother Mimi about the breakup, she was always in our corner but she's been struggling with some mental health stuff. She doesn't need the burden.

The thing is, I miss Maria like breathing. I miss her being kind and strong and capable and brave and loyal. She was -- and is -- all of those things. But we just came apart at the seams. Maybe I pulled us apart too much and too long. Maybe I shouldn't have re-upped, accepted this latest deployment, pushed her to leave Roswell. I never visited her there. You know I haven't been to that house since high school? She sleeps there every night, invited me there so many times, but I never did.

I always meant to but, you know. Better than most. Better than anyone. You know.

Well, the last chance with Maria is long gone now.

--

You asked about the team I've been visiting. What makes them cool.

Honestly, it's how normal they are. A lot of people are so weird with Iraqis, either ordering people around or pretending not to notice them. But they actually talk to the street kids, get to know them, bring them food and stuff.

It's like getting to know the culture here, a little at least.

And Jimmy, he's known me forever, so it's a bit of a reminder of why I'm in the Air Force, why I'm fighting for all of these hard goals and changes, when I'm spending time with him.

--

Thanks for asking, it did help to reminisce.

What are you teaching your students now?

Your son,

Alex

--

Sent: March 20th, 2017
From: Shiprock, Dinétah

Dear Alex,

We're going over graphing actually and binary search trees in our data structures and algorithms class. I wish you could call in to talk to them, they'd be really inspired that you're using tools like that to help people abroad.

I'm glad the team is treating the local children well. You hear stories so often of that not being the case. But protecting kids, that's pretty much the basics of what a person should do.

It's something I regret deeply failing to do.

I'm glad you're choosing another path.

Tell me about the kids -- how old are they, what do they like, what are they like?

I had heard something like that about Mimi, it is sorry to hear. She's so young.

I'm keeping you in my thoughts.

Your Mom,

Mindy

--

Sent: April 7th, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

Let's see, the kids I see most often are Omar, Khaled, Ibrahim, and Hani. Omar is the oldest, kind of the leader of their little group. Jimmy and I, we traded them eggs for chocolate bars under this old broken streetlight on a corner near the unit's offices.

As for what they like, is it weird to say American -- or well, British -- movies? Like, they can act out scenes from any James Bond movie. I think Omar likes Sean Connery the best, but he does a good Daniel Craig too.

What they look like, hmm. Khaled is tall and thin, Ibrahim and Hani are brothers and wear scuffed-up sandals, and Omar has a mop of curly hair. They're sleeping in this half-bombed building. It's a few stories, probably like a row house with each family having a few floors of rooms. Omar ran back into it one day to put the DVDs we brought him away before someone else could take them. I think they're orphaned, or sleeping here while their family is elsewhere. A lot of older boys take themselves out of households, to take the burden off of their mothers and to avoid being easy pickings for the militias. If they keep moving, maybe they won't put a gun in their hands and point it at us.

I know it's our bombs that cracked the building, that probably broke their families too. I do know that.

I'm going to try to find some more Bond DVDs for them, to see if they like them.

I wish I could do more for him, but it's not safe for them to be seen with us. Everyone is watching when we're out on the street and I can't imagine it's a popular thing, being seen with us. That's where the eggs help, being friends with Americans is a risky proposition, but selling eggs, that's just kids surviving the best they know how.

Anyway, I'll be heading back out there in a few weeks. Thanks for asking.

I could try to call in, if you'd like? Talk to the student a bit about computer science. I'd be happy to. Just let me know.

Your son,

Alex

--

Sent: April 21st, 2017
From: Shiprock, Dinétah

Dear Alex,

That would be great. Maybe next August? Classes are done for the year in 2 weeks and summer session might be pretty light, but that would make a great kick off to the new school year.

Omar sounds like a great kid, taking care of those little ones, thanks for telling me about him and the other boys. Does he speak English or are you speaking Arabic with him?

Sleeping in a bombed out building sounds really rough, I hope they find a better place to stay. And I hope you stay safe too.

Sorry for the short note, prepping for finals is tough on teachers too!

I love you,

Your Mom,

Mindy

--

Sent: May 10th, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

The bombed out building is rough, but there's worst places to sleep. Having a roof is something, something to keep the rain off. It's cold at night. I'm glad they have someplace to go to, when things get bad.

I mostly just pantomime with them. I speak a bit of Arabic, enough to get by, a lot less than I thought I did when I got there. And Hani, Imbrahim, and Khaled, they speak a bit of English. Omar speaks a lot more. We're usually interacting in a group, it's not like I go out on the streets alone here.

Anyway, I got the DVDs. I'll get them to Omar when in a few weeks. I got You Only Live Twice and Dr No. Hopefully they like them and hopefully the skin won't be something to get them into trouble. I think Omar borrows a friend's old laptop to watch them as a group, probably something a contractor left behind.

I'll plan to call the class! Just give me a time and date and I'll make it happen. I'm pretty excited about it. I had thought being an officer I would be commanding a lot of young folks, helping them make better choices than I made, but on this deployment I'm mostly just working in a team.

It'll be good to help other folks some.

You'd asked about R&R a few letters ago and I never answered. So, this deployment has been really weird. Air Force deployments here aren't usually more than 6 months. I headed out here in January 2016. I should have been back in June. But my team needed me, and then the stuff with Maria, so I just keep re-upping for longer stints here, and there's always work for me to do. I guess my storage locker in Idaho is getting lonely without me, but it's not like I have property to care for or plants to water or anything, so might as well be here where I can do some good.

I have gone on some trips with that team I told you about. We went to Turkey for a few days in April, and before that a quick trip to the base near Doha, Qatar. It was full of sky scrapers and I had the most ridiculous buffet I've ever seen. It was like they turned the entire bottom floor of the Marriott into one huge buffet. They had a chocolate room. Ridiculous.

Hopefully finals are done by the time you get this. What's your summer looking like?

I love you.

Your son,

Alex

--

Written: May 11th, 2017
Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

You know today is our anniversary? Of the day you found me in the back of my truck with your guitar. The last time I wrote, I asked you what I was thinking.

I remembered.

It was your hair.

It was so black and I just wanted to touch it. To smooth it back and tuck it behind your ear and run my lips over it. Is that weird? You’re never going to read this so let’s let it get weird.

I wanted to touch your hair with my lips, see with the that intimate part of me if you were as soft there as you were hard everywhere else.

Then the way you slammed f*cking Kyle Valenti back, the way you stood between me and your Dad? I’ll never forget it, as long as I live, first time anyone ever put their body on the line for me.

Only time since too.

Dammit Alex, we could have been so good together.

If you’d only ever given us a chance, a real f*cking chance, a month, a year, a lifetime to be for each other what we f*cking needed. But instead we had this, what, thus lost f*cking decade?

When will we ever been 23 again, young and dumb and in love? When will we ever get that back again?

I wish I’d never left Denver.

I wish you’d never left me.

Yours,

Michael

--

Written: May 12th, 2017
Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

Let’s file all these f*cking letters under “nostalgia is a bitch.”

She sure is though. Drawing us in, laying us low.

I keep writing. I don't mean to. I focus on what I've promised myself I will, but sometimes -- sometimes I want to talk to another living being who gets me. Or could get me, could have me.

Can't anymore, I guess.

f*ck.

I’ve had so much chaos in my head for so such a long, just waiting to pour out, but my species, it the cork.

I should have told you a long time ago. That's where I went wrong, forever ago. I should have f*cking trusted you, with me, with what I am. Who I am. What I am. f*ck.

It’s like the dyke, I can’t get any further downstream than this f*cking lie I’ve been telling for f*cking ever and until I clear it, Blow it all open wide, I won’t be able to get anywhere.

Can you f*cking imagine me sending this letter? I’d get white vanned in f*cking minute, writing letters like this to you out of Roswell, New Mexico of all f*cking places.

Goddamn.

Good thing I keep the postcards in the Airstream, no one would ever look for the secrets of the universe there.

Still yours,

Michael

--

Written: May 13th, 2017
Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex.

I was wondering what it would be like to tell you.

Just, just out and tell you.

Ok, here goes.

Damn this is harder than I thought it would be.

One sec.

Ok, I can barely see straight. Bisexually. Whatever. I'm drunk enough to write it down --

I’m an alien. I can move sh*t with my mind.

I have no memories before I was 7.

A man held me down and branded me with cross once.

I like peppers on their own.

I have a space ship sitting in a big hole in Sanders' yard.

I like to bottom, but then you know that about me.

I like physics because I think I can make it take me home.

If I went, I would want you to come too.

I want to be with people like me but at this point after all f*cking pretending I don’t event know what I am like anymore.

A drunk and a jerk and a — a man? A citizen of wherever I’m from?

I’m an alien.

I'm the thing from the black lagoon that ate the only truly queer character on TNG S1.

I’m a guy with a busted hand and a lousy shot at pool.

I’m working on that last part.

If I fly away in the thing I'm building in Sanders' bunker, would you come with me?

Is the stratosphere the highest the ever wanted to go?

If I could get us a booster and some protection would you come with me to the moon? To Mars?

I wish you would.

I wish I would too.

Yours,

Michael

--

Sent: May 26th, 2017
From: Shiprock, Dinétah

Dear Alex,

My summer is more teaching and tutoring, I like to work year round and the summer is when a lot of folks who need the most help use the classes to catch up. It's a real privileged to be able to help people pursue their dreams and get forward when everything can feel like it's pulling them backward.

I hope Omar and the others are enjoying their DVDs. Those R&Rs sound good, I'd love to see any pictures you have. Greg brought me a bottle of wine -- not that I'm fishing for gifts, just letting you know your postcards and any pictures you send will have pride of place alongside an empty bottle of Custoza.

That deployment schedule sounds odd for sure, but it also sounds like it was your call. Do you know when you'll be rotating back stateside? Even without Maria, there are surely other folks you'd like to connect with again stateside.

You're always welcome here.

We could go white water rafting or to some of the summer festivals in the Pueblos if you don't mind a road trip. No need to darken the city borders of Roswell with our shadows, we can enjoy the rest of what Arizona and New Mexico have to offer far away from that place.

I don't think I've set foot in there since I left.

I doubt I ever will again.

You mentioned the militias. Are those the folks you're fighting the most there? I have to say, while I scan the news for anything about what you're working on when it comes to me, I don't really understand what we're doing there. I hope that's not offensive, knowing it's your work, I just never really understood why we were there in the first place, much less why we stayed. I hope you get to leave soon, for your safety, and Omar's, and everyone like Omar.

I love you. Stay safe.

Your Mom,

Mindy

--

Sent: June 14th, 2017
From: [Redacted]

Dear M--,

Yeah, it's mostly the militias. They're run by these opportunistic assholes, pardon my language. I don't think they really have a code or a calling, they just want control. Power. They like hurting people smaller than them and will join anyone or anything that makes that possible for them to do.

There is one guy, he has this huge beard. Jimmy has a nickname for him, but it's not very nice and not very accurate, so I won't repeat it.

I was able to get the DVDs to Omar; that streetlight on his corner is still broken. The team says they haven't seen Hani and Ibrahim in a while. I'm hoping they made it back home. Khaled is doing ok too, still shy and hanging back. Omar was all smiles though. He really seemed to like the DVDs! He said they'd already seen Dr. No, but the other one was new. It was fun to see him light up when he got them. I bought way waaay more eggs than I can possible use. Maybe I'll make egg drop soup with the ramen they get here sometimes. It might take some trading, but I think I could get it together.

Probably not for another few weeks though, since it's Ramadan. It's really fun to be here for it, the iftar on base is a lot of fun and I enjoy all the sweets.

I can't really talk strategy and purpose out here, I'm just trying to do my best to protect the people around me. If kids like Omar have a better chance because I'm here, that seems worth it to me.

I've included some postcards I bought in Turkey and Doha, and a few more from Germany. I went through there on my way here. It's a real trip, taking the flight back with all of the hurt guys on their medical evacs. The heart monitors and all of that make for a really sober soundscape. I haven't heard it in a while, but I won't ever forget it.

It's a reminder how serious things are out here. As much as the Air Force tries to make it like any corporate coding job, it really, really isn't. It really can't be.

It's war, and all the serious, stupid, profound, profane, f*cked up and normal-as-sh*t stuff that comes with that.

Sorry again about the language.

I'm hoping to head back before August, maybe early August? My tool is in regular use and I need to get with some folks back stateside to see if there's other places we're working in that could use it.

I'm going to try to get one more visit in to Jimmy and Omar and the whole team, before I leave. They don't really need me to monitor their use of the tool, but I want the chance to say goodbye. If things go right, I won't be here again anytime soon.

Your son,

Alex

--

Written: June 15th, 2017
Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

I tried not to write this for the past week.

I f*cking tried.

But someone threw a brick through Arturo's window and someone else knocked Rosa's grave marker into the dust and poured red paint on it and I need to f*cking tell someone.

I didn’t kill those girls.

I know you don’t think I did but Isobel does and that really f*cking matters to me.

It shouldn't, but it does.

She did it.

Isobel Evans killed those girls, strangled them right then and there with her powers.

Rosa too.

That one I saw. Will never unsee. Will always be seeing.

f*ck, I should have done more.

Now this fictional version of you I'm writing to knows, you also know I could have frozen her with my powers, tackled her, launched Rosa away from her.

I could have saved her. Saved them all.

I could have f*cking done it. I’m that powerful. I really am.

I know I look like I’m not.

I know I look pathetic, hiding away, scrabbling away on these junky f*cking post cards no one will ever f*cking read, but I am. Enough to burn the whole world down I think sometimes.

Max thinks I don’t love the world enough. But who does, really? No one serious.

I love people in it. I love people I protect and care for. I love the horses at the Fosters and some of the cows. I love what working with my hands has brought me and could have brought us, could still bring us, if you let me.

But you won’t.

You didn’t and you don’t and you never will. You’ll never set foot in Roswell again will you?

And I’ll never f*cking leave.

I'll be buried here just as surely as Rosa and Jasmine and Kate are. And no one will care if someone pours red paint over my grave.

I'm going to stop wallowing and go and clean up that grave.

She deserves better.

We all do.

Yours,

Michael

PS: That includes you too, Alex. You deserve so much better.

Chapter 21: 2017 [198,939]

Chapter Text

June 26th, 2017
5 miles outside of Forward Operating Base Prosperity
Baghdad, Iraq

Alex clenched his teeth against the bumps and jolts of the MRAV, headache blossoming and growing with every minute spent inside. Jimmy was in the back with him, coordinating security arrangements on his phone.

At least there's no small arms fire today, Alex thought. He wondered when that had started being a sign of a good day.

In his pack he had a stack of chocolate bars for Omar and Khaled and anyone else they were staying with. He'd spent the last month scavenging from various USO packages, trading and finagling, but it was a good stockpile now.

"We going to get a chance to see the kids this trip?" He called over to Jimmy. There was grey in his hair now and he had a deep tan from too much sun and too little sunblock, but his eyes still had the same protective glint they had had in Kunsan.

"I don't know, Captain Manes," he said. He always used Alex's title; seemed to take a personal pride in it. Alex had stopped seeing him for a while, but when things got so messed iup in the Fall, he'd reached out again and they'd started spending time together again. His voice was a little more gravelly; Alex wondered if he'd taken up smoking. "That corner's gotten kind of hot."

Alex co*cked his head.

Jimmy shook his head. "You remember that guy I told you about, the Taliban Captain?"

Such a stupid name.

"He's still around?"

"Yeah, beard bushier than ever. Anyway, he's been spotted in that general area. We think he's trying to set-up a sniper's nest."

"I hope Omar and Khaled got out of there before he did. There's no sense in getting shot over a bit of tumbled-down house."

Jimmy frowned a little. "I think it's their house."

"What?"

"I think it's there house." Jimmy repeated. "It's not a random house."

"I --" Alex paused, trying to think back to why he'd thought it wasn't. "Where are there parents?"

Jimmy shrugged. "I just know the one time I went in there -- Khaled was sick and Omar needed me to see if his temperature was high enough that he needed to go to the hospital; he did -- I saw some pictures of them on the wall when they were little boys."

Alex's chest hurt. "f*ck me, I'd just assumed they were squatters."

Jimmy shook his head. "Maybe they took the pictures with them from home."

"Maybe." Alex said, eyes trailing over the businesses, houses, and streets. The markets were just opening and people were just starting to step out of their houses and onto the open street.

"Not a lot of friendly faces out there," Alex said after a few minutes.

"Guess it's a Tuesday,"

"Hey, Jimmy," the driver said. "You ok taking route B? I'm getting chatter there's some kind of fubar situation on A."

"Sure, Kincaide, you're the boss."

"Yes, sir."

--

The set-up at the unit HQ was simple enough. Armed guards patrolling the building's compound wall and inside it, some kind of insurance office commandeered or rented or something in between. Air Force personnel working on laptops propped on whatever they could find -- cigarette crates, old computer boxes, doors propped on dusty computer towers. One enterprising Airman had set-up two box fans, pointing at his knees, with a jagged slab of plywood over it. He was probably the coolest person in the room; he was still dripping sweat in the fierce heat.

"How's the targeting going?" Alex asked Lucretia Mowza, the Cryptologic Language Analyst detailed to this unit.

"Pretty good," she said with a tight smile. "We'd gotten a list from the Iraqis of suspected Daesh targets, but your system was able to weed out a half-dozen false positives."

"More guys who can go home to their kids at the end of the day." Alex said without thinking.

She gave him a strange look. "That's one way to look at it. Anyway, did Jimmy read you in on the Taliban Captain situation?"

"Just that he was hanging around."

She frowned. "He made direct threats. Told us to get out of here. That this was his turf."

"Not Americans in general, but this specific unit?"

"Yeah."

"What are we going to do about it?"

She jerked her head to the big window into Major Johnson's office, then shrugged. "Not my call."

"Where are Danny and Idrik?" he asked, naming the two SEALs who were cycling through the unit to evaluate Alex's targeting tool for other potential use cases.

This caught a smile from her. "Hiking around Petra for some R&R, the lucky bastards."

Alex shared her smile. "Did you have a good Ramadan?"

"I did, actually. Missed my family, but there's something to be said for celebrating it in a Muslim country. At least the food is better than what we had in Connecticut."

"I can imagine."

"Better get in there," she said, glancing again at the commander's office.

Alex nodded, and headed over.

Major Clint Johnson was an older man with a stiff posture; he reminded Alex more of his Dad than he could really bear to think of.

Alex saluted crisply.

Johnson left him standing in the summer heat, chairs on either side of him frayed and empty.

"How was your trip in?"

"Uneventful, sir." Alex reported.

The man gave him a curt nod.

"Your tool has been a real boon to this operation, Captain Manes. A real boon."

"Thank you, sir."

The man sat back, giving him a level stare. "How are you feeling about your level of field experience, Captain Manes?"

"It was kind of you to write a letter for the Air Medal for my work over Mosul late last year. Working with that team is always an honor."

"Your tool helped us recognize the target as a night school and not an ISIS command center. You helped us make the call while in flight and in-time to call off the bombers. I'd say that's worth a letter."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'll have you know I submitted you for the Air Force Cross for that one too --" at Alex's expression he gave what might have been a smile; it reminded Alex of the sheen on broken glass. "No, I didn't think you would get it. But sometimes awards nominations are a way to get someone's name in front of the right people."

"There are people so much more deserving of that honor than I am. I'm just a geek in a plane."

"And in a MRAV." Alex nodded, a bit confused at the correction. "Humility is fine, son, but it won't win your promotions. Ideas move slowly in this organization, but with the right advocates, they can move more quickly. Things like awards help those good ideas keep moving." The man stood up, bracing his palms on his desk. "So that brings me back to my previous question. How are you feeling about your current level of field experience?"

Alex felt a little wild, thoughts of his mother, his return to Idaho before the summer's end, and a flash of Michael's bare shoulders leaning back against his chest mixing in his mind. "I'm open to it," he heard himself say.

The man slapped the desk; Alex held back a wince. "Good. I'll keep that in mind. You're here for 3 days?"

"Yes, sir."

The man nodded. "Carry on, captain."

"Thank you, sir."

Alex saluted and left the room, guilt dragging down on his lungs. Why did I say that? I need to get some sleep.

--

Alex bedded down on the bottom bunk of a regional manager's former office; his business cards were still taped to the glass window in the office door. Maybe he hadn't had a chance to get a nameplate made before the invasion 14 years before.

Alex wondered where Mr. Mansour Misri was now.

Alex had packed his postcards, along with the chocolates and his laptop. They were all under his pillow. Writing his Mom didn't fill the same gap, the same need, as writing Michael had. She made him feel connected to a piece of himself he'd long since lost sight of, but also made him feel entirely unmoored from who he was trying to be as an adult. Like all of the changes he'd been through, put himself through, been put through, between the day she left them and the day he started writing her had never happened. Like he was that little boy, all in this big body, stuck on the other side of the world. It was worth it for the connection to someone, anyone, who wanted him to come out of this alive and whole. But it was also not enough.

He'd thought about writing Maria, oh, about a hundred hundred times. But every time he thought about it, he got this feeling like Clay was shoving him under the water at the community pool, over and over and over again until he thought he would die.

And then he didn't.

He breathed into the tightness in his chest, flexing his muscles against the seemingly permanent knot in his shoulder, and tried to force himself to sleep.

It took a long, long time.

--

SLAM SLAM SLAM

Alex sat bolt upright, eyes locked on the source of the noise. There was an Airman at the door, fist raised. As soon as Alex met his eyes, he executed a sharp turn and strode to the next office door, pounding on it as well. The light in the main office was on and the street outside was pitch dark: it showed him Jimmy nearly dressed and tugging his boots on, crumpled on the cramped floor beside him. The two other men in the bunks around him were scrambling down, yanking on their camo pants and shrugging on their shirts and heading for the door.

Alex careened after them, grabbing his bag from under his pillow for good measure in case this was an evac.

The commander was standing in the middle of the room as the last of the unit assembled in concentric circles around him.

Jimmy jostled against his shoulder, giving him a tight grin.

"We have a mission," Major Johnson said. "I need a small team." He met Alex's eyes, and Alex saw him shift just left, and felt Jimmy stiffen beside him. His gaze came back to Alex's and Alex gave one sharp nod. "Manes, Kravitz, and Kincaide, you're going in. We'll meet our Iraqi colleagues at the location. Kincaide, you drive and cover. Manes and Kravitz, you liaise with our Iraqi colleague, identify the target, and support them in detaining him. You're most familiar with the location."

Alex stiffened. He didn't know if the commander was bullsh*tting, but there wasn't any place around here he was more familiar with than the rest of the people in the room.

Except --

Johnson held up a manila envelope. "The full briefing is here, you two will have 10 minutes to read and digest it on the ride over. Everyone else, we'll go over it verbally while they head out. Stay frosty, keep on mission, and get what we came for. Everyone else here will be riding support on this one." He looked around and then nodded to himself. "That's it, people. Go."

Alex started to head to the hallway when Jimmy grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

"What?" Alex gritted out, heart pounding in his ears and making the world seem off-kilter.

"We have to go to the armory first."

Alex felt cold. He'd worn bulletproof gear before, lots of times, and carried a gun. But he'd never sought out combat before.

What have I done.

--

Alex felt like he was watching himself suit-up, letting Jimmy fit the velcro straps of the vest and hand him his rifle. His body knew what to do, but his mind was like a balloon, floating just behind and a few feet above him.

Then they were in the MRAV, barrelling through the dark streets, massive headlights skittering across long, empty blocks and tightly locked doors and windows dark for the the night in stark, horror-movie reality. The dashboard clock read 3:14am local time. Jimmy shoved the manila envelope into his hands; it was open. Had Jimmy already read the briefing?

Alex forced himself to look down.

"Wait --" he said, tearing his eyes away to meet Jimmy's.

Jimmy's face was stony. "This is going to be bad."

Alex looked down again.

It was Omar's street. That same broken streetlight was center, with the door to Omar's house circled in bloody red pen. The next page was a picture of a heavily bearded, middle-aged Iraqi man, labeled "Nassar Ramadi aka The Taliban Captain" in big block letters. Several more photos followed, including one of him entering Omar's house with a group of men with rifles strapped to their backs and no recognizable uniforms.

It was labeled 2:17am, June 27, 2017

The photos were taken in the dark, with just light from inside the building to illuminate the faces, but there seemed to be sprays of bullet holes in the walls where none had been before when Alex had visited last.

"Did --" his throat closed. "Did they target Omar's house because of us?" Because of me?

Jimmy shrugged. "Could be random, could be psyops. But he's been on every list we've gotten for months. Never been weeded out by your tool. If we can get him out, get him to talk, we'll be able to turn down the heat for this entire neighborhood."

Omar must be long gone, Alex thought, no way he would let them use his home like that.

"Eta 4 minutes," Kincaide said.

Alex flipped through the briefing a second and then a third time; he offered it to Jimmy. He shook his head.

"I've got it in here," he said, tapping his head.

"Last turn," Kincaide said and Alex leaned into Jimmy so he could see their destination.

There's something wrong with the streetlight.

It was unlit, broken as it had been as long as Alex had been here.

But there was something hanging down from it, some kind of thick, black cloth.

"Is that the ISIS flag?" Alex asked, voice sounding distant. "They work fast."

"It is not." Jimmy said, and then the image resolved for Alex.

It was Omar, hanging from the streetlight.

Alex's brain could not take in detail, his eyes seeing but his mind was just a grey cement wall.

Jimmy's voice was crisp and clear in his ear. "The Iraqi army isn't here yet. We'll say he resisted and we had to defend ourselves. The commander will smooth it over."

Alex nodded distractedly and Kincaide hauled them to a stop. Then he and Jimmy were out and on the street, crouching low and running towards the building, M16s steady in their hands.

Alex expected sniper fire or at least some kind of floodlights to turn on, but it was dark and 3am quiet.

Their heavy boots stirred the dirty sidewalk.

Alex crouched on one side of the door, while Jimmy took the other.

Jimmy pushed on it, and it opened. He peered through; he shook his head. "Empty."

Alex went first, sweeping the room with his scope light, training taking over. He saw photos hanging crooked on the wall; a smiling family, and portraits of children.

One had curly brown hair.

"Clear," he whispered.

There were doors on either end of the room. He looked to Jimmy. Jimmy jerked his head to the right, so to the right they went.

It was a narrow galley kitchen, the smell of food still in the air.

Alex saw chocolate wrappers on the counter. An overwhelming heat filled his veins and clouded his eyes, leaving his vision pinhole tight and burning.

The kitchen led to a dining room, then a set of stairs. There was another entrance off the stairs and when Alex glanced through it, it was the front room they'd entered into. They'd come full circle.

"Ground floor clear," Alex said.

He vaulted the stairs, landing on his right foot and bouncing up, skipping steps, Jimmy scrambling to follow behind.

There was a narrow landing at the top of the stairs before it continued to the roof. Three closed doors surrounded them, cracked white paint flaking off of them. Alex turned to the one on the right. He nudged it open, staying crouched and low beside the door --

There was a flood of light from the room as someone hit a scope light, aimed high, and a scream as bullets slashed over their heads. Alex tried to force his eyes to adjust faster, saw a beard and a man of the same height as the Taliban Captain and fired center of mass, center of mass, center of mass, he thought as he squeezed the trigger.

The man fell back into the dirty bed clothes.

Alex and Jimmy darted inside. Jimmy slammed the door and put his body against it while Alex kicked the gun away from the man's grasping hand and crouched to search him for other weapons.

Alex's hands came away red to the wrist. Alex tried not to look at the meat of his chest.

The man's eyes were still open, last ragged breaths coming hard.

"Hal qatalt Omar?" He hissed in Arabic. "Hal qatalt Omar?"

"Min hua Omar?" The man gasped.

Then he began to shake, eyes rolling back, hands clenching into claws.

Alex stood and turned away from him. He could recognize the sound of boots on the roof above their heads, the chaos of shouting as the men above them tried to decide a plan of action. Jimmy was at the narrow window, looking down at the street.

"It's not that bad a jump," he gasped. "We could make it and be home free."

Alex's voice was colder than he'd ever heard it. "He was thin."

"What?" Jimmy asked.

"The Taliban Captain, he was thin. No way he could have hoisted Omar up there by himself."

"What are you saying?"

"We need to take them all out."

"Alex, no --"

"They might have Khaled, Jimmy!" Alex said, voice higher than he wanted it to be. He forced it lower. "We couldn't save Omar but we might be able to save his friend."

"Alex, we need to get out of here. There is no saving anyone, including us unless we get the f*ck out of here."

Alex shook his head stubbornly.

"I'm going up there."

"What?"

"I'm going up there. If Khaled is up there, we need to get him out. They could be torturing him right now for all we know --"

"Alex, what --

Alex was yanking the door knob, forcing Jimmy to move to let him out. Jimmy rolled away from it, then ducked behind him.

"I've got your six." He voice was flat.

Alex nodded. "Stay low, stay with me."

"f*cking f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck --" Jimmy said as Alex forced open the door.

They caught the first man on the stairs from the roof, shooting him in the leg as he raised his gun; he tumbled down towards them. There were three more crowding into the entrance above and Alex took aim, squeezing off a cluster of bullets as they scrambled back again. There was a beat of deadly silence.

Then Alex's world exploded.

He felt something on his face; it was plaster. They were shooting through the ceiling. Something tugged at his right leg, just below the knee. It felt icy cold, like touching a metal wall in Fairbanks.

He saw Jimmy fall.

Then he was looking at the ceiling and there was screaming; he smelled burning; he was going down stairs backwards, flying somehow, being dragged. He looked up and it was Kincaide, red face sweaty and tear-streaked.

There was a crowd; there was screaming.

He saw the roof of the MRAV, then a pale-faced medic piling in.

It smelled like copper, and iron, and dust.

His leg began to burn then, a white-hot agony. Then it was loud, a helicopter was surrounding him, and there was a pinch in his arm, and he was -- flying.

--

He saw doctors in blue masks, felt another pinch, the pain was everywhere and nowhere at all.

Chapter 22: 2017 [198,939]

Chapter Text

June 27th, 2017
Forward Operating Base Prosperity
Baghdad, Iraq

"His Mom is his next of kin --"

"His father is here --"

"Follow the f*cking paperwork, Rebecca. And don't let anyone in unless the patient approves it."

"f*cking fine, Cheryl, Jesus."

--

"Captain," came a low, quiet voice. "Captain. Captain Manes."

"Here, sir," Alex's voice grated out like he'd been riding roller coasters all day.

"Are you up for a call from your mother?"

"Mom?" Alex forced his eyes open, trying to raise his hands to clear his tear ducts of what felt like a week of eye goop. He couldn't move his right hand. Something stung on the back of it.

"Did I hurt my hand?" His voice sounded vague.

The quiet voice was attached to a doctor about his age with dark skin and kind eyes standing beside his bed. "No, Captain, that's just the IV. Do you remember meeting me before?"

Alex shook his head.

"The shock will do that to you sometimes. We'll have a full work-up to see if there's anything wrong with your memory once you're at Ramstein. But for now, I can give you the facts again, and then your mother is on the line if you'd like to speak with her."

Alex struggled to sit-up, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

"Not comfortable?"

"I just feel weird talking to you lying down."

The man chuckled. "That's fair. There's a button here," he said, reaching for a bulky remote control. Alex winced as the medical bed slowly raised around him, pillows sliding into uncomfortable positions.

"Better?"

"Sure." Alex said. He couldn't feel below his waist. He refused to look anywhere but the doctor.

"Alright," the man said. "My name is Dr. Jesus O'Connor. I was the surgeon on-call when you came into the base hospital. My job was to stabilize you so you can get to Ramstein for more complete medical care. You are now stable enough to fly and I have you on a flight out in a few hours."

"My passport is --" Alex started.

Dr. O'Connor shook his head. "All of your things have been packed up and are on their way. Your documents are in your bag now." He pointed to Alex's bag; the one with chocolates still in it.

"Oh God," Alex said, seeing it. "Omar, and Jimmy -- is Jimmy ok?"

The man paused, a serious look coming over his face. "No, I'm sorry to tell you Captain Manes, but Major Kravitz died."

Static.

Dr. O'Connor kept going. "You survived, as did Lieutenant Kincaide. You were shot. The vertical angle of the bullet shattered your shin and foot bones. You've lost the foot and most of the shin. You retained the knee, which took some doing in the OR but will make your recovery and future life much easier, in my experience."

"What about Khaled?"

Dr. O'Connor frowned and scanned through the folder in front of him. "Ah, I see a note here, a Khaled Hussaini, Iraqi citizen, age 13, was briefly taken into custody but then released on his own recognizance."

"He was younger than the war," Alex's voice cracked.

"I'm sorry?" Dr. O'Connor asked.

He took a breath, trying to control himself. It came out a sob. Another. Another. Another.

"Can you ask my Mom to call back?"

"Of course."

Dr. O'Connor stood there, silently waiting without expectation as Alex sought to control his emotions. After what felt like hours, Alex managed, "When can I go back to my team?"

Dr. O'Connor gave him a sad look. "That's not up to me. Injuries like this can take a while to heal. It helps if you have a support system and a goal."

"Like what?"

"Anything. Anything you want. What do you want out of your life from here on out, Captain Manes?"

--

Alex took the call from his Mom on the ride to the airport.

"You'll come home with me? I can get the house fixed up, get bars installed, anything you need, oh baby --"

"Mom, Mom, Mom, they'll have me at Wilford Hall or Walter Reed or someplace. It'll be months before I can leave. Just --" and his voice cracked up, "Can you be there when I land? And, and can you remind them not to let Sarge come?"

"I'll do my best, baby. I'll do my best."

"Ok, Mom, thank you."

"Do you -- do you want me to call Maria DeLuca? Or Mimi? Or -- anyone else?"

Alex took a long breath. "Call Maria."

--

June 28, 2017
Ramstein Air Base, Germany

"Captain Manes, how are you feeling?"

"Like pulverized crap, and you?"

The doctor snorted, sitting beside his bed.

"I see you've been calling your Mother. Is there anyone else we should contact for you?"

Alex was muzzy with pain meds, but he could remember one thing very clearly.

"I need to add a visitor restriction to my chart."

The doctor sat up straighter, pen ready. "Alright."

"Master Sergeant Jesse Manes. That is J-e-s-s-e M-a-n-e-s."

"Got it." The doctor had a good neutral face.

"Thank you," Alex said, letting his eyes drift closed.

--

June 29, 2017
Ramstein Air Base, Germany

"I've bought the tickets to San Antonio, it's where the family liaison said you'd be going."

"Thanks, Mom."

"You sure you want to recuperate on a base? I've got the boxes off the guest room bed and everything."

"As lovely as that sounds, I'm not sure I'm up for Shiprock right now."

"If you're sure."

"I am." There was a long beat. Alex hated how the meds made him feel like he was losing time. His Mom just let the space sit there, not filling it, until he was ready. It was the closest thing to a hug he could get here.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you look up someone's number? Priti Kravitz? I think I have her email, I can text it to you."

"I can try -- is she a friend?"

"She was married to the man I got killed."

A long beat. "Alright. Just her number?"

"I think this is best to do on a call."

--

June 30, 2017
Ramstein Air Base, Germany

"Hey."

"Hey."

Alex and Maria breathed in the same space for the first time in a year and a half. Regrets, recriminations, pains, hopes, fears, and joys swirling, clouding the connection as surely as trans-Atlantic cable static.

"When can I hug you?" Maria asked.

Alex gave a half-choked chuckle. "They're flying me to Texas next week for PT and to get ready for my prosthetic. The drive is --"

"I remember."

"Yeah."

"I'll be there." There was a long moment. "Do -- do you want me to be?"

"Yes."

The two friends exhaled together, air growing clearer the longer they held the silence in their two hands.

Maria's voice was tiny. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Alex swallowed. "Maria?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell him, ok? Unless he asks. Don't -- don't be the messenger bird between us anymore."

"Alex --"

"I'm serious, Maria. I should never have put you in the middle."

"I volunteered."

"You did."

"I asked to help."

"You did."

"I wanted to help."

"You did."

"It wasn't enough."

"That wasn't your fault."

"I should never --"

"I ignored every warning sign you gave me. For years, Maria. f*cking years. Can we just --" he took a breath. "Can we just cool it until I can get to the bathroom without pressing a button for a burly German orderly to come in and carry me?"

She half-sobbed a laugh. "Sure, Alex. Consider it cool."

"I will."

"I'll see you in San Antonio."

"Mom will be there."

"She will?" Maria's voice was full of incredulity and something like hope.

"I had to keep writing to someone with the first initial 'M,' and it was either her, Mimi, Michelle Valenti, or Kyle."

"'Kyle' Valenti?"

"His middle name is 'Manuel.'"

"What is it with this f*cking town and em names?"

"You're one to talk."

"You too, 'Captain Manes.'"

"Gross." Alex said. This time, her laugh was clearer. He could feel it in his chest, the lightness he'd been missing.

"I'll see you."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

--

July 1, 2017
Ramstein Air Base, Germany

"Hi Priti."

"Alex, how are you? I heard you were injured in the same fight Jimmy died in."

"I -- I lost part of my leg."

"That sucks, Alex. I'm sorry."

"Priti, I wanted to say --"

Her voice overlapped on the line. "Jimmy was glad to have reconnected with you. We never made the divorce official, but we would have, once we were in the same timezone. We just grew apart, you know? It hurts like a monster, knowing he's dead, but there's also some relief to, right? That he's not in pain?"

"I'm not sure I know."

"It was a rough few years. I wish he was alive. He isn't." There was a long pause. "Is your Maria ok?"

He felt a tight smile try to move on his face. "She is, I spoke with her yesterday."

"I'm glad. You know, you two really set the standard back Mildenhall, with all of those love letters. You still do that?"

"Sometimes," Alex said, thinking of the box of letters in his storage unit back in Idaho.

"Good. You two seemed good together. Better than Jimmy and me anyway."

"If you ever need to talk --"

"I don't think I will, or, I will, but it will be with folks in my theater group here, or my therapist. No need to burden you with my memories."

"They wouldn't be a burden --"

"Anyway, I need to go, it turns out it's a whole mess getting a body across continents. His Mom is handling most of it, I've got a few pieces of the work to get done for him."

"Call me if you need anything?"

She gave a half-cracked laugh. "I'm on his life insurance and I need to bury him. I'd take him over the life insurance, but neither of us can make that happen. And hey, Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought for a moment there -- I thought you were going to apologize. Don't. Ok? Not to me, not to anyone. You're not the one who shot him."

I'm the one who got him shot.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't want an apology. It wouldn't do any good anyway, even if I wanted one. It doesn't matter what I want. I think it never did."

He felt that in his f*cking bones.

"Ok," he said.

He ended the call. He was leaking, no matter how much he scrubbed his face, the tears kept coming and coming and coming.

That was his last big phone call.

He didn't have anyone to call for Omar and no idea how to get a hold of Khaled.

--

July 1, 2017
Foster Ranch, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael lay back on a Goodwill blanket laid beside his Airstream under the stars. He thought about writing Alex, about all the things he could say. About how he wished it were Spring again, but Spring in 2008; about how he wanted to touch him, to talk to him, and have it be wanted contact. About how much he missed writing to him and having him write back.

He tried to close his eyes, but as always, the stars beckoned him home, pulled him in closer and closer, pulled him out of himself, gave him a whole new meaning and a whole new purpose.

For a few spare, bare hours, he was free.

--

July 2, 2017
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

His Mom was standing with a cardboard sign that just said "ALEX" in all caps at the exit nearest baggage claim. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he would have cried. Instead, as she met his eyes he opened his arms and she met him, leaned in as close as she could get with him in his wheelchair and gave him a tight hug.

"The base sent a bus, but I confirmed I can ride with you. I'm at a motel just off base."

"Thanks, Mom."

It took some maneuvering to get him, his duffel, her, and her suitcase onto the bus, but they made it on, only to have to secure the wheelchair.

Thankfully, there wasn't anyone else waiting and the bus driver was able to talk them through the clips, straps, levers, and hooks until it met with his satisfaction. Then they were off, winding their way out of the airport.

His Mom was on her phone, but when he made a questioning sound she looked up.

"I know you said you weren't sure where you'd be going after this."

Alex tipped his head back and shot her a look. "I'm not sure what dimension I'm in right now, so yeah, my mailing address is a bit of a mystery to me."

"I have an idea, but I can save it."

"Thanks, I'll be up for it --" he gave a massive yawn. "Tomorrow?"

"Don't write check your ass can't cash," she said with a grin.

He felt himself smile back. It was the happiest expression he'd made in weeks.

--

July 16, 2017
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

"I hate this f*cking thing," Alex said, as he looked at the parallel bars. Since his wound was healed enough he could use a well-padded loaner prosthesis while in the PT clinic and under careful supervision.

"f*cking tough nuts," Claire McCallister said, tapping one of the many medical canes at her disposal against the stainless steel bars holding up the parallel bars. "Up and at-em, Captain."

Alex heaved himself up from the wheelchair, started shuffling slowly, painfully, and most importantly, pissily along the bars, gripping the rubber-wrapped steel with cramping, tired hands.

It was early in the day. Alex liked to come to the Randolph PT Clinic when there weren't too many people around, to get his reps in and then head back to his sad beige apartment to sulk for the rest of the day.

No sulking today though, he thought, with a flutter of excitement and dread pushing through the physical discomfort. It was his mother's second visit. After the first one, she'd flown back to Albuquerque, driven the 4 hours back home, finished filling out the FMLA leave applications and started getting them approved. She was staggering the leave, so she could come out for long weekends throughout the summer without losing her job.

Maria had been in a week ago and god it had felt good to have her arms around him again.

They hadn't talk about Michael at all; he figured he was long gone, like he'd said in his final letter.

Alex felt an ache in his chest like nothing he'd felt before, now he was more clear headed back stateside. The whole 6 months before his injury felt like a drugged dream. And he'd been having a lot of those, thanks to his new friends Oxycontin and Tramadol. 9 months, if I'm was being brutally honest. Ever since I sent the break-up letter.

He paused at the end of the parallel bars, gritting his jaw. Claire was there, slouching, but really entirely ready to catch him if he face-planted.

Again.

He executed the turn at the end, and began to work his way back to where he started.

f*cking circles, all the f*cking time.

"Got anything good planned today?" Claire asked.

"My Mom's coming into town," Alex said.

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"Funny."

"Hey," Claire said.

Alex looked down, taking a breather, beginning to taste copper. "Hey?"

She was lying on the blue foam mats beneath his feet, looking up at him.

"You know there's a secret engraving in the back of the purple heart."

"I haven't gotten mine yet."

"You will."

He took another couple of steps, body beginning to shake with effort. "What does it say?"

She rolled to her feet, bending to adjust the rotation of his knee.

"In fine, looping handwriting, produced exclusively by artisanal dwarves --"

"-- 'artisanal dwarves?' --"

"-- shut up -- living in and around the home congressional district of the chair of the House Armed Services Committee, onto the back of every purple heart given to an injured veteran is carved --"

She paused for dramatic effect --

"'Lifetime license to tell anyone and anything to f*ck off.'"

Alex narrowed his eyes at her, sweat trickling down his spine.

"My hand to f*cking Jesus," she said, looking up piously. "That's what it f*cking says. When you get your hands on that little black box, you look at that f*cking thing and you tell me that's not exactly what it f*cking says."

Alex took another couple of steps.

"She left. I was 6 and she left me with a dirt bag airman and a pack of carnivorous brothers. Well, Greg is a vegetarian, metaphorically speaking, but the others were f*cking rank."

"So why are you letting her come?"

Alex paused, breathing heavily.

"Because if I could have, I would have left that house then too. Packed up my little 1st grader napsack and hitchhiked to the rez."

She looked him up and down. "Looks like you got out."

"Sometimes I wonder."

He completed another circuit, resting because she made him. He was in the middle of another when he burst out with --

"But what made them 'artisanal'? And you don't mean little people, right?"

"f*cking Gimli and Glóin, that's who I f*cking mean. f*cking casual."

Her cackles carried him all the way to the little wheelchair accessible bus he rode to get back to his bit of base housing.

--

Alex was mindlessly watching daytime TV with his residual limb perfectly straight and parallel to his other leg to promote shrinkage. He heard a knock at his apartment door. He started to stand and then cursed.

"Give me a minute!" he called, fumbling for his walker. He had a wheelchair, but it was a pain to get into and out of. He still hadn't figured out to body mechanics of it for short trips like this. For getting around the house, the walker seemed to work better.

Also, there were the boxes.

He hadn't thought he'd had a lot of stuff in his locker in Idaho, but the three bankers' boxes of keepsakes from his travels, with the letters from Michael carefully concealed beneath them. They seemed to take up far more psychic than physical space.

He made it to the door and there was his Mom, coming up to his chin, a full face of make-up, and a tattered suitcase.

Her wry smile matched his.

"sh*tty day?"

"You could say that," he said, jerkily moving the walker backwards to give her space to get inside.

"I've got the guest room made-up."

She nodded, looking around. She fixed him with a hard stare. "Do I need to take you to Goodwill?"

"Huh?" He said, looking around at the bare, blank walls.

"You don't have anything up here, no art, no reminders, no nothing. It's like you're not even here."

"I won't be for long."

Her eyes widened, hand going to her heart.

"I mean -- once I get fitted for my prosthesis, I'll get reassigned to another unit." He gave her half a smile. "I stopped decorating where I live years ago, Mom."

"You say that like you think it will make me feel better." She shook her head. "I'm going to rinse off some of the plane crud, order take-out, and we're going to have a talk."

"Ok?"

--

Take-out was Chinese food, and it was delicious. And that wasn't just the Oxy talking.

"How'd you know about this place?"

"Yelp." At Alex's look, "What? There's not an age limit for using Yelp."

"Fair."

They made it to the fortune cookies before Alex broken the silence.

"Ok," Alex said, setting down his chopsticks on the bare, off-brand Ikea table the unit had come pre-furnished with. "What did you want to talk with me about?"

She slowly chewed her cookie before setting her chopsticks in an X across her plate.

"You said you wouldn't be here long."

He nodded.

"Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. What I want doesn't usually matter. It's the Air Force's call."

"That's bullsh*t, you know?"

"What?"

"At a certain level -- the one you're at, for sure -- you can influence where you're stationed. Not 100%, but you can make a request, network, all of that. Pretending you don't have any say in the matter might have worked on Maria, but I was a Air Force wife for 15 miserable years. I do know the drill."

Alex frowned into his rice, twisting his mouth.

She reached across the table, fingers softer on his hand than her tone was in his ears. "Look, I have a guess about why you never asked to get stationed at Holloman, Cannon, Kirtland, or hell, Laughlin, Goodfellow, Dyess, Sheppard, Attus or Shreiver? There's a dozen air bases within a 6 hour drive of Roswell but you've never been stationed at any of them according to the family liaison."

Alex worked his jaw.

"Alex, Am I wrong?"

"I didn't want to be in Roswell. You know why."

"I get it." She said. "And Maria wouldn't move? Because of Mimi?"

"Something like that."

She narrowed her eyes at the evasion, but kept going.

"I understand. I don't intend to ever set foot in that town again. I told you that."

"You did."

"I know why I won't go back. It's the same for you?"

Alex felt a hand on his throat. "I can't, I can't go there, not if he's --"

"I hear you. I understand. You know I do. I wonder -- if I was the one to teach you to leave. That that was the only way out."

"You and Greg are the only ones I've ever seen survive him, and you both left. It seemed like a well-tested road to flee on."

"There is another option."

"Yeah?"

"Fight back."

She let that sit for a few deep breaths as she took a pull of her Diet co*ke.

"How would I go about doing that?"

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We make a plan."

--

They cleared up the trash, him using his walker, her giving him space to move, and then made their way to the grey couch. He took his next round of pills and propped his residual limb up on special stool the clinic had given him so he could adjust it to be exactly flat to prevent muscle contraction around the wound.

She pulled out her dinged-up HP laptop; it was covered in stickers from across the southwest -- Gallup and Phoenix and Tuscon and Albuquerque and, now, San Antonio. She pulled up a Google sheet and named it "Alex Manes - 2017."

"Alright, so, as I would tell one of my students, a plan is not a commitment, just a way of exploring options, ok?"

"Ok?" Alex said, hiding a grin.

"Don't smirk at me, kiddo, I know you're used to making battle plans and organizing people. But it's different when it's your life and your choices and you're the one who has the live with the consequences."

I'm not the only one who has to live with the consequences, Alex thought, flashing on Michael's smile, his hand.

"Alright, let's start with a goal." She wrote Goal in the top left cell of the Google spreadsheet.

"Like what?"

"What was your goal when you joined the Air Force?"

"To get away from him." He paused, thinking back. "To get strong enough he couldn't hurt me," or Michael, "ever again."

"Got it," she said. "Is that still your goal?"

The cursor blinked at them both, black-and-white, black-and-white, black-and-white.

"I guess it is," he said, stretching his arms above his head. Funny how much work losing a leg puts my shoulders through, he thought, slightly loopy. "I don't think I've made a lot of progress towards it in the past few years."

"You made captain, outrank him and most of his line. That's something."

He paused, biting his lip. "I do have to say, that was one of the attractions of the promotion."

"I'll bet. Rank matters. It conveys authority and gives access to resources." She nodded to herself, hands on the keyboard.

"So, give me a goal."

"I'd like to be able to walk again, unaided."

She wrote that down.

"And what actions do you need to take that make that happen?"

He numbered it out on his fingers. "I need to complete my initial PT; get my leg to settle down in size over the course of weeks or months; get fitted for a custom prosthetic, all while caring for the skin, muscle and bone; get and test the prosthetic; and keep working on it the rest of my life."

She wrote those down too, broken out into their own columns.

"Alright, what strengths and weaknesses are you bringing to that goal?"

He frowned. "What?"

"It can help to lay out what's holding you back and pushing you forward. Some people like 'costs and benefits' or 'pushes and pulls.' We can use those if you'd rather."

"No, it's just -- I hadn't thought of it that way. Um." He took a breath as she wrote in column titles. "For that goal, a weakness is feeling like sh*t. It's hard to do the exercises when I feel so crappy."

She nodded, writing that down. "Others?"

"I'm not sure where I'm living or what I'll be doing, so it's hard to plan."

"I could see that." She said, writing it down. "We can do more weaknesses later, but what strengths are you bringing to that goal?"

"I really f*cking want to walk unaided."

She chuckled and wrote it down.

"I want to be independent. Every choice I've made, it's been about having more control over the world, not being --" he struggled for the word.

"Helpless."

He nodded.

She swallowed. "He can make anyone feel helpless. It's awful." She took a breath. "Alright, other strengths you didn't mention but that you have are: intense determination, focus, skills, and monetary resources. I don't see a house or a car in your life, so you've mostly been saving all of your pay and bonuses?"

He nodded. "For the most part, yes."

"Good boy, money gives you choices. Alright. You also didn't mention your support network," she gestured to herself and to his phone, "plus you know how to get resources out of the Air Force, which is no mean feat."

He shrugged a shoulder. "It's part of my job."

"Plenty of officers never learn how to work the system. That you know it so well speaks well of you." She looked over what they had written. "Are we missing anything?"

"I don't think so."

"Alright," she said. "Want to try another goal?"

"I need to do some wound care first, but ok. I can try."

"Do you need any help?"

He thought about it, but shook his head. "I've got that part down by now. It'll be about 10 minutes."

"I'll get dessert ready." At his expression, she said. "What, you thought I came all this way empty handed?"

--

Wound irrigated and then redressed, wrappings changed, and compression bandage re-wrapped, Alex worked his way back to the couch. His Mom had a box of sugar cookies, the pink, ridiculous kind he used to love getting from the supermarket.

"Yum," he said, diving in.

"I'm glad you still like them."

"Some things never change."

"True."

She brought her laptop back, opened it, and then closed the lid, keeping it from latching with her finger.

"Alex." She looked down. "I'm not trying to pressure you to return to Roswell. If you want to do what Greg and I did, make a life far from it, you can. You never have to see him again if you don't want to."

"I don't think you're pressuring me. More like, sitting with me and asking me to be clear-eyed about what I'm doing next. Like a spotter. I just," he frowned. "There's only one other person who really knew what I was up against with him, had experienced it personally, who I could ever really hash it out with."

Her eyes were wide. "Did -- did he hurt Maria?"

Alex bit his lip. "Not Maria. Can we -- can we go through the steps?"

"Ok," she said, tilting her head. "What goal are we working on?"

"Defeating Jesse Manes."

"Say more."

"Making it so he can't hurt me or -- or anyone I care about, ever again. I -- I don't know if I can move forward on any other goal until I have that one completed. I can't think about what I want when he can just take it away at any time. It doesn't matter what I want until he's gone from my life for good."

She wrote that down, cursor hovering over Activity 1.

"I wonder if we should do strengths and weaknesses first. I have a feeling those will guide the activities, rather than the other way around."

"Let's start with weaknesses." He said, voice hard.

She frowned but moved her cursor over to that column.

"What weaknesses are stopping you from achieving this goal?"

"I'm so f*cking terrified of him I can't breathe."

She wrote that down, face stony.

"I'm terrified he'll kill me, the way he tried to in high school."

She flinched and wrote it down.

"I don't know where to f*cking start unwrapping his claws from my life, my heart, my --" Alex couldn't catch his breath, hands going over his Adam's apple, protecting his airway. He took a few hard breaths, barely able to see for all the static around him.

Her voice was calm, quiet. "You're afraid for yourself and your safety. Justifiably. Other weaknesses, things stopping you, standing in your way of this goal?"

"Michael."

He heard her type out the seven letters and then stop.

"M-i-c-h-a-e-l?" She checked the spelling.

"That's right."

"And how is 'Michael; a weakness?'

"If I f*ck it up, if I don't do it right, Jesse will kill him. Already tried. He -- he lives in Roswell. Always has, this whole time. This whole time, he's had a place for us, a place with my name on the lease, I just needed to sign, I just needed to come, to see him, just once, just one f*cking time, but instead I made him drive around all of creation for seven f*cking years, to Georgia and Idaho and Texas and California the Grand f*cking Canyon and if he'd had a passport and any cash he would have come to Korea, but he didn't, so he didn't. It was just him and me, Mom, no Maria, the thing was Maria, it was a cover, she's a good friend, the best friend, let me pretend she was my everything, but he was. He was. And now he's gone, he wrote me in a letter, he said he would be long gone, and he wouldn't lie about something like that, so it's a good thing, right? That he's long gone? Because then Jesse can't hurt him, the way he would have hurt him, killed him, if I'd ever set foot in Roswell to see him. Turns out the thing keeping him from leaving that sh*thole was me, and once i was gone, so was he." There was wetness on his face, his hands were shaking and shaking and shaking. He reached out, fumbled for his walker, and forced himself to standing.

"I'm need to take a walk, I'll be back, ok?"

"Ok, Alex. Just --"

"Don't tell me it's a sin or I'm hurting myself or there's something ugly in it, please, please don't --"

"I never would. f*cking never, Alex. Just, I love that you told me and I love you. Every piece of you is perfect, ok?"

He staggered out the door, down the perfectly trimmed paths of the base housing, stumbling around the curb cuts of the suburban sidewalks.

After long, harsh minutes, he could get more air into his lungs.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, dialed the first number he saw.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Maria answered. The sound of the bar nearly drowned her out. "Need me to come and break you out? I can be there in," she paused, probably glancing at the clock, "8 hours?"

He sobbed a laugh. "No, it's ok. I'm -- I'm ok. I just came out to my Mom, is all."

"Oh Alex," she said. "Good for you. How'd she take it?"

"About as well as I could have expected." He worked his jaw. "No, she did fine. She's trying to convince me to come back to Roswell."

"Huh, I didn't think I'd be on Team Mindy anytime soon, but I'd love to see you more."

"I just don't know if I can do it."

There was a shout on the line. "Look, it's your life, Alex. It doesn't matter what I or your Mom or the United States Air Force or your evil sperm donor or -- or anyone else wants or needs. You get to make the call."

"My PT told me I have an official lifetime license to tell anyone or anything to f*ck off."

"That's not really your style," Maria said distractedly.

"What?"

"Just telling someone to f*ck off? Hell no, Alex. You observe them, assess the situation, figure out exactly what you need to do to make them f*ck off and stay f*cked off. You're a sniper, not a tank. Kyle Valenti notwithstanding." There was a loud crash. "Hey, call me later if you need? I'll be up to the crack of dawn with these fools, but right now I need to get Wyatt Long off of a pool table."

"You've got this."

"Peacemaker does, that's for sure," she said, naming her Mom's old baseball bat. The phone went silent.

Alex shook his head, but he felt calmer, clearer than he had before. He shuffled his way back to his apartment, thinking about a sniper, not a tank. Then he was at his door, fumbling his keys out to open the door.

His Mom was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, hands on her phone but eyes raising up to meet his.

"Better?"

He nodded.

"Want to tell me about Michael?"

Alex took a breath. "I -- I don't really know what to say. I've never really talked about him, us, with anyone else. What we had, it was between us and the stars. Words have just never really been enough to --" He shook his head. "Like I said, at this point, I think he's long gone from Roswell. But if we can make a plan to get Jesse out of the picture? The next goal on the list is to find Michael and try to make things right."

"So he's your strength, is what you're saying."

Alex frowned. "That's not what I said."

"No," She said, fingers light on the keyboard. "But it sounds like he's reason you want to achieve the goal. Sometimes, we climb a crooked ridge to get to the mountain beyond it. I left, I got myself free, so I could be a whole person. Wake-up without bruises, wake-up without a monster in my bed. In my head. What I had to do to get to that goal was the worst thing I've ever done in my life, but I did it, because I knew I needed the next goal." Her voice got quieter. "And because I hoped that a day like this might come where one of you needed a mother, not a headstone. A mother, not a zombie and not another tool, another weapon in his arsenal. But a fighter in your corner. Help you break the cycles I never could."

"You did, though, Mom. You broke it for yourself. That matters. It matters to see you survived. I -- I wish I'd gotten to go with you," his voice cracked. "But it was Jim, right? Jim Valenti? He would have come and taken me back from you, he and Jesse were so tight."

"It was." For the first time he could remember, her eyes looked wet. "He made it clear, the first time I reported Jesse for laying a hand on me, that he would never do anything to diminish Jesse's position in the town."

"And Michelle, she never --"

"M&M? What could she do. I'd been with Jesse for a decade by the time she married Jim, and by then the patterns were well set. We were friends in high school, but then she went off to work in San Diego with Border Patrol and she wasn't there. She didn't see what he'd turned into. Then she was back and married and Kyle was on the way, and she had no title, no power, no authority to push back against him and what he did."

She paused. "She does now, though."

Alex co*cked his head.

"She's the Sheriff. Ran for the office when Jim died, finished out his term, then won on her own terms."

"I didn't even know Jim had died."

She nodded. Then she gave him a steady look. "This has all be theoretical, but if you decide to go through with it, I have chits I can call in with her and others who looked the other way from Jesse's cruelty. Left us vulnerable to it. Owe me for that; owe you more. You won't be alone."

His chest felt warm, light. The idea of an ally in town, someone with a title and a gun, that was something he could work with.

"Ok, let's lay it out." She put her hands on the keyboard.

Alex closed his eyes, seeing it. "First: get well enough to fight back on my own." She nodded, keys clicking in a steady rhythm. "Second: get a posting at Holloman. My work in Iraq would help the sensor operators and targeting folks involved in the drone programs and they fly Predators and MQ-9 Reapers out of there. Third: Get visibility into Jesse's team. I don't know anything about what resources he has access to and I need to in order to take him down. Fourth: If I can stand it, get inside his guard." She shuddered. Alex kept going. "He'd have to be stupid to believe me, but I need to prepare myself for at least some contact with him. Fifth: Gather enough intel about him to either get him court-martialed or sent OCONUS for long enough that he has to retire out. Sixth: Use what I know and win."

"He hit his 20 5 years ago, he could get out with a full pension anytime he wants."

"As long as he spends it in Pensacola or the Catskills or anywhere but near me, and without power to hurt me and mine, that's an acceptable outcome."

"And is the seventh step to go and find Michael?"

"Yeah," Alex said, voice soft. "I wouldn't be ready to see him until then, but yes, that's the seventh step."

She took a long breath. "This whole plan requires you to remain in the Air Force. To keep tightly tied to that identity and those power structures."

"I know."

"You could -- you could just go and find Michael now? That man still lording it over Roswell, he isn't omniscient or omni-powerful. You could live a whole life without ever going near him."

"But he's in my head, like you said," Alex said, voice choking cold. "I can't even really be with someone if I'm afraid he's going to burst in the door and take a hammer to them."

"Oh God." She said, hand going to her mouth. "Oh God, Alex."

He nodded.

"Like I said, I need to keep Michael and him as far apart as possible." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "That will be easy, since he's as far from me as he can get currently."

She frowned. "Are you sure Michael will want to see you again? If, whatever happened between the two of you is so serious?"

Alex felt that in his gut, in a wave of cold over his body. But he manage to say, "I have to have hope, Mom. I have to have a goal."

She let that settle and then said, "Alright. We've laid it out. What do you think?"

He looked over the spreadsheet.

"I think I can start on the first part now. Nothing else really needs to happen before that."

"I can think of one thing," she said, and pulled out her phone. "You'll need a secure home base, off post, and far away from him. Someplace you can regroup and recharge. Somewhere safe."

"I'm not sure even with all my savings I can afford to buy property like that."

Mindy gave him a hard smile. "That's where I can help." She typed on her phone and then showed him the screen.

It was a Facebook message to Michelle (Mirabella) Valenti.

Dear M&M,

I'm calling in that favor. Alex is coming home. He'll need a truck and a place to stay.

Thoughts?

Mindy

--

Written: August 1st, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

I stopped writing because, well, I just felt like I laid it all out in the last one, and, that was that? Either you're ok with me and mine how they are or you're not. There isn't that much more to say about me. I'm the brother of two murderers and they both blame me for it.

I think I'm just pissed at Max. He hauled me off to lock-up last night, I just got out this morning. Some airman reported me for hustling him at pool.

Chickensh*t adjacent behavior.

I think Max and Michelle have been getting pressure from the Air Force to clean-up the town. Something shifted, late June, early July. Air Force has been out to talk to the Fosters about buying up parts of their land, trying to make sure the bars are treating their men right. Which Maria was! Just part of the ~~authentic experience~~ of a cowboy bar is getting hustled by a real, live cowboy.

I should be charging admission for the cultural experience.

Your tour had to be up by now, right? Insane they kept you in Iraq for that f*cking long. No wonder you cracked. We cracked.

I hope you're back on American soil.

I hope you're doing so good you don't even remember us.

I hope you forget all about me.

Maybe you've moved to San Francisco, got that apartment in the Castro, get to go to all of those bars we walked past and never went into. Maybe you marched in the Pride Parade.

I hope you did.

I really do.

I wouldn't wish this town on anyone.

I'm not talking to Max, I'm barely talking to Isobel, the most non-bovine conversation I get lately is asking the dude with the blue hair to switch off at the microfiche reader.

It's alright. I'm better off alone. Sanders keeps trying to pry me out of my workshop like a desert clam, but I'm not going to let him. I need my space for my research.

Maybe that's what I'll write about. You'll never read these, so I may as well turn them into something useful.

Lab notes.

Maybe you really will be the reason I get off of this godawful rock.

Even in the stars, I'll be yours,

Michael

--

Written: September 3rd, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

My research falls into three categories:

1. understanding the biomechanical aspects of our bodies;
2. finding every piece of the ship I can find; and
3. reassembling it in my workshop in Sander's yard.

So, chemistry, history, and mechanical engineering.

You should see the Airstream, it's damn near papered with research.

Let's do updates by category:

• Biochemistry: I've found there's a substance that;s close to phenyl-2-propanone that's left on anything the ship shards touch. I don't know what it does or what it means, but hey, cool to have a name for stuff.
• Shipwreck salvage: I've found another few shards. I f*cking low how they feel to touch. It's like Isobel's ASMR videos. And how they blend together like they were never broken? Jealous.
• Engineering: I've got half-a-dozen vehicle designs but none of them fit the shape as it's coming together. It's nice to think about space, being out there in the stars. Nothing and nobody between me and the infinite.

I'll write later.

Yours,

Michael

--

Written: October 15th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

I can't write you today. I tried; I can't. I can't. I f*cking can't.

Your Michael

--

Written: October 20th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

Turns out you can spend 3 days in lock-up without being charged with anything if your brother is a cop.

Maybe I really should just leave. Cal and Vinnie sent me an invitation to come out there for Thanksgiving. Maybe the break would help.

Max threatened me with "gambling and bar fighting."

A man takes a swing at me, and I'm the one who gets charged.

I'm going to stop going into town.

I've kept my job, but only just.

Foster docked my hours for fighting.

I don't want to blame others for what's happening to me, but it really seems like a lot of sh*t coming at me all at once.

I'll decide about that Thanksgiving invitation.

I hope you're warm.

Yours,

Michael

--

Written: November 16th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

Turns out the invitation from Cal and Vinnie was to head up to CSU Humboldt for Turkey Day with Carrie and Janeese.

I'm going. It would be good to get out of here for a while.

The parts of the ship are looking less and less like Swiss cheese and I found a way to produce that P2P-esque compound on my own. It took a raid on the pharmacy and more acetone than I care to admit, but I got there in the end.

I hope you get to ignore Turkey Day to your heart's delight.

I told Isobel I had plans, and she told Max.

I told Sanders I was with Isobel.

So I get the day to myself.

Yay.

Solitude.

You know what? I'm going to go camping. Just like I said I would.

Yours in the mountains,

Michael

--

Michael cruised to a stop outside of the AirBnB Cal and Vinnie had rented. It was a little yellow Victorian, cheerful and prim in ways Michael couldn't even describe.

He felt crusty from the long trip, but God, it had been nice to smell the air for a while. And that trip up the coast, with all those winding roads.

It had been beautiful.

He'd built in a night to stay over in Oakland, gone to a bar, played pool with some guys who'd appreciated his style. Oakland had felt a hundred times closer to Memphis than San Francisco had.

One of his pool buddies had asked him when he was passing through again; he had his number. James Robinson, 510-555-8756.

He'd see how the holiday weekend went, then text him if it felt right.

Michael adjusted his belt buckle, took a deep breath, and opened his truck door.

He had a sixer of beer he'd picked up in Oakland swinging from his right hand as he made his way up the steps and to the front door.

He knocked and Cal opened it, a big smile on his face fading when he saw Michael's worn state.

"Oh, Michael," he said, and opened up his arms.

Michael stepped inside and sank into the hug, burying his face in the man's shoulder and holding on for dear life.

--

Written: December 17th, 2017
From: Foster's Ranch
[Whiskey stained; never posted]

Dear Alex,

Thanksgiving was fine, I'm sorry I didn't go camping like I said we always would. It was good though.

Cal and Vinnie are so happy. Their daughter was a riot, learning to run weed farms.

I know you wouldn't approve, clearances and all. But it's a real business up there. Something she can plan on.

I went back through Oakland, texted a new friend.

It felt like cheating.

It felt good to be touched.

I didn't know what to feel.

I'm such a mess.

I miss you. I hope you're kicking ass and taking names out there in the world.

Despite my best efforts, I'm still

Yours,

Michael

--

December 31, 2017
Roswell, New Mexico

Alex Manes pried open the door to the Valenti hunting cabin in the mountain twilight, hinges crying out with the strange effort.

Mindy was just behind him, his duffel on her back and a stack of boxes from Idaho in the truck bed behind her.

Alex stared into the darkness, heavy with memory.

He adjusted his grip on his cane. "Let's do this."