*** Please be aware – this fic contains references to war and the military throughout. ***
I am not American and have no knowledge of US military or war in general so any references below are complete fiction and most likely inaccurate (and are only included to try and show Michael's view of the situation.)
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2010
The late morning sun beamed down as Michael climbed behind the wheel of his truck, grumbling to himself about fairness and cranky old men. It should be considered a crime for Sanders to drag him out of bed and force him to work before midday. And sent on his way with barely a second to grab a snack? He wasn't paid enough for this.
The long stretch of road into town was surprisingly clear for such a warm summer's day so he kept his foot down further than was strictly necessary, enjoying the feel of the truck juddering softly beneath him. He wasn't worried about being caught. He'd grown intimately familiar with the cops in their town and they'd seen him do a lot worse than speeding.
He glanced down at the truck's console and gave the knob for the radio a good whack with the heel of his palm when it refused to unstick. He really needed to remember to take a look at that when he got back to the junkyard.
A pop song he didn't know loudly filled the space and he scrambled to turn it down.
" …before I love and leave you. They call me heartbreaker…"
His radio was always slipping out of tune. He twisted the knob to the right to rectify it.
"…only seventy-five dollars! Get one for your house today from…"
Damn adverts were taking up all the airtime nowadays. He kept twisting slowly.
"…back to the street where we began, feeling as good…"
And again.
"…breaking news from the war in Afghanistan….
Oh wait, that wasn't too bad. He twisted it back to the left.
"…into a place where thoughts can bloom, into a room…"
The breeze through the open window rushed past, rustling his curls and roaring in his ears. And with no-one else nearby to hear him, he relaxed into his seat and sung along, only stopping once the barren sweep of desert road slipped into civilisation.
Unsurprisingly, the sidewalks grew more and more populated as he rolled into the main town square, and he could only be grateful that there was a space to park as he hopped out of the truck only a few shops away from his first of two drop-offs.
Fitting with the beloved extra-terrestrial theme of their town, the bright green sign of Take Me To Your Reader was hard to miss, even in the blinding sunlight. The bell above the door rang proudly as he entered, and he was greeted with a smile. Twenty years old and already well-established as the town delinquent, it was rare to be on the receiving end of a warm welcome, but he supposed being Sanders' errand boy had something to do with that.
Mr Carne, long-time owner of the quaint little bookshop, regularly frequented the junkyard in need of a mechanic's services – if not for his car, then for his array of technical gizmos he liked to collect on his thrift store hauls. If Michael didn't know any better, he would have suspected the man to be cursed with Max's powers, considering the number of electrical items he successfully managed to fry.
"Just in time!" His warm voice boomed across the room. "I was starting to think I was going to have to send this one out to go fetch it."
He nodded over his shoulder at the young man hunched behind the counter, eyes glued to the news report on the tiny wall-mounted TV. The volume was up loud enough for Michael to pick out the odd word.
"…been reported that this is the biggest attack since…"
"I take it you have good news for me." Michael's attention was drawn back to the man who was gazing questioningly at the vinyl player in his hand.
"You're lucky." He replied, handing it over carefully. The last thing he wanted was to have to take it back to Sanders. "You managed to dislodge half of the connectors from the circuit board, but everything's back where it should be. You just need to…um…"
"…there have been twenty-three confirmed deaths so far, but a large number are still unaccounted for…"
His attention drifted again as his eyes were drawn to the TV.
"Luis. Can you turn that down." Mr Carne called over.
"Dad, have you seen what they're saying." Luis frowned at the screen, barely registering Michael's presence.
"Now please."
The volume dipped but Luis didn't look away.
"Uhh…so, yeah, just don't drop it on the floor again and it should work perfectly. Or better yet just buy a speaker system for this place." He shook Mr Carne's hand with a grin and a promise to pass his thanks onto Sanders before heading back out the way he came.
The street was just as busy as it was five minutes previously and as he shielded his eyes from the harsh rays of light, he nearly bumped into two ladies walking his way too engrossed in their conversation to move to one side.
"…it's the families I feel for. All those mothers not knowing …"
He swerved just in time to avoid them, instead knocking into a man coming out of the coffee shop, phone glued to his ear.
"…all over the news, apparently they're saying it was a…"
He paused, plastering on an artificial smile as he let the man go. As he reached his truck, a couple hopped out of the car in front, their conversation continuing as they moved to grab their belongings from the trunk.
"…see the pictures, half of them are practically still boys. The fact that in a single second there were all…"
Michael climbed in, closing the door behind him louder than intended making everyone nearby jump. He waved an apology to the couple before merging into the steady stream of traffic.
He could make the drive to the Wild Pony with his eyes closed so he leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the window frame as he followed the familiar roads, an unknown song playing through the speaker. Halfway through the easy journey he spotted a familiar face wearing a familiar beige uniform.
Having passed all the necessary tests – or whatever it was that was needed, Michael tended to switch off during Max's less interesting life updates – Max Evans was now a fully-fledged member of the Chaves County Sheriff's Department. Though little help it was to Michael. What was the point of having a cop in the family if they didn't help to get you out of trouble?
With a little nudge from his powers, the top of a nearby fire hydrant burst off, spraying a fountain of water into the air. Deputy Evans jumped straight into action, hand going to his radio as he kept a passer-by out of the way. Michael watched on eagerly as Max glanced around, finally locking eyes with the beat-up truck and sending a disapproving glare its way. Michael chortled as he sped past. Sometimes you just needed to take joy from the little moments life gave you.
Not far from the Pony, he hit a red light. The truck slowed as he reached it and his fingers began drumming against the window frame as he waited impatiently for it to change. Another car rolled up next to him – a convertible with its roof down and radio blasting.
"…latest report indicates up to forty-five servicemen dead in one of the worst attacks we have seen so far in the nine years since conflict began. The number of those injured and unaccounted for is still unclear but is believed to be…"
Michael's breath caught in his throat as a prickle of unease suddenly ran across his skin and up the back of his neck, almost certainly leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He closed his eyes as his fingers began to tap faster.
He debated closing the window or turning up the music or just straight up jumping the red light and barrelling into the elderly couple trying to make their way across the road, anything to drown out the words.
The words he had been avoiding ever since he first turned on the radio that morning. Something had happened. Clearly. But if he didn't listen to it, then he didn't know about it. And if he didn't know about it, then he could avoid the possibility that something had happened to someone he cared about. That's how it worked, right?
The second the lights changed he was off, crappy pop song turned up full for good measure.
He would know. If something had happened to him no matter where in the world he was, Michael would know. He was sure of it. It didn't matter that he hadn't seen him for nearly two years, hadn't heard from him in just less than that. He would know.
He'd feel it, somewhere deep in his calloused alien heart or through the stars that looked down on them both.
Because the thought of finding out through some off-handed comment from a passer-by or from the impassive report of a news anchor— well, it left the uneasiness sitting sickeningly in the pit of his stomach.
Nerves frayed and whole body tense, he pulled into the Wild Pony parking lot and stopped the truck haphazardly across the two vacant spaces nearest the door. It wasn't like they were being used anytime soon and he didn't have the patience to be neat. The sooner he dropped off the repaired neon sign, the sooner he could retreat back to the safety of his airstream.
And the sooner he could put this pent-up worry to bed.
Because if anyone was going to have been informed already about the loss of a certain airman, it was going to be one of his oldest friends. And he had no doubt that he was going to walk in and find Maria—
He froze as he entered the Pony.
There, behind the bar with her back turned and hunched over in grief, was Maria Deluca. He couldn't see her face but the painful sobs travelling across the room made it clear that she was crying. The low hum of music that usually permeated the air was missing and made it that much harder for Michael to ignore what he was hearing.
It took a moment but once his boots were no longer stuck to the floor, he slowly and silently backed out of the room, chest heaving as it struggled to take in any air. The sunlight burned into his eyes all over again as he pushed open the doors and reached out for his truck, metal creaking as his palms slapped heavily against the hood. With his head bent low, there was nothing to stop that uneasiness from working its way up his throat and he groaned as last night's dinner made a reappearance in the sand. More than once.
As a species, he, Max and Isobel happily missed out on the horrors of human illnesses – hangovers excluded – but the shakiness of his legs and the chill crawling down his spine felt awfully akin to the many fevers he never had growing up. Running the back of his hand across his mouth, he opened the truck door and grabbed the warm bottle of water that had lived in his glove box for far too long.
He ripped off the lid and brought the bottle to his lips like a fish in a desert, swishing the water around his mouth a few times before spitting the unwelcome taste out onto the ground.
Alex—
He took a slow breath against the wave of nausea that threatened to repeat itself.
Alex couldn't be gone. He couldn't. Because that would mean that Michael had found out in the only way he dreaded— through off-handed comments and uncaring news reports. It would mean he had wasted his last chance to reply to Alex's only letter. That he had carelessly thrown away his final opportunity to see Alex in person, in Roswell, in favour of committing some petty theft. It meant he would never be able to put everything right.
He would know.
He wiped his mouth once more and allowed his still-trembling legs to lead him back inside.
Maria hadn't moved and as he tapped his knuckles against the closest table, she barely turned to shout over her shoulder: "We're closed."
Michael braved a step closer, his heart still hammering in his chest. "We fixed your sign." He nodded in the general direction of outside as she glanced around to look at him. "It's in my truck."
She hastily rubbed the tears from her cheeks as she registered what he had said.
"Oh Guerin…thanks." Her words came out quiet and croaky as she pointed to the wall with the glaringly empty space. "You can just leave it there."
"What's wrong?" The words left Michael's mouth before he had a chance to think twice, and his lungs seemed to halt entirely as he awaited an answer.
"Have you seen the news this morning?"
There was no point pretending he didn't know what she was talking about. He nodded slowly, moving to meet her at the bar where he gripped onto one of the stools for support.
She sniffed, grabbing a nearby roll of tissue to dab at her eyes. "The base that was bombed. It's where Alex was stationed."
He held on tighter. "Is he…?"
A pained whimper was wrenched from her, surprising them both it seemed, and he was sure the chair was about to snap under his grip. If he ran now, he wouldn't have to hear her utter the words.
"…I don't know."
Wait—
"I haven't heard anything. And Liz called but she hasn't heard anything either." One hand came up to grip the pendant hanging around her neck, thumb rubbing against the smooth surface in a soothing motion. "But, I mean…his family would be the first to know, of course, and I have no idea if any of them would even think to let his old friends know…"
He might not be—
"But the thought of him injured, or worse. I've just been sitting here waiting by the phone and I—" Another tear was caught before it could escape down her cheek. "God sorry, I know you barely knew him and here I am rambling—"
"No." He interrupted, air returning to his lungs in full force. He climbed onto the stool before his legs could buckle beneath him in relief. He almost rested his hands against the bar top before realising just how badly they were shaking, electing instead to hide them in his lap. No news wasn't always bad news, and as of right now, until they knew any better, Alex was still alive. A fact he would happily cling to. "You know me. I'm a great listener."
She chuckled wetly. "You're a terrible listener. Especially when you're sober."
He rolled his eyes playfully, not yet making a move to stand. It was surprising just how much a morning of worrying had affected him. And if he was honest with himself, an afternoon of the same nerve-wracking energy wasn't very appealing.
Not when there was only one person in this damn town that had the only chance of receiving the information he needed.
"Tell you what, I've got a free afternoon. Why don't I put your sign up for you?"
"In return for what?" Maria asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion of his sudden good nature.
"A drink?" Michael shrugged innocently. "I've recently been informed that it makes me a much better listener."
She huffed out a laugh, glancing over at the empty space on her wall.
"I can't imagine it's been very nice waiting for news by yourself." He added quietly. She bit her lip, wide eyes already filling with tears again. Unable to find the words, she gave a small shake of the head.
"I'll go grab the sign." He smiled, carefully stepping off the stool and heading outside.
Steering clear of the foul puddle, he grabbed the heavy sign from the back of his truck, careful not to let it slip through his fingers. Damn his hands and their incessant shaking. And his still-pounding heart that didn't want to chill out.
And damn Alex for leaving. And Michael for not saying goodbye.
And while he was at it, damn Sanders for waking him up this morning.
He could have happily slept through all of this discomfort. But instead, he was going to take a deep breath, he was going to go back inside and be a helpful little alien, he was going to get ever so slightly drunk on free booze, and he was going to sit with Maria until she received the good news they were both waiting for.
Because Alex was fine. Michael would know if he wasn't.