Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time he touched Allen, Michael was the only one that seemed surprised. It wasn’t even a day into their first case when Michael had patted Allen’s arm. ‘Look at this,’ he had said, leading Allen closer to the weather balloon. Allen didn’t seem to have noticed the physical contact. Hell, it probably seemed normal to him — like it would to any other average person — but that time, that first time Michael had reached out and touched… It stuck in Michael’s mind.

Touching was not something Michael did; he never had even as a kid. He was taught to keep his hands to himself in his childhood, teachers armed with a yardstick. The thwack had stung. Once Michael joined up, the only physical contact he allowed himself was when he was aiming to hurt, to bruise, to injure, because that was all he ever knew. Whoever he was fighting attempted to do the same.

For Michael, touching hurt. Whenever it wasn’t physically painful, whenever he thought he had finally gotten over his aversion, a reminder began looping in the back of his mind; it sounded like wood hitting skin, unapologetic and unyielding. It hurt just as much as any punch he’d received in Basic.

But then there was Allen. Allen, standing there so soft, and unnoticing, and quiet. And he let Michael touch without question, without so much as an eyebrow raise. He didn’t seem to realize that Michael never touched anyone else, or that when he did, it was usually followed but a small cringe, as if preparing for a punishment that wasn’t coming.

Allen didn’t seem to find it odd or annoying. Michael was sure Allen didn’t remember the first time, but Michael did.

And Michael could see how it had just snowballed from there.

Michael touched Allen too often and he knew it. He knew it because of the looks they were starting to get, from Faye — Michael’s secretary — to couples on the street; couples that walked, and stood, and acted exactly as Michael did with Allen. What had started as careful pats on the back soon grew into Michael walking so close to Allen that their bodies brushed with each stride, and then to standing far too close to Allen and peeking over his shoulder instead standing beside him like a normal person. The only one who didn’t seem to take notice, of Michael’s touchiness or of the looks they got because of it, was Allen.

So Michael didn’t stop. He didn’t think he could.

Allen didn’t normally touch back, but when he did there was something about the gentle, yielding way that made the noise in the back of Michael’s head quiet. He touched in a way that said Michael could pull back, he could retreat into himself and Allen wouldn’t mind; he wouldn’t be insulted or upset. Like he knew Michael’s mind, and maybe he did. Maybe he was more observant than Michael gave him credit for.

But Michael would rather go on believing that Allen was oblivious and Michael could continue touching all he wanted without notice.

The first time Allen touched him in a way that wasn’t passive was one time right after the generals had left and Michael was panicking. Michael didn’t remember what they had said, most likely something to satisfy their superiority complexes, something to remind Michael who was in charge, and who could have him replaced at the snap of their fingers.

He does remember pacing.

He remembers pacing and Allen’s steady voice trying to calm him. He remembers not listening — not being able to even make out what Allen had been saying — and coming close to hyperventilating. He remembers Allen’s firm hands taking hold of Michael’s and guiding him to sit on the couch.

Mostly, Michael remembers the blaring noise in the back of his mind, and, for once, he remembers ignoring it, forcing himself to relax into Allen’s grasp and Allen placing Michael’s hand on his own stomach and helping him calm his breathing…

He remembers staying on that couch together for far too long and hating the cold feeling he got when, finally, they pulled away from each other and stood.

Allen was gone.

Allen had been gone for four days and his absence was starting to wear away at Michael. The new case file had come across Michael’s desk the week before. It was simple, straight forward; no angry locals or rumored monsters, nothing dangerous. They had decided Allen could handle it alone, no need for them both to fly across the country when one could deal with the case easily enough.

Michael was starting to regret that decision deeply.

He was jumpy and short-tempered, he had yelled at Faye earlier that morning — and then apologized moments later when he had realized what he had done — he felt like an addict going through withdrawal, after all, maybe he was. Michael was starting to think that he had been using Allen as a safety blanket, keeping out the big bad world that he knew all too well. Michael took a deep breath.

He could handle this. He was a grown man, a WWII vet for fuck's sake, he could take a little bit of pain and discomfort, no matter how irritating the itching underneath his skin was growing.

His finger tapped tirelessly on the desk in front of him.

California was three hours behind Ohio. It would be lunchtime there, Allen should be taking a break. Michael could call, check in, see if he needed any help on the case, see when Allen would be coming home. He could…

Or he could try and push through. Allen had a grown a habit of calling Michael at night, far after the time when Michael should have been asleep. Michael bit at his thumbnail, staring at the phone and willing it to ring. He was in no way prepared for the moment that it did.

The chiming filled the room, loud and obnoxious, Michael jumped and nearly tipped his chair over, then scrambled to pick up the phone. His free hand went to scratch at his arm as he lifted the phone to his ear, but it did nothing to alleviate the itch.

“This is Captain Quinn,” Michael said into the mouthpiece, praying with every fiber of his being that Allen’s voice would be flooding through his ear in the coming moments. Instead, the general’s grading voice crossed over the line, only serving to amplify the itch beneath Michael skin. He scratched harder.

“Quinn, I need you on a plane to California within the hour,” Harding told him and Michael sat straighter, not because of the command, but because of the indirect mention of Allen. He bristled.

“Sir, I’m sure the doctor has got it handled out there, I don’t think we need to worry about his…” Michael searched for the right word, knowing he was already treading on thin ice questioning a direct order from the general. “...curiosity any longer. He’s been closing cases faster than me lately.” And then continuing to work on them in private in the case of anything extraterrestrial. Michael didn’t add on the last part. That definitely wouldn’t have gone over well with Harding.

“The doctor,” Harding repeated, a disapproving tone to his voice. Michael continued to scratch at his forearm, not realizing that his skin was starting to go red. “Seems to have gotten himself into a bit of trouble.” Michael’s nail bit in too deep, opening a long cut on his arm. Fuck. He thought to himself, watching blood rise to the surface. He decided to ignore it.

“What kind of trouble?” His fingers, now unoccupied, were twisting the phone cord in rings around his pointer; a tick proving that Michael was more nervous about the answer to that question than he was willing to let his voice show. Especially to the general.

“It seems the case was more dangerous than we thought.” Michael pushed himself to the edge of his seat, dropping the phone cord and giving Harding his full attention. “That, or Hynek seems to get on everyone’s nerves as much as he gets on mine.” Michael grits his teeth at the condescending tone, wishing the general would just cut it out and tell him if Allen was alright. Please let Allen be alright.

“Sir, if I may ask, what exactly happened?” The general didn’t hesitate in answering — didn’t lead up to it or sugar coat it — just spit it out as if he didn’t care enough to spend the time talking about it.

“Doctor Hynek was shot.”

Michael was out the door in a heartbeat, leaving the phone loose and dangling from his desk by the cord.

The flight was far too long for Michael’s taste. Normally he loved being in the air, whether he was in the pilot’s seat or not. It was freeing. He liked the way he could feel the air underneath his wings, liked seeing the patchwork of houses and empty lots down below — he even liked the way the turbulence would shake his plane, knowing that all was fine, that he was still in total control. He liked being in control.

But now everything in his situation was spiraling. He didn’t know if Allen was going to be okay, he didn’t even know what condition the Doc was in, where he had been shot, if Michael was going to have to call Allen’s wife and kid to tell them that Michael lied, that he couldn’t get Allen home safely. Not this time.

Now the plane was confining, small and growing smaller by the second. He couldn’t feel the air beneath the wings, didn’t pay attention as the fields below changed to mountains, the turbulence did more to mask his shaking than to calm him.

Michael was out of control, a fact that only served to make the itch grow unbearable.

His coat concealed the large bloodstain on his sleeve.

The plane landed and Michael was the first one off, elbowing his way through other passengers who had stood to gather their things from the overhead shelves, throwing random apologies over his shoulder. He had more important things to do than wait for people to pack up their belongings and prepare their children to get off the plane. He thanked the pilot on the way out with a sloppy salute that he would have been reprimanded for had the pilot been anything other than a civilian, and ran down the roll-up stairs, barely avoiding a stumble as he hit the ground.

He kept running until he found a taxi.

“How fast can you get me to the hospital?” Michael asked the cabbie as he climbed in the back seat. The man looked back at him, old eyes, crinkled and calculating, taking in his tidy Air Force uniform and ruffled hair.

“That’s a twenty-five-minute drive, mister.” Came his cautious reply, a clean Californian trim lacing his words. Michael leaned forward, hands gripping the squishy leather seat beneath him.

“How fast can you get me to the hospital?” Michael repeated, raising an eyebrow and pulling a $20 from his wallet. A slow smile spread over the man’s face.

“I can get you there in fifteen.” He took the bill when Michael offered it to him.

“Good man,” Michael tapped the back of the cabbies seat, then fell backward seemingly relaxed. His nails bit into the flesh between his fingers as he tried to be as he appeared.

The cabbie was true to his word and got Michael there within fourteen minutes. Michael threw him another bill, uncaring as to what it was, and spring from the car running to the front door. There, he paused, tugging on his jacket to straighten it and trying to smooth his hair — Harding would have his head if he ran in there like a madman — and, finally, pulled the door open.

The help desk was directly in front him. He approached it at an amble, confidence he didn’t feel radiating from his every step. He shot the secretary a smile. She blushed lightly.

“Can I help you, sir?” She asked with a smile of her own, any other time Michael would have found her intriguing. But not now, not when Allen was possibly dying in a room somewhere in this hospital, alone and injured.

“Yes,” He told her, voice steady. The only thing revealing his anxiety was the rhythm Michael’s fingers were tapping on the desk. “I’m looking for a Hynek? Allen Hynek? I was told I could find him here.” The woman nodded and pulled open a file cabinet to her left, thumbing through a small section.

“H-y-n-e-k?” She asked spelling it out, shooting him a questioning look. Michael needed her to move faster. He nodded. She pulled out a file and scanned it slowly. “Here it is, room 214, second floor, just down the hall from the elevator.” She said with a smile, gesturing to the elevator on Michael’s left. He tapped the desk one last time, then pushed away from it.

“Thank you very much, doll,” He said with a smooth smile as he walked swiftly to the elevator. She blushed again as he turned away.

Michael found Allen’s room easily enough. He wanted nothing more than to barge in and pull Allen into a hug, or check him over to make sure he was alright, or sit next to him for a little while, Michael was adamant about keeping his composure. He knocked on the door but received no answer.

Figuring that Allen was resting, he cracked the door slowly, trying to avoid unnecessary noise. Michael peeked in to see Allen sitting up in bed, wearing his ridiculous pajamas, and staring out the window, unconcerned with anything happening in the world around him. Michael rolled his eyes at Allen’s oblivious nature but relaxed considerably upon seeing Allen alive and seemingly well.

He let the door fall open against the wall and propped himself against the doorframe, crossing his arms, determined to keep his hands to himself for at least five minutes. Michael watched Allen for a moment before it became clear that the bang of the door against to hospital room wall was not enough to draw Allen out of his daydreams. Michael cleared his throat.

“What the hell did you get yourself into now, Doc?” Allen’s head snapped up, he winced. “Woah, woah, woah, slow it down, don’t hurt yourself more,” Michael pushed off the doorframe, approaching the bed and sitting on the edge. He placed a hand on Allen’s shoulder when Michael saw he was still holding his breath in pain. So much for not touching. The itching lessened enough for Michael to finally be able to ignore it once again, but it was still there; layers under his skin. A simple grip of Allen’s shoulder wouldn’t cure it, not completely.

Allen was still tensed up on the bed, eyes clenched shut, bottom lip drawn between his teeth.

“You gotta breathe, Allen, tensing up will just make it worse.” Allen nodded, and Michael rubbed at his shoulder until he felt the tightness start to ease out of Allen’s bones. Michael ran his hand down Allen’s arm, squeezing gently at Allen’s fingers before letting go and withdrawing his arm. Allen leaned back against his pillows.

“I thought you weren’t coming up,” Allen told him, obviously confused. “There’s no need to have us both here, right?” Michael looked at him incredulously.

“Allen, you were shot, of course I’m going to fly out here and check up on you!” Michael told him, unable to stop himself when he reached out and ran his fingers through Allen’s hair. Seemingly unconsciously Allen leaned into his hand. His curls were a mess from days without gel, but that was the way Michael liked it; loose and relaxed, easy to run his fingers through — not that he normally did. Just thought about it. Admittedly too many times. “What would I do without my partner? No way I could find as logical excuses for UFO’s as you do, not smart enough.” Michael said in a quiet, self-deprecating voice, a half smile making its way onto his lips. Allen tutted, his fingers curling around Michael’s wrist.

“Is that what the Generals are telling you now?” He thumbed over the inside of Michael’s wrist softly. Michael shivered but didn’t pull back, wondering why it didn’t bother him as much as it should. If Allen were anybody else, Michael wouldn’t trust them not to dig in their fingers, not to try and rip at the skin. The area was too sensitive, too unprotected. But this was Allen, and with every touch, the itching lessened even more. Michael took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his face.

“No, just everybody else,” He tried to joke, but he should have known it would fall flat with Allen. Allen hated it when anyone acted as if Michael wasn’t smart, hated it even more when Michael believed them.

“It’s not true,” Allen’s grip tightened slightly as if urging Michael to believe him. Michael smoothed Allen’s hair one last time before pulling away. He stood, tugging off his jacket.

“Damn it’s hot in here, they tryna sweat the bullet out of ya?” Michael was trying to deflect. He could tell that Allen knew what he was doing by the look in the doctor’s eye. Michael was glad when Allen decided to let it slide.

“No bullet, it went through and through,” Allen said and that was most definitely not as comforting as Allen seemed to think it was. Michael sucked in a breath.

“Where?” Michael was facing away from Allen, grateful that the doctor couldn’t see the fear on his face. He dropped his jacket over the back of the chair next to the bed.

“My abdomen,” Allen said lightly. “Michael, is that blood?” Michael spun around quickly, eyes frantically scanning Allen to find what he was referencing, but Allen was staring at Michael instead. He followed the line of Allen’s gaze to the now dry bloodstain on his sleeve, brown maring the white shirt. Oh.

“Oh,” Michael looked back to Allen, “yeah. It’s nothing big, just a scratch.” He said when Allen still seemed worried. Allen’s eyes snapped to his.

“That’s a lot of blood for ‘just a scratch’.” Allen gestured him forward and Michael went without hesitation, collapsing in the chair next to the bed. Allen carefully grasped his wrist again, unbuttoning his cuff.

“Okay, three scratches then.” Allen looked up him from beneath his lashes, head still bowed over Michael’s arm. Michael could tell Allen still didn’t believe him so he let them lapse into silence as Allen neatly rolled up his sleeve.

Michael had to admit, he didn’t know how bad it was — he had just rolled down his sleeve, buttoned his cuff, and thrown on his jacket, ignoring the stinging and it mingled with the still unscratched itch — so when Allen gasped, his fingers trying to clear away some of the dried blood, Michael was surprised.

He looked down to see three large gashes on his forearm, two had stopped bleeding but the third on the far right was still oozing blood at a slow, steady pace. As Allen rubbed away the blood carefully, Michael could see that the skin underneath had grown irritated from rubbing against his shirt sleeve.

“What the hell did you do to yourself?” Allen asked, rubbing a little too roughly. Michael’s face went white.

“Says the man sitting in a hospital bed after being shot,” Michael bit out, trying to hide the pain he felt. Allen noticed anyway, despite Michael’s best efforts, and relaxed his grip, cradling Michael’s arm instead of assaulting it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Michael nodded in acknowledgment, forcing his body to relax and waiting for the pain to fade, focusing on Allen’s gentle stroking instead. He slumped forward, forehead resting on his bicep, only jumping slightly when Allen laced his fingers into Michael’s hair.

“We should get a doctor in here to clean this up, you may need stitches,” Allen said quietly before they settled into silence. Michael wanted to shake his head but he didn’t want Allen to pull his hand away, so he spoke instead, his jaw digging into his bicep.

"It’s fine, I can clean it up in the bathroom,” He denied easily. He heard Allen click his tongue.

“We’re literally in a hospital, all you have to do is go out into the hallway and someone will help you.” Allen continued to insist.

“I don’t like to be touched,” Michael mumbled. Allen was quiet for so long Michael assumed he didn’t hear him, but when he lifted his head to check the doctor was looking right back at him, head tilted, eyes squinting, like Michael was an equation he didn’t know how to solve. Allen licked his lips.

“Bullshit, you touch me all the time. You’re a very physical person, I mean, look how you’re sitting now,” Allen challenged, so Michael did. He looked at both of them, a blush starting to fight its way up his neck as he saw the way most of his upper body was pressed against Allen, the way Allen still had one hand on Michael’s injured arm, the other in his hair, the way he was barely sitting on his seat, instead leaning most of his weight on the bed, subconsciously trying to get closer to Allen.

He started to draw away, back into himself, but for once, Allen wouldn’t let him.

“It’s fine, Michael, I don’t mind, I’m just trying to make a point.” Allen’s hand moved from his hair to his jaw, directing him to lay his head back down, this time resting his cheek on his arm so that Allen could still see his face, so he could still see Allen’s.

Allen’s fingers stroked beneath his jaw, far closer to his throat than he should be comfortable with, but once again, he found that he didn’t mind. He didn’t even realize the itching had faded minutes before. Michael’s eyes fluttered closed. He hadn’t been sleeping well since Allen left, and he didn’t feel the toll it was taking until that moment.

“You’re different,” Michael said quietly, not necessarily wanting Allen to hear. Allen did anyway.

“Why?” Michael shrugged his left shoulder, the one not being held by Allen.

“Donno,” He said opening his eyes again, catching Allen’s gaze. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”

“You still need to see a doctor,” Allen told him, leaving no room for argument. Michael sighed, deflating and sinking deeper into the bed, deeper into Allen. He didn’t notice when his hand started to shake lightly.

“Hey,” Allen spoke again, voice tender. He started running his fingers through Michael’s hair again and waited until Michael looked up to continue. “It’s going to be okay, I’ll even hold your hand if you want me to.” Allen’s fingers slipped through Michael’s and grasped, just tight enough to feel secure. It was awkward because of the angle, Allen’s wrist was twisted oddly, but that didn’t matter, knowing Allen would be there made him feel a little better about the fact that, soon, someone was probably going to be stabbing a needle through his arm repeatedly.

He clenched his eyes against the thought.

“It’s going to hurt, it always hurts,” Michael didn’t why he was being so open with Allen then. He sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing his fear of being touched with anybody else, or any other time. It must have been the relief in seeing Allen again and the comforting way they were sitting. Michael almost felt safe. He didn’t know the last time he felt safe.

“Yes, it probably will. But they’ll give you something for the pain and it will be over quickly, then we won't have to worry about your arm getting infected and falling off.” Allen told him, cracking a smile. Michael smiled too, smaller and less sure, but he smiled nonetheless. Fear must have still shone behind his eyes because Allen squeezed his fingers reassuringly. “I won’t let them hurt you, Michael, I promise. Just the stitches, and only that if it’s one hundred percent necessary.” Michael looked at him for a second longer, then finally relented with a nod. It was worth it for the way Allen smiled.

“Alright,” He said patting Michael’s head before pulling his hand away, “why don’t you go pick out a doctor? I’ll be here when you get back.” Michael swallowed.

“Okay.” He said walking out the door, still slightly unsure.

Not five minutes later Michael had lured a doctor into Allen’s room, said doctor was trying to convince Michael to go to a different room, and Allen was telling the doctor just what he thought about that.

‘The risk of infection spreading between you and Mr. Hynek-’ The doctor started to argue, but Allen cut him off.

“Is extremely low considering you’ve already treated me and my wound is covered by multiple layers.” He said raising an eyebrow at the doctor. “And it’s Doctor Hynek, if you don’t mind.” The doctor opened his mouth to continue to argue but stopped at the unyielding look in Allen’s eyes. “If my friend wants to be treated in this room I believe it’s safest for all of us to do just that.”

The doctor’s eyes flicked to Michael once again, taking in his now rumpled Air Force uniform. There was a look about him, like a cornered animal ready to attack; his eyes darted from Allen, to the doctor, to the door. The doctor noticed that he seemed to calm considerably when Hynek reached out and took hold of his left arm, fingers slipping under the cuff, and he understood.

“My apologies, Doctor Hynek.” He said with an astonishingly sincere smile. “Why don’t you two get situated while I go get the suture cart. Captain Quinn, if you wouldn’t mind,” He said gesturing to the bed where he could fit next to Allen, then he turned and walked out the door.

Michael looked at Allen to see him moving over to the opposite side of the bed, tugging Michael’s arm slightly as he did so.

“Well?” Allen said. “You heard the man.” And Michael didn’t give himself the chance to question it, he crawled onto the bed, settling next to Allen. The hospital bed wasn’t big, so neither man was surprised when their sides were completely pressed against each other.

Allen lifted his arm to give them more room, placing it instead around Michael’s shoulders, and Michael couldn’t remember the last time he was touched so much at once. If he had to guess he would say the last time was during the war; he had gotten shot and they needed to get the bullet out, but the problem was they were fresh out of anesthetic. Michael shivered remembering the four men that had held him down while the army doc dug around inside of him. The memory ended at the moment he had passed out from the pain.

Allen’s hand settled on Michael’s right shoulder, rubbing it soothingly and pulling him home from the war.

“You’re okay, Michael, it will be over soon,” Allen murmured into his ear, nose bumping lightly against his temple. Michael hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing. Allen’s free hand grasped Michael’s chin lightly, turning his face toward Allen. “Captain, do you trust me?” The question surprised Michael, bringing out a breathless chuckle.

“Right now or in general?” He asked and Allen smiled softly, tilting his head slightly as if considering how to answer. Michael had a feeling he already had this conversation mapped out in his mind, however.

“In general.” Michael nodded.

“‘Course I do, Doc,” Allen’s hand moved up to frame his jaw, thumb stroking lightly at his cheekbone. His eyes dropped from Michael’s, stealing a quick glance at his lips and Michael didn’t know what was happening but he definitely wasn’t going to stop it.

“Then trust me now,” Allen whispered, leaning forward and brushing his lips against Michael’s. Michael sucked in a breath, surprised, but when Allen pressed a little firmer Michael found himself kissing back.

He was careful not to jostle Allen too much, mostly keeping his hands to himself until Allen nipped at his bottom lip lightly; his left hand tightened in the sheets beneath them, his right shooting up to tangling in Allen’s soft curls once again.

The position was awkward but Michael couldn’t find it within himself to care. He hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, but then, with Allen’s body pressed against his, it hit Michael — of course, he felt the need to touch Allen, to have Allen touch him, he was completely gone for the man.

Allen with his quietly assertive personality, and his scientific jabber that Michael never understood, and his firm assurance that Michael was smart, that he wasn’t an idiot like people liked to assume.

Michael was in love with him.

But Michael couldn’t be in love with him, there was a reason he knew there was — he couldn’t remember what it was, but it was there in the back of his mind…

Mimi.

Michael broke away, resting his forehead against Allen’s, breathing heavily.

“Allen,” Michael said, voice broken. Allen leaned in to kiss him again but Michael pulled away slightly. “Allen, we can’t,” Allen opened his eyes to finally look at him, Michael couldn’t decipher the emotions that lay within them.

“Why not?” Allen’s voice was also rough, his pupils blown.

“You’re married, in case you’ve forgotten,” Michael tried to joke, pulling away completely and falling back against the pillow. Allen’s arm was still around his shoulders.

“Mimi? No-” He was interrupted when the door swung open and the doctor pushed his cart in.

“Sorry for taking so long,” He said with a smile, “shall we get started?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Doctor,” Michael replied, doing his best to hide the fear in his voice; he knew he failed when Allen’s arm tightened around him. The doctor nodded and grabbed a stool from the corner, placing it next to Michael and pulling his cart next to him.

Michael watched as he cleaned it methodically, hissing occasionally at the pain. He knew Allen wasn’t watching, he could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face. Michael fought the urge to turn and catch his eye.

“These two should heal on their own,” The doctor said eventually, once the gashes had been cleaned, Michael’s skin was tinted pink from the blood. “This one definitely needs stitches. You said you did this by scratching?” Michael nodded, the doctor looked at him worriedly. “Captain, these cuts line up more with the result of a knife or a razor blade.” He heard Allen’s breath catch.

“Michael?” Finally, Michael looked at him. Allen’s eyes flickered all over his face, searching for answers, but Michael just shook his head frantically.

“No, I was scratching at it all day, and then Harding called, and-” He looked between the two doctors, neither seemed to believe him, not until Michael mentioned the general. Understanding dawned on Allen, he knew what interacting with Harding did to Michael, he’d seen it multiple times, it pushed him to do odd things, completely unaware and uncaring of the effect they had on his body. Allen nodded.

“Shhh, okay, it’s fine Michael,” Allen’s hand moved back to his jaw where it had been not long before, pressing lightly until Michael rested his head on Allen’s shoulder. “We believe you,” He assured, leaning to whisper solely into Michael’s ear so that the doctor couldn't hear, “relax, Mikey, you’re okay, I believe you.” Michael took a deep breath and closed his eyes, pressing his face further into Allen’s neck.

Michael was so wrapped up in Allen that he didn’t hear as the doctor got the suture ready, barely felt it when he slid a needle into his arm to numb it. Then the doctor was standing, tugging off his gloves and pushing the cart away.

“I’d like to take him home,” Michael heard Allen say, he opened his eyes to see the doctor at the foot of the bed, picking up a chart and flipping through it. His eyes scanned over the lines quickly.

“Well, Doctor Hynek, you should stay with us a little longer,” He said, looking at the two men, considering, “but I can’t do anything to stop either of you, should you decide to leave.” Allen nodded solemnly and the doctor slipped the chart back into its place. “No flying though. I’m still reluctant to believe that that bullet didn’t at least graze your lung.” Michael’s head snapped up to look at Allen who seemed slightly abashed. “No one is that lucky.” The doctor smiled and turned away pushing the cart out of the room. “Have a good day, gentlemen.” And then he was gone.

Michael pushed away from Allen to get a better look at him, glaring.

“Your lungs?” Michael hissed. “You could have died Allen, why the hell are you so relaxed about this?” Allen shrugged, reaching for him, Michael let himself be pulled into a hug. He kissed Michael’s forehead, then pulled away just far enough to look Michael in the eye, his gaze intense.

“You heard the doctor, I’m lucky.” Michael had a feeling he wasn’t referring to the bullet. “I’m sorry Michael, I should have asked the first time, but...” Allen paused, eyes searching Michael’s. “Can I kiss you?” And Michael wanted to say yes, god did he want to say yes. But he couldn’t.

“Allen, you’re married, you have a kid,” Michael moved to pull away but Allen wouldn’t let him.

“That’s a long story, but I swear to you, Michael, Mimi won’t care,” Allen’s thumb brushed over Michael’s bottom lip, Michael followed it’s path with his tongue subconsciously. “In fact, she’ll probably be happy.” Michael trusted him, he always had, so this time when Allen leaned in, Michael didn’t stop him. Allen paused a breath away from his lips. “You didn’t answer my question, Michael. Can I kiss you?”

Michael’s response was simply close the gap himself.

“I do want to take you home,” Allen said, not ten minutes later. Michael’s head was carefully placed on his chest, avoiding the area Allen had indicated when Michael asked where, exactly, he was shot. He chuckled.

“The doctor said no flying, Allen.” Allen rolled his eyes, Michael didn’t see it but he was sure of it. He looked up to see Allen tilt his head, thinking, then he smiled, eyes lighting up.

“How do you feel about a road trip?”

Michael sighed.