Disclaimer: I don't own 'em just like 'em:)

Note:I wrote this after seeing the preview for Independence Day a loooong time ago.

He felt his jaw crack and blood fill his mouth. Hank’s fist slammed into his cheekbone and his head snapped to the side, his face smacking the wall. Rough hands were on his shoulders, shoving him towards the door hanging open and screeching like a dying animal as the breeze swept it open and closed, and open again.

He should be able to block it out by now; able to throw up a wall against the pain that filled his body. He’d been smacked around before, but this…if he’d have been human he would have been dead or unconscious by now. He was finding it difficult to breathe, and his vision was blurring.

Hank was screaming at him, his voice thick and garbled. He couldn’t understand what he was saying, and he didn’t know if it was because of the alcohol or because he’d been hit in the head so many times he felt like it was disconnected from the rest of his body.

Fucking bastard.

Hank flung him against the doorframe and planted his foot in Michael’s back, giving him a violent shove that sent him sprawling down the steps and into the dirt.

"Gethehelloutahere!" and the final screech of the door slamming shut.

Michael laid there for a moment, feeling the stones and shards of glass from broken beer bottles embed themselves in his skin. He coughed and there was blood. He got to his hands and knees and tried to stand, pressing his hand against his ribcage. He felt like he had swallowed a handful of razorblades, and after ripping apart his throat, they had shredded up his insides.

He thought about going to Max’s. At the very least he could hang out at the Crashdown long enough to figure out how to heal his insides. He’d have to leave the outside damage alone of course – in case Hank remembered in the morning that he had beat the crap out of him.

He got painfully to his feet and stared at the trailer where Hank was inside working out his drunken aggressions on the furniture. A wave of annoyance washed over him. He’d end up having to clean up and put all of it back together again tomorrow. He was sick and tired of it. Sick and tired of having to repair the damage, and sick and tired of being kicked around. He hated crawling to Max whenever Hank got pissed, and he hated that look of pity that crept into Liz’s brown eyes whenever he asked if he could hang out there for a few hours.

Hank looked up at him as he pushed open the screen door with as much determination as he could muster while cradling his probably broken arm and hunched over so as not to disturb his definitely cracked rib.

"I tol you to g’out…" Michael felt a twinge of fear in his gut, and he hated himself for it. He hated Hank for it. Michael shut the door and stood there waiting for him to make his move. Whatever it was he wasn’t going to leave. He was going to take a stand. He wasn’t going to run. Hank was going to have to deal with him.

He took one wobbly step towards him his face dripping with sweat and anger. He raised his fist again and Michael closed his eyes waiting for it, trying to show the bastard that he could take it. He could take it all and still get back up. Because that would piss him off more than anything else – that he could beat his body, make him bleed – but that was all he could do.

Michael opened his eyes as he heard Hank hit the floor, passed out cold at his feet. He swallowed, relieved that he wouldn’t have to take another hit tonight. He stared down at him, at this disgusting piece of shit this…human…and he wanted to kill it. He was lying in front of the TV. It would be so easy to accidentally knock it over, to send it crashing to the ground, crashing into his head…

He went to the TV. He stood behind it and looked down. Hank’s face was pressed into the beer stained carpet, his back exposed, unprotected. He was defenseless. As defenseless as he had been at seven years old the first time he had ever tasted his own blood. His hands were on the TV, pressed flat against it. One little push and it would all be over. The TV wobbled uncertainly as he leaned against it then froze, because he couldn’t see the back of Hank’s head anymore. He couldn’t see anything. He was blinded. Blinded by his own tears of rage.

He let go of the TV and stumbled away from it, towards the door. He had to get out he had to breathe why couldn’t he breathe why couldn’t he see? He pushed open the door and tripped down the steps landing in a heap at the bottom of them, crying out in pain as his body shrieked at him to shut up and stop moving. He rolled over onto his back, staring up at a sky he could barely see because he was still fucking crying.

He was worthless. He couldn’t heal himself. He couldn’t defend himself. He couldn’t kill him. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even stop crying.

He concentrated on the burning in his chest, trying to make it go away as tears rolled down his cheeks, and slid down his neck into the dirt. He thought of rain pouring from the sky and falling on him, sinking into his skin and stealing the hurt, making him cold. He thought of the burning disappearing. He though of his tears drying up like one drop of sweat under the desert sun, and he thought of sitting up. He thought of looking at the trailer and standing up with no more broken rib. He thought of clenching his fist and finding no more broken arm. He thought of Hank still unconscious. Still vulnerable. Still weak.

He pushed the tears off his face, biting his lip and drawing blood as his still broken arm screamed in protest. He got to his feet and ignored the sensation of his rib poking into his lung, puncturing his long shaky breaths. He tried again, not because he thought it would work but because he thought if he didn’t he would die. He would die alone in the middle of a trailer park surrounded by broken glass, rust, dirt, and puddles of his own tears.

He focused on the pain this time instead of desperately trying to ignore it. He didn’t think about cold things, like the rain or stone walls, he thought of the burning and he told it to go away, calmly repeating it again and again like a mantra, a prayer, but never a plea. He would not beg.

He would not crawl into Max’s window broken and asked to be fixed.

He would do it himself.

Deep breaths and the mantra – a thousand times echoing in his head until he didn’t know what he was saying anymore and then it was gone. The burning was gone and he could move again, his body moaning softly but not wailing in pain. He thought about going inside. He thought of him lying there and turned away trying to run before he did it. Before he really did it.

*~*~*

She was sitting on the steps in front of her house, swallowing nervously, her eyes searching the darkness. He stayed in it because he hadn’t meant to come here, because he still hurt, because he was afraid of her, because he was afraid of himself, because that rage was still pumping through his veins. He still wanted to hurt something, to crush something. He didn’t want it to be her. He watched her stand and turn back to the house. He watched her slender white hand, glowing in the darkness as it reached for the door. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. She turned around as though she had heard.

"Michael…?"

Her voice was so small…smaller than the smallest thing in the world. And he stayed in the shadows. Even as she abandoned the safety of the steps and tentatively left the soft circle of light that shone on the walkway in front of her empty house he did not move. Even when she stopped, directly in front of him, staring up into his face. She attempted a smile but it came out crooked. She wasn’t scared. She was confused. They weren’t friends this week.

"What are you doing out here?"

He didn’t say anything but now he moved. He reached out to her because he needed to feel something besides his own pain, something besides hatred, he needed to feel her because she was the only thing that made him forget even if it was only for a little while. He took her arms, holding them in his hands and pulled her to him not even pausing to marvel at how soft she was, even though the thought was floating around somewhere in the back of his mind, dancing with the images of Hank lying dead on the floor and pushing them away, scaring them off because her softness was so much stronger than his hatred. He kissed her harder than he ever had breathing her in like oxygen, like sanity, holding her close like she was the only thing that could save his dying soul. She whimpered against the bruising force of him and he pulled away cursing himself for being what he’d always known he was – an animal, a monster. He didn’t know how to not hurt, he didn’t know how to not be alone. He shou! ld never have tried. All it did was hurt her. He pulled away and she let him go bringing a hand up to her lips. They were red. She was bleeding. He stared at her horrified at what he had done wanting to run but frozen in shock that he had hurt her he had hurt her he had hurt her.

She looked at the blood on her fingers. She looked up at him again and stepped closer peering at him in the darkness. She took his hand and pulled him into the light, gasping as she finally saw his face.

"Oh my God Michael…" She touched his lips, She touched his trembling breath and tears slipped down the curves of her beautiful face as they both realized the blood was his. "What happened to you…what…" he swallowed. He didn’t speak. If he did he would start crying again and he would not do that. It had taken him too long to stop the first time. He would not let her see how much it hurt. He would not have her feeling sorry for him.

She reached out to touch him and he flinched. He turned away from the stricken look on her face and tried to leave that circle of light that had showed her what he had never wanted to show anyone. That he was weak.

He was almost there. If he reached out his hand he could touch the darkness, but her voice stopped him from trying.

"I knew you were here…" she said softly. "I felt you…I…knew…" He heard her come up behind him. He felt her thinking about touching him but afraid to. "You’re hurt…someone hurt you…and I knew…Michael…" her voice cracked and she touched his shoulder, gently placing her hand against it. "Let me help you…"

*~*~*

He didn’t remember saying yes. He didn’t remember her leading him into the house, to her bedroom where she slept without fear, where she dreamed dreams that didn’t make her wake up crying for something she would never have, for something that would protect her.

He remembered shaking his head no when she tried to see where else he was hurt. He waited as she left him in her room alone to get a towel. He looked at it. It looked like her, it smelled like her, it felt like her. He had dreamt of this room, of her in it, of him in it. He had dreamt of this bed, of her in it, of him in it. It had been what kept him sane as Hank beat on his door and he prayed to God that the screwdriver wouldn’t fall out of the frame. And when it did he thought of her. He thought of her face and her hair, her hands and the delicate glide of her shoulders, he thought of her eyes and her smile, her nose and her teeth, her ears and her elbows, her waist and her breasts, her knees and her ankles, her fingers, her toes. And it was almost enough to keep him from thinking about how much Hank’s fists hurt. She had kept him alive those first few times. But tonight he hadn’t hid behind her. He had faced Hank alone because he thought he could, because he though! t he was finally strong enough. He was wrong. He needed her.

She turned on the little lamp on the table beside her bed as she came back into the room, and she told him to sit down. She knelt in front of him and touched his face with the cool damp cloth wiping the blood, the dirt away. She caressed his face with her gentle fingers, and found tears there. He couldn’t help it. She was so careful with him. She was so gentle. No one had ever touched him like that his entire life and he cried for it. He cried because he loved her and he knew he shouldn’t. His shoulders shook and his chest heaved with every breath that wasn’t enough. He felt her arms around him. He felt her fingers stroking his hair as he rested his forehead against the curve of her neck and gave in to it. Gave into the soft smell of her skin and the way it felt beneath his cheek slick with his tears. She laid him down on her bed and she molded her body against his back, holding him and letting him cry. He felt safe there, in her arms. Safe with her breath whispering against his bruised shoulder. He closed his eyes and slept without fear.

Back to Area 51 (Section II)