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electric feel

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It's approaching three in the morning when there's a gentle knock on his door, and for a moment Michael considers ignoring it, but there's only one person it could be, and he can't seriously consider turning Hynek away. Not after the night he's had. The night they've both had.

He walks to the door, careful not to drag his feet on the carpet. He hesitates, hand above the doorknob, body tense, and he knows, he knows – there's an arc of electricity from his fingertips just before they curl around the doorknob, and he grits his teeth against the jolt, painful and lingering. At least the doorknob didn't shatter like the lamp, he thinks, and schools his face into something presentable, flat.

As expected, Hynek is on the other side of the door. He's dressed in his pajamas, a navy set that's a little too long in the arms and the legs. The fabric bunches above the worn grey slippers on his feet, and his hair is unkempt, curls loose and soft from a shower. He stands in the hallway, wringing his hands together, the exact picture of I can't sleep .

Michael debates asking why he's still awake, but the question could easily be turned on himself, and he's fairly certain the answers are the same.

He opens the door the rest of the way, stepping to the side. “Come on in,” he says, and he sounds tired even to his own ears. Hynek looks at him, concern in his deep blue eyes, but he doesn't press it. Not yet, Michael thinks. He shuts the door behind Hynek, sliding the lock back into place.

“I wasn't sure you'd be awake,” Hynek admits, turning to face Michael, who shrugs.

“Been having a hard time trying to get to sleep,” he says, in a way that says exactly why. Hynek inclines his head.

“It's been quite the evening, hasn't it,” he says, and he turns his attention to the room. Michael crosses his arms and leans against the wall by the door.

“That's one way to put it.”

He watches Hynek as he moves for the desk, carefully picking up a piece of the shattered light. He inspects it, the shard pinched between two fingers, and he looks at Michael with a raised eyebrow.

“What happened here?”

Michael shrugs, but doesn't offer a verbal answer, which only serves to draw Hynek’s scrutiny on him further. He sets the light bulb shard back on the desk, taking a step towards Michael.

“Captain, are you alright?”

There's a variety of things he could answer with, but he just sighs, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“What do you expect me to say?” he asks, brows furrowing together. “What the hell did we see out there? What the hell happened with the car? Why do I still –” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don't even know if I want the answer.”

“I don't think I'd have one for you, even if you did,” Hynek tells him. “I've spent the majority of the evening attempted to readjust my own world view.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you believed in this stuff,” he says. “Something about the probability of being alone being zero.”

Hynek sighs, and Michael really notices how frazzled he is. His hair isn't just shower-loose, it's standing on end as if he's been running his hands through it over and over. His face looks paler than it has before, the dark circles under his eyes half hidden by his glasses, but more pronounced.

“Just because I know that statistically speaking doesn't mean I was ready to know that in more realistic…concrete terms,” Hynek says. “It's...a lot to handle.”

He pauses, and then that intense attention is back on Michael full force. “What about you, Captain? What do you mean, ‘why you still?’ Still what?”

Hynek is within arm's reach, now, and Michael's careful to keep himself pressed against the wall. His memory flashes back to the hospital when they first arrived in Lubbock, and he curls his hands into fists.

“You don't have to call me captain all the time,” he says, and maybe he's delaying the conversation as long as he can, but it's something he's been meaning to bring up. They're something like friends, now, Michael thinks, and title addresses seem too impersonal for the things they've seen together at this point, anyway.

Hynek blinks at him. “Well, alright,” he agrees. “But –”

“I'm doing about as well as can be expected, Hynek,” Michael tells him. “I can't explain what we saw, what happened with the car, and it's –” He cuts himself off, on the edge of sounding desperate, but for what he doesn't know. He doubts the truth would be any kind of comfort.

He lets his weight fall against the wall. “I'm just glad I'm not the only one who saw anything,” he admits. “You'd probably think I was crazy.”

Hynek tilts his head, considering. “You might be surprised,” he says, and yeah, if Michael were to pick anyone to be in this situation with him, he'd probably pick Hynek either way.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Hynek asks again, and his voice is so gentle, reassuring, and he reaches out for Michael, to rest his hand on his arm, but Michael jerks away, a full body movement pressing him further against the wall.

“Don't touch me,” he says, and he really sounds desperate, now. “Just...don't, please.”

Hynek’s eyebrows have all but disappeared into his hairline, and he's looking at Michael with confusion etched into his face.

“Quinn, what's going on?” he asks, and there's more of that concern in his tone, genuine and thick, and Michael doesn't know what to say. He hasn't exactly accepted the truth yet, himself, and saying it out loud seems…ridiculous.

“It's nothing,” he lies, too quick. “It's just–”

“Bullshit it's nothing,” Hynek cuts him off, harsh, worried. “What's going on?”

“It's because of the goddamn car, alright?” Michael says, and maybe it's too loud, but he's just so tense, afraid to touch anything. Any one . “Whatever – whatever the hell that was, I can't…I can't touch anything without these…electric sparks coming off my fingers. That's what broke the desk lamp,” he tells him. “Nearly short circuited the bedside light, too.”

Understanding dawns on Hynek’s face. “Like Tom, in the hospital.”

“Except I'm not unconscious and unresponsive.”

“Fascinating,” Hynek mutters, more to himself than anything, and he takes another step towards Michael like the idiot Michael's starting to think he is.

“Hynek –” Michael says, warning, holding his hands out on front of him, but careful not to touch.

That seems to jolt Hynek out of whatever analysis he'd fallen into, and he looks at Michael with big eyes. “I have a theory,” he says, and Michael can already tell he won't like this. “Just…let me…” He reaches for Michael again, palm facing Michael's own outstretched one.

Michael jerks his hands closer to his body. “Are you out of your mind?” he hisses, and Hynek looks at him, head in that damn tilt again, and Michael can't help but notice how… soft he looks, how non-threatening. “I don't want to hurt you,” he admits, tone much gentler with the truth.

Hynek shakes his head. “You won't,” he says.

“How can you know that?”

“Just trust me, Michael,” he says, and before Michael has time to react to any of that, he's pressing their palms together. Michael winces, bracing for the pain, but nothing happens. Nothing happens .

“What…” he starts, staring at their hands, palm to palm in the space between them, that strange electric shock nowhere to be found.

“Told you,” Hynek says, and Michael looks up to see that they're much closer together, now, close enough that he can pick out the grey hairs in Hynek’s curls, the flecks of color in his eyes.

Hynek’s still looking at their hands as he folds his fingers between Michael's, squeezing just a little, but Michael is completely enraptured with his face, with the little self-satisfied smile on his lips and the scruff he's let grow long and the way his hair looks so soft.

“I don't understand,” Michael manages, barely more than a whisper.

“In the hospital,” Hynek explains, bringing his other hand up to wrap around Michael's arm just below his t-shirt sleeve. “I wasn't shocked. Whatever it is just…doesn't affect me.”

Hynek moves his hand up from Michael's arm to his shoulder, resting warm, heavy, comfortable. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“I wasn't –” Michael starts, then shakes his head. “I just didn't want to hurt you. At the hospital, it looked…painful.”

“It was,” Hynek agrees. “But this is nothing.” He squeezes the hand still curled around Michael's. “Painless.”

“Yeah,” Michael agrees, and he kind of hates how breathy he sounds at just this simple touch, but, he thinks, it's more than just the touch. It's Allen, looking at him like he's something special, something mesmerizing.

Allen's moving his one hand again, up and up until he's left it hovering over Michael's cheekbone, close enough that Michael can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. There's a heartbeat, and another, and then Allen must find what he's looking for on Michael's face because he brings his hand down to rest against his cheek, thumb against his cheekbone and fingers stretched into his hair over his ear.

“Allen,” Michael says, a whisper, something else, maybe, he doesn't know. He brings his own free hand up to cover Allen's, keep the warmth, the roughness of it pressed against his cheek, and he feels safe in a way he really hasn't before, safe and trusted and trusting , and he lets his eyes fall closed at the feeling.

“I wish I could tell you why this is happening to you,” Allen says, whisper-soft, and when Michael opens his eyes again, Allen's looking right at him, all that laser focus attention heavy, heady.

“You don't always have to have all the answers,” Michael tells him, mouth quirked into a small smile, and Allen shakes his head.

“Yes, but…”

“Allen,” Michael says, again, and he likes the way the name feels on his tongue. “It's okay. I'm okay.”

Michael squeezes their hands that are still wrapped together, and his gaze drops to Allen's mouth when he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, teeth just barely worrying at it.

Michael lets his free hand drift, away from covering Allen's on his cheek, to threading into those wonderful curls that are just as soft as they look, following them down and around until he stops, palm wide on Allen's jaw. He rubs this thumb slowly underneath the rim of Allen's glasses, and then he's leaning the rest of the way forward, Allen's lips chapped but soft under his own. It’s electrifying in a different way, something addicting in the way Allen responds immediately, tilting his head to the side, giving as good as he gets.

Allen's fingers curl against Michael's cheek, and Michael holds him still as he kisses him deeper, pushing forward until they're pressed together chest to knees.

“These are in the way,” Michael says, still close enough that their noses brush together. He frees both his hands to pull away Allen's glasses, folding them carefully and setting them on the small table by the door.

Allen simply watches him, looking delectable with his lips kissed red and hair in further disarray. Michael can see his eyes better, now, that pretty, deep ocean blue nearly swallowed by the size of his pupils.

He pushes back, eager, when Michael kisses him again, and he goes willingly when Michael walks him backwards, stepping between each other's feet until they reach the bed, Allen falling to sit on the edge.

He looks up at Michael, who shifts so both his hands are tangled in his curls, cupping the back of his head with one.

“Stay the night?” he asks, his other hand running through Allen's hair in slow, repetitive motions, and Allen smiles at him, something sweet and sensual in the way his lips curl. He runs his hands down Michael's sides, coming to a rest on his hips.

“I was hoping you'd ask,” he says, and tugs on Michael's hips until he leans down close enough for Allen to kiss him, slow, building, promising.