#kee i hope this is ok!! i can rewrite it if it suxxxx

[set-phasers-to-whump]

first you get hurt, then you feel sorry

ok so i dont get how max evans aka mr. guilt could have learned that Important Info from sheriff valenti and then like.....not talked about it or anything?? so heres me fixing it, i think this is going to be like multiple parts which ive never really done so,,,,,we will see anyway @deepwoundsandfadedscars thank u for being patient with me lol, hope this is ok!! the title is from first by cold war kids (this is set idk like somewhere in a free moment between like 2x09 and 2x12)

Isobel leans into the familiar warmth of her brother’s side. It’s been a wild couple days, and she thinks she’s probably lucky to get any break from it at all. They’re in the park, and it’s nearly sundown, so it’s virtually empty, apart from the two of them sitting quietly on a bench. 

Isobel breaks the comfortable silence between them-she can’t help it, she just has to know the details of Max’s arrest, so she says, “how was prison?” nudging Max with her shoulder and grinning. “Get any tattoos? Join a gang?”

Max sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Isobel turns to her brother and really looks at him-he’s been a little off recently, and there’s a look in his eyes that she knows, and hates, and hates that she knows. Guilt. She frowns and waits for him to speak.

But Max just stares at his feet, saying nothing. Naturally, Isobel presses. “Seriously, Max. I mean, Michael’s got his fair share of drunk-tank stories, but I wanna hear from you. I am the only one of us who’s never been arrested now.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” Max snaps. Isobel leans away a little, holding up her hands. “Okay, sorry,” she replies, only growing more curious about Max’s brief stint behind bars. 

He sighs again, closing his eyes. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“It’s fine Max, I’m not gonna rip it out of you or anything. I just thought maybe you’d want to talk about it.”

Max makes a hmming sound, leaning his head onto Isobel’s shoulder. After a few minutes of slightly charged silence, he speaks. 

“Before she officially arrested me, Sheriff Valenti...said some things. I didn’t believe her, I didn’t want to believe her...but...I think she’s right. About me.”

Isobel doesn’t press this time, no matter how badly she wants to, as Max takes a breath and runs a lightly shaking hand through his hair. She grabs the hand, runs her fingers across it soothingly, and waits for him to continue. 

“She told me, the day our parents came to the home, that it...it wasn’t Michael who was screaming and drawing the symbol on the walls. It was me.”

“But Michael-“

“Took the crayon from me, and then our parents came into the room, and saw him, and I guess they assumed it was his drawing on the wall. But it was me, Isobel. Me. I’m the reason Michael was left behind. It should have been me. He’s-it’s my fault.”

Isobel takes a second to process-she doesn't want to think about why this makes sense, not now. So she focuses on the things she knows: that they had been seven years old, strangers to everything in the world except each other, unable to speak, unable to truly understand. She can’t help but wonder, for a second, why her and Max’s parents hadn’t...what, taken the time to consider that Michael having the crayon in his hand didn’t necessarily mean that he’d been the one to deface the walls? But it’s not like she remembers that day-none of them do, so it’s not like she can say what went through the Evanses minds. Not like it matters now, anyway. 

“We were seven and didn’t know how to communicate with them, Max. There wasn’t a lot you could have done. I mean, you don’t even remember this happening.”

Max shakes his head, sniffs. “It doesn’t matter. Once we could speak, I should have done something. Told them they should’ve taken Michael instead, confessed, I don’t know.”

“Max, you don’t remember that day. You couldn’t have confessed, even if you’d wanted to.”

“Maybe. But...Michael went through hell, while you and I led perfect little lives. We had each other, we had a family. Michael had no one.”

“Michael had us,” Isobel points out. “We have always been a family, Max, even if we were separated.”

Max stands up. “No, we weren’t!” he snaps. “Michael was alone. Because of me!”

Isobel stands, too, placing a hand on her brother’s arm. “No amount of blaming yourself for the past is going to change it. And yeah, okay, maybe you were the ‘troubled child,’ and not Michael. That doesn’t make it your fault that he...that he was left behind.”

Max smiles, that sad, angry smile of his, and sucks in a breath. “Isn’t it my fault, though? Our whole lives, I’ve tried to protect the two of you. But now-I’m the one that put Michael in danger in the first place. He could’ve grown up happy, loved, with a real family and a house and...and a twin sister, and I stole that from him before we could talk!”

He collapses back onto the bench, burying his face in his hands, like that will stop Isobel from noticing the light trembling in his shoulders and his hands, or the way he’s taking these small breaths like he’s afraid, suddenly, to make any noise.

She sits next to him again, turns to face him, and gently places her hands over his, pulling them away from his face and into her lap. She continues holding on as she speaks, thinking carefully about what she needs to say. 

“Maybe,” she starts, “maybe that’s true. Maybe Michael and I could have been the Evans twins. Maybe he would have grown up in a better situation. Maybe. Or maybe, all three of us would have been split up. Maybe Michael and you would have been left to the system. You can’t change the past, Max, and you can’t know what would have happened if you could.”

She pauses, takes a breath, wipes away a tear of her own. “I know it hurts, to realize that there are things in your past which have hurt other people, but you have to accept those things as part of you. You were an abandoned, angry kid, and you screamed and you drew on the walls, and Michael took the blame for it. You can’t change that. But you can talk to Michael, or our parents. Just...figure out how you can accept this, and forgive yourself for it.”

Max pulls his hands out of Isobel’s, scrubs the tears from his face. “Okay,” he says finally, quietly. “I’ll talk to Michael, maybe Mom and Dad.” He manages a small smile, and leans forward to hug his sister. Isobel quickly wraps her arms around him, resting a hand softly in his hair. “I know you will,” she says. “You’ll work this out, Max.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding like he maybe half believes it. Isobel smiles a little, pulling Max closer, letting his head rest on her shoulder. She’ll take that half-belief. It's a start, at least. 

i hope this was ok!! if it sucks lmk and i wont write more parts but idk im kinda liking this?? hope the finale doesnt like. screw things up too badly lol

#roswell new mexico #max evans #emotional whump #my writing #i say things #this is barely whumpy at all but whatever!! too bad #kee i hope this is ok!! i can rewrite it if it suxxxx #i dont think i like my title but whatever #max has been hurt and now he feels bad for what hes learnt so. it fits