By Definition: A Story about Dreaming A { TEXT-DECORATION: none }

Title: By Definition
Author: Nes
Email: spitfireness@yahoo.com
Spoilers: First season up through "Heatwave," I think. I could be wrong:)
Notes: This was my first fic and took over a year to complete. And this is actual semi-edited version. Whew. That makes feedback extra special.
Category: Alternate Universe, Conventional couples, focus on M&M.
Disclaimer: Me don't own nothing but Sra. Clarke. Roswell belongs to Melinda Metz, Jason Katims, etc. "Untitled" poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay. Other disclaimers as situations occur.

Ashes in Their Eyes

Liz could barely make out her best friend's growling over the sound of the rag on the wet counter.

"Maria," she stepped up and tapped her gently,"you don't have to rub so violently. Look, clean! See!" She held up the finger she had rubbed on the countertop.

"Maria?"

"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight-"

"Okay, too creepy," Liz took the rag out of Maria's hands and sat with her at the counter. Liz and Maria had closed the Crashdown after Midnight before, so the emptiness wasn't an unusual thing. She lived upstairs, the Crashdown was home...but there was something scary about the whole situation. Maria was growling. But her best friend was not a growler, Maria was a "throw them against the wall with verbal assault" sort of girl. But lately, Maria was getting quiet.

Between the Marionettes of the Four Corners Convention and the usual dinner crowd there wasn't exactly time small talk, but Liz missed the light banter that made closing time fly by.

She put her arms around the blonde, laying Maria's head against her breast. She could feel the tears swell and gather on her uniform and it hurt. Liz felt old, she tightened her embrace and place a kiss on Maria's brow. No one so small should hold so many tears.

Liz had done her fair amount of crying lately. Max Evans, sweet guy with a chip on his shoulder about the size of, oh, ET. She could hardly say his name outloud anymore. She loved him so much and she'd been so sure he loved her -he'd saved her life. But strangers saved other strangers lives everyday...

"And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered-"

"I remember that. The Millay from English early this year." Liz remembered Alex's melodramatic reading in the cafeteria. God, how she missed laughing. "I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.'

"Do you think she knew about Czechoslovakians?"

Maria quirked her eyebrow, the first expression Liz had seen in two days. "Only you, Liz." Maria unexpectedly began to shiver, her giggles shaking the booth."

"Hey, I got you to stop growling, right?"

"I love you, Liz." She hugged her best friend. "I am so happy I have you." She brightened. "Hey, do you remember in the in the sixth grade -that sleepover. We were dreaming of our perfect men. Do you remember that we wanted foreign, exotic hotties?"

Both girls shared an abrupt spark of hysterical laughter and sighed.

***

Alex took a breath and walked up to the girls at the lockers. So weird, he'd known Maria and Liz forever. Now he had to prep himself to greet them. The past few months had been so weird. There that word was again.

"Parker, DeLuca," he nodded his head. Their eyes were red. A few months' awkwardness wasn't enough to suppress his instincts. Putting one arm around each, he hugged them close. His instincts told him they weren't crying because of allergies. He steered them towards the quad outside and sat them down beneath a tree. He knelt down in front of them, voice soft, "Please. I know we've had a time lately, but please. I'm still Alex and you're still my girls. Tell me what's wrong."

Liz looked up at him. Her face was shadowed, her mouth dragged at a tired angle. Maria was much the same. There were ashes in their eyes.

And then he knew. He brushed his hand against Maria's cheek, "No, you don't need to say anything."

***

From an upstairs classroom, a young girl was brushing her golden hair behind her ear and holding the blinds open at the same time. Not many people would ever call Isabel Evans a young girl, but despite the classic beauty and strength, she was only sixteen. Young. For a human.

Maybe her people had different lifespans. Maybe she was going to die in a year. Maybe she'd live to see a thousand. Isabel had no idea.

So maybe it was best it wasn't the years that mattered. Maybe it was the quality of life, the light of it all. She closed the blinds and her eyes, laid against the plaster wall.

Too many grown up thoughts.

"I have a thing for Alex Whitman." There -a declaration. That wasn't grown up at all.

"Isabel!" God, it was them again. After so much intelligent company with Liz, Maria and...oh, lord, Alex...she didn't know how much longer she could stand this. "Isabel, did you see what Cindy is wearing today? Designer rip-off. And what kind of name is Cindy anyhow? Can you say eighties?" Fingers ending in pink acrylic grabbed Isabel's purse and tugged towards the cafeteria, "Ohmigod, this is so cute!"

***

Michael shut his eyes and let his hand graze his jacket pocket. The little lump there was comforting. It reminded him of Maria. God, DeLuca. He opened his eyes and focused on the canvas before him. He brought his hand up and with swift strokes he brushed in her chin. God, her pert little chin. Even her chin could send him happy vibes. DeLuca was a vibrator and he knew that if he ever stopped concentrating he would just fall and fall.

Michael Guerin was swept off his feet.

He landed face down in a pile of stained smocks. Rubbing his jaw he found himself against the door of the art studio.

"What the hell?"

Alex Whitman was holding him a good five inches off the ground and close to tearing his favorite shirt.

***

Having escaped the Pit of Vapidity that was Courtenay, Sienna, and Delora, Isabel jumped into the front back of the jeep. Michael was already in front and she could see Michael at the other end of the lot. "Hurry it up, Guerin! Lunch is only an hour," she yelled. "Salsa is so hip, grey is, like, the new black," She grumbled under her breath. She needed angry music. Reaching into the glove compartment for her Tori Amos cd, Isabel looked at Max. He was quiet, but usually he said hi. "Hey, big brother, what's with the -oh no, did Kyle's friends come after you again cause if they did-" She stopped her tirade to look at his cheek.

At the handprint on his cheek. Michael jumped in front while Isabel healed it.

Tersely, Max said, "Let's go."

When they'd cleared the school parking lot, Isabel said again,"Max. Who slapped you? Liz? I don't think Liz would even yell at you. Maria! She's all- oh, she's gonna pay! Nobody slaps my family around!"

"Alex."

"What?" Isabel looked at Michael, confused.

In return, Michael looked at Max and said,"He got you, too."

Introductions and Whipping Boys

Alex put his laden tray down on the bench. "Look, chocolate." His best friends weren't girls for nothing. He'd snuck out of class and raided the vending machines in the teacher's lounge during third hour.

Maria brightened, "Special Dark!"

Liz cut in while she unwrapped the creamy bar from the foil wrapping. Slowly, as if in worship. "Where did you get these? They don't sell them in the student vending machines only in the- Oh, Alex!" Liz wrapped her arms around her friend. She didn't know how she'd gotten through the past few months without her goofy, but incredibly wonderful friend.

Alex smiled and then guffawed as Maria licked the palm of her hand, "What!!! It was melting. Stupid New Mexico weather. Almost as stupid as -eeep!"

Liz's face had paled again. Alex turned around and saw Isabel Evans heading for them.

***

Isabel clenched her jaw when she saw Alex stand up. She couldn't help but admire the way -agh, stop, this boy beat Max and Michael. And she didn't know why, they'd both clammed up.

He grabbed her arm in a firm but gentle grip and led her to the eraser room.

She regained her voice. "So what, you're gonna beat me up, too?"

Oh, great. He hadn't even considered Isabel when he'd gone after Max and Michael. "No, Isabel, I just- they got...they made Liz and Maria cry."

She paused, strangely touched. "Yeah, so..."

"Isabel, they're like sisters to me. They've never cried like that before-"

"You've never seen them cry?"

"No, of course I've seen them cry. But not like this. It was like they were broken. Liz, she has those eye, doe eyes, you know. Soft and gentle. Maria, she's got lightning in her eyes. That wasn't them this morning."

"So you beat up my brother and Michael?"

"They broke their hearts, Isabel. They deserved it."

Isabel was surprised. She would never have guess Alex had it in him. A little jealous. "Okay." She took a breath. "Do you think they'll want to see me? For a little womanly support?"

"Sure, but I thought you left school for lunch."

"Usually, but I saw the handprint on Max's face and I made him turn around."

"Oh. But they left again, right?"

"No they decided to eat -oh, no."

Alex grabbed Isabel's hand and bolted back towards the sad girls he'd left behind.

***

Max and Michael sat behind a tree across the quad from their ex-semi-girlfriends, watching Isabel approach. Each wishing they could join the group with the same ease.

"Man, this is stupid."

"Calm down, Michael. We can't go over there. It's better this way.

"I don't even know why we let Whitman go all wild bunch on us." Max didn't bother to answer. They both knew that it wasn't just because Maria and Liz wouldn't take kindly to Alex being thrown across a room into a chair. Or even because Isabel might be upset by it. It had to do with guilt -like maybe they deserved it.

"Dude, I'm out. You want to butter up Liz, that's your deal."

Max watched his best friend stalk away. He wondered if Michael thought denial was going to make the ache dull.

***

Why did I bother coming to school today? Oh, right, to show Blondie she didn't affect him. Right? Michael shook his head and headed for his locker, he needed to focus on something else. He needed to read a book.

When he reached his locker he realized he couldn't remember his combination. Checking the hall for people and finding it empty, he passed his hand over the lock in an attempt to unlock it.

"Hot damn!" Michael sucked his hand and stalked away from his locker and the lock he'd melted to it.

What am I supposed to do now? I don't feel like walking home. I'm sure not going to class. Where in the high school was he supposed to find a decent read?

In a flash of brilliance, Michael hightailed it to the library.

After five wrong turns, he finally found it in a corner of the second floor. Having never been there before he wasn't sure what to do. He wasn't even sure what to do. He hated being helpless.

He guessed he must have looked confused because a teacher-type woman in her forties approached him.

"Book. I'm looking for a book."

"Okay, what are you looking for?"

"I don't know. Do I need a library card?"

The woman laughed but not in a condescending way. It was a sharing sort of laughter, unconditional. She explained the workings of the Roswell High library as she led him to a study carroll with a compter in it.

Sitting down before the keyboard, she looked up, "So, made up your mind?"

"I was thinking Joyce. Ulysses?"

"Let's see." She hit a few keys, "I hate to say it but all the copies are checked out."

"Oh." Disappointment fitted easily on his ever-brooding face.

"It's on the reading list for one of the freshman classes. Most of them aren't even reading it. They just check it out and forget to turn it back in. Oh, well, more fines for me!" She smiled, looking as if she didn't really mind. "Tell you what, you look like a nice young man, I'll lend you my copy if you agree to chat with an old biddy for a while, okay?"

"You're not old," Michael blurted out. And it was true, she was forty-seven at most. He had the grace to look embarassed. No one, not even the Evanses, had ever called him a nice young man. He was off guard. Yeh, that was it. And she wasn't like Topolsky offering something for nothing. A chat -harmless enough. He did want the book after all. And he doubted that Alex, Liz, or any of the others would come to the library.

She led him to the front of the library. Her office didn't have walls, per se. They were there, but they were made of glass. Blinds could be drawn on all sides for privacy. He liked it. There was a also a nice desk, computer, stereo, bookshelves, and television. Elegant beige wallpaper -no flowers or ribbon or anything. There were also several diplomas and framed pieces of art. He decided it was nice. Understated.

She gestured to one of the burgundy overstuffed armchairs in front of the desk and disappeared into a back room. When she came back bearing chocolate mint cake and green tea, she sat in the other armchair not behind the desk.

"I'm Ms. Clarke, the media specialist." She held out her hand and noticed his firm grip. She couldn't have known how rare it was for him to engage in casual contact. That she was only the second human who'd touched him. Hank smacking him around didn't count. "Help yourself to some cake. If you don't like tea, I can get some pop from the faculty vending machine."

"No, don't. Tea's good. Thanks." Why was this woman being so nice?

"If you'll just excuse me for a moment, you'll find Ulysses on the top shelf." she ducked out and Michael drew himself up from the wonderfully comfortable chair.

Hardcover. Beautiful. Old. First edition. He was clutching it so hard when she came back he didn't notice what she was carryied in.

"You're really going to let me borrow this? It must be worth...," his eyes widened as he thought about it.

"All books are worth fortunes." She smiled. "You must think I'm kooky."

"No." And oddly enough, he was being honest.

She handed him a generous slice of cake and then did something so shocking that Michael nearly forgot this person being so kind to him for no reason.

"You like tabasco sauce on your cake?"

Laughing at herself, "Leftover from pregnancy urges. But better this than the mungo bean tacos. Have you ever tried tabasco on ice cream? Heaven."

Oh, that was okay then. He waited for his heart to slow, he thought, just maybe she'd be- but Ms. Clarke was already a miracle. "Well, if you like it, I'll try." Happily, he smothered his chocolate cake with spicy sauce.

"I knew it! I was right about you!"

Oh, lord, she couldn't be with the FBI-

"I knew you were a good boy!"

He calmed and didn't flinch at being called boy.

"I have a proposition for you." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Look, I need an aide. Not like a hearing aid, but a student helper. Usually, they have to be seniors. But there's just something about you...What was your name?"

"Michael. Michael Guerin."

"Guerin? Scotch extraction? Anyhow, the senior thing is silly. Once you get them properly trained, they leave. What grade are you in? Eleventh?"

"I'm a sophomore."

"Better and better! Anyhow, the job isn't too strenuous. There's already Mrs. Harris and she pretty much controls the computers and A/V equipment. Ms. Jeson," she tiltled her head towards the backroom where she'd gotten the cake and tabasco, "takes cares of xeroxing and cataloging. I pretty much need you to lift things and run errands. And to keep me company."

"I don't know...I'm not usually at school."

She smiled. "Playing hard to get, are we, Michael? Did I mention the free food? All the tabasco and cake you can eat? Plus, the books. And its a quiet place to get away, no one will bother you here. You want to research on the net, you research. Magazines and microfilche, all yours. Videos, records."

Oh, geez. A quiet place with no memories of Maria or the others. No Hank. A refuge. How could he turn this down?

"Okay, last offer. Free run of the art supplies and xerox machines. All the copying you could want. No, you're sixteen, that's not very appealing. Hmmm, hall passes. If you need to get away, come here, I'll excuse you from class."

"Can you do that?" How the hell had this fallen into his lap?

"Sweetheart, I've been at this school longer than the last three principals." Her eyes twinkled, "And my brother's on the school board."

"Yes. Yes. I'll do it."

"Great." She took a bite of cake, then frowned. "Oh, there is one thing I can't get around, though. I need a teacher recommendation. Just one. I'm sure you'll have no problem getting it."

He gulped. Who would give him a recommendation? What was he taking? Art. He'd at least showed up for art during his geodesic dome obsession. The warning bell rang for class. In fact, he had class right now. Besides, he liked to loiter there. It felt good, distracting. He'd been there this morning when-

He jumped up, "Hey, Ms. Clarke. Thanks. A lot. I mean it. But I gotta get to class now, okay. When do you need the recommendation."

"Tomorrow would be fine. Then you could start next week. But come visit before then if you're not busy, okay?"

He nodded his head. Anything for this woman. A refuge. Grabbing Ulysses and waving goodbye, Michael Guerin set out for art class.

Maria sped into the Crashdown parking, nearly fishtailing. Grabbing her backpack from the passenger seat she went through the employees entrance and dressed before someone noticed she was five minutes late.

Liz wasn't working the after school shift so Table Six was hers.

"Hey, guys, what can I get you?" She smiled at Isabel and Alex. She looked at Max unemotionally, proud she had not stuck her tongue out at him. Maria knew Max was really a sweet guy who was trying to do things right, but he was still a jerk.

"Root beer."

"Alien blast."

"Where's Liz?" Max looked as if he hadn't meant to say that outloud. "I'll have cherry coke."

She took pity. "She's still at school. Some extra credit biology lab or something." She left out the part where he was in her bio class, why didn't he know?

"Oh. I was, uh, hoping she knew where Michael was."

Maria left the table, sparing him the question of how likely that was.

***

Liz was, in fact, finishing a presentation on recent microcellular innovations. It was nice, she decided, to be alone and focus. Humming, she decided she needed to spruce up her board. Some paint. Red.

She headed to the art room, still humming. It was good to be alone sometimes. Soothing.

***

Michael sat before an empty easel. He'd made a deal with Mr. Hinds to come to class everyday for the rest of the year and turn in one assignment. With the stipulation: no domes. Michael smiled. He would have agreed to do all the assignment in exhange for the refuge. He was really liking the sound of that word. Refuge. That was like 'home.' Maybe it would be better than 'Maria' with time.

But his dilemma was the assignment. He figured he'd might as well get it over with. The assignment was an extrapolation. You were supposed to pick two people and draw what the offspring would look like. He thought of Max and Liz but the obvious dark beauty of such a child didn't inspire him. Besides, who knew if it was even physiologically possible. This, of course, led to him and Maria. A verboten topic if ever there was one.

He'd doodled during class. He picked Sienna Mitchell, one of Isabel's friends, and Lloyd Carson, the token class geek. While fun, the results had been a freak.

It was hot. Wiping the sweat off his brow, Michael noticed the green and red paint smeared on his arm. His leather jacket was safely slung over the stool behind him.

Maybe he could-

And for the second time that day, Michael Guerin found himself on his back.

Little Liz Parker stood above him, breathing fire.

"Can't you people leave me alone! You're everywhere!"

He picked himself up, "Geez, Liz. Chill."

"Chill? Chill? You! You Czechoslovakian heartbreaker!"

"Maybe you've been spending too much time with Maria. I never thought you'd need to be declawed," he sneered.

"How dare you say her name? How dare you?" Liz withdrew her venemous glare, looking around for something to throw.

"Liz!" He ducked the paint she threw. "Calm down! I didn't do anything to you, Max did. And then he couldn't yell anymore because he was trying not to be hit by the textbooks and folios she was throwing. God, she had aim.

"You!" She'd run out of ammo and, apparently, insulting modifiers.

"Don't make me your whipping boy, Liz!"

Her eyes blazed in indignation, "Oh, you think this is for my benefit. Oh, no, this is all for Maria. You used her. You didn't even like her! You didn't even know what you were doing. How many levels you were hurting her on?"

"Oh, yeah, she's a victim. Like she's ever been rejected before!"

Then her voice dropped to a dead simmer, "You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Whatever, go make cow eyes at Maximilian or something, okay, earth girl."

With one last burst of rage, Liz lifted Michael's leather jacket off the table and threw it at his face. More concerned with it getting stained with paint than anything, he put out his hand to catch it.

But Liz hadn't used enough force. It fell between them, and a little bottle of cypress oil rolled out of his pocket to rest at Liz's feet.

Won't You Please Arrest My Foster Father?

Michael closed his eyes and willed the damned thing to stop rolling. No such luck. So Michael did what he did best, he ran.

And as he ran he imagined Liz telling Maria how pathetic he was. Maria would, of course, toss her soft fair hair over her shoulder, and parade her new boyfriend in front of him. Life was cruel.

He'd never meant to carry it. He hadn't even planned to buy it. But it smelled like Maria. Sweet-mouthed, hyperventilating Maria. No matter how rarely he said the name outloud, it felt so good to roll it around in his mind.

Michael shivered, he'd left his jacket back at the high school. He never should have been there anyway. He wasn't going to walk back now. Not because he didn't want to face Liz "Xena" Parker, but because he just didn't want to bother.

"Mickey! Hey, Mickey!" A portly man called at him from a doorway.

God, he hated to be called Mickey. Must be one of Hank's friends.

"Hank's boy! Get over here, come get your father!"

And there was something he hated even worse.

Nevertheless, he stomped over to the guy standing in the doorway, naturally, of a bar. Also, naturally, a patrol car was parked in front of the bar.

"Mickey, he's too drunk. There was a brawl, but Hank was too far gone to do anything but pass out. I need you to take him home."

Home. It took him a minute to associate the words 'home' and 'Hank.'

"Yeah, sure," he answered gruffly and pushed his way inside. The place was a mess. Sure, it had probably never been a five star joint but...there was glass everywhere. Splinters of wood and broken bar stools littered the floor. Gingerly, he worked his way to the lump that was his sorry foster father. Grunting, he called out, "Hey, can I get some help here."

"Guerin?" Oh, yes, the sheriff. What a completely perfect night.

"Sir, I'm just taking my foster father home. Not able to drive and all. Unless, of course, you need to arrest him?" Michael figured he could dream

"No, that's okay." Valenti looked around for a uniform, "Owens, help the boy."

Odd. Valenti usually took every chance to pester him and the Evans' children. Instead, Valenti was preoccupied with a sobbing woman. She was small, and he was being unexpectedly gentle with-

Dear lord, it was Amy DeLuca.

And she was wasted. Valenti had one arm around her, the other was awkwardly patting her shoulder in attempt at comfort. "Amy -Ms. DeLuca, you shouldn't be here. This is not," Valenti squirmed, "an appropriate establishment for a lady."

Amy was still sobbing. Michael couldn't help but stare and listen. He'd assumed she would be at home with her daughter.

"I can't go home, Jim. I can't." She clung to the Sheriff. "I can't face her. Can't look at her without thinking of him. She has his eyes, his laugh." The woman moaned and called out to the bartender for another beer.

The sheriff shook his head no to the bartender, looked up, and locked eyes with Michael. "Shouldn't you be going?"

Michael lugged Hank into the truck with the help of the deputy. Driving to the trailer park, Michael remembered Liz's cold anger and Maria's revelation in the nookie hotel.

Her father had left.

And though Maria hadn't told him, he recognized the look in her eyes. She blamed herself. As if she hadn't been worth it. Her father didn't want her, so he ran.

Which, Michael realized, didn't make them so different in her eyes.

That's when the ache really began to set in.

***

After realizing his presence might not be the best thing, Max left Isabel and Alex in the booth at the Crashdown.

Isabel realized they had made a connection today, however tenuous. So, rather than leave with Max, as Alex expected, she asked him about his music.

"So, do you still play the guitar?"

He was surprised she knew. "Yeah, I've got pipe dreams." He took a sip of soda. "I really want to start a garage band. Since junior high, really."

"Oh, why haven't you?"

"The garage band, preferably, would have more than one member."

"I play a mean triangle."

Alex laughed, heads turned. The gossip would be hot tomorrow, Isabel Evans was talking to Alex Whitman. Not coldly, or in my-brother-ex-girlfriend's-best friend capacity, but in an almost date-like environment.

"Seriously, I'd like a drummer. And a bassist. I'd be lead guitar, of course?"

"And singing, too?"

He sighed and looked at their waitress, "I was holding out for Maria."

She arched an eyebrow, "Maria?"

"Voice like an angel. Cliche, but true."

"Maria?"

"You'd never guess, would you? She's taken vocal lessons her whole life and yet has managed to keep this raw, uncontrived color to her voice. She rarely sings, though. She's got a bad case of audience-fear."

"Maria? Fear?"

"Or maybe it's more like she's shy. I knew Maria three years before I even saw her dance."

"Maria? Dance?"

Alex snorted, "Echo much?"

"Sorry, it's a little hard to digest. She's never seemed very graceful."

"Its different when she's dancing or singing. She doesn't really perform. She does it for art's sake. She gets caught up, not like she's lost, but like..."

Isabel nodded,"It sounds beautiful." And then she did something daring, she put her hand on top of his.

Alex cheered inwardly, "It is. It's how I feel when I play. When I play, I feel strong-"

Alex choked.

Isabel rushed to him on the other side of the booth and smacked his back, "Are you okay?"

"Better than okay! Lightning hit!"

"What?"

"It's the answer. For Maria. She needs to dance and sing again."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely, it's got to be better than rebounding or sniffing her oils or denial. Trust me, its therapeutic. We can't force her into forgetting Michael. I'm not sure I'd want her to. I just know I can't stand that look anymore."

"Okay, so what's the plan?" She leaned in and he squeezed her hand.

***

"And so you see with the research of Dr. Keller in biodmedical ultrasonics...," Liz was on total autopilot. She had worked her shift at the Crashdown and finished her presentation until six the next morning after Michael had ran out on her. She was still in shock. She really thought Michael didn't care about her best friend. All through her walk to the general store for red paint (she, too, had fled) and back, she had wondered what was going on. Was this a Czechoslovakian quirk? Leave the ones you love? No, wait, she was being too gentle. Run over the hearts of the ones you love with a Mack truck and then let lemmings eat the leftover bits, just to be sure. Liz shuddered, maybe she was being too graphic. But she was bitter, she could, be graphic. It was allowed.

"Liz?"

"What?" Then Liz realized that she had finished speaking a minute ago but was still standing in front of the class. "Oh, class." She rushed to her seat beside Max.

"Hey," he whispered, "are you okay?"

"Fine." Monosyllabism was also allowed.

"Okay, hey, Liz...," he hesitated. "You did a really great job."

She softened, he really was trying, "Thanks." Lifting her head, she let a smile loose. Let him handle that, she smirked inwardly.

Shyly, Max smiled back.

***

"Mr. Guerin, I see we're keeping our bargain."

"Yes, sir. You're still going to give me the recommendation, right?"

"Let's hear about the assignment first." Mr. Hinds sat down while Michael paced before him.

"I want to do the extrapolation. Only different. What if I were to draw a parent based on the image of the child and the other parent."

"Clarify."

"Well, say, I drew the mother based on the father and son. Studied the son and father and kind of fill in the blanks," he looked at Mr. Hinds for approval. The teacher thought about it for awhile before pulling a crisp piece of school letterhead out of his desk, "I like it, Michael. I want results within the week though. A sketch, at least."

Michael clutched the recommendation; this was his key to refuge.

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. Hinds called out as Michael ran out the door towards the library, "Keep it up, you might just pass!"

Then he sat back and smiled. Who was he kidding? Guerin was headed for an A. He wondered about the sudden change, he'd never heard the boy utter a pleasantry before. Then he decided whatever it was, he was glad Michael finally had something happen to him.

***

When Michael entered the library he found Ms. Clarke carrying a cardboard moving box into her office.

"Hi, Michael. There's cookies and tabasco in the back. Help yourself. Is that my recommendation?"

"Yes, ma'am." He put the paper down and took the box out of her hands.

"Thank you. I'm just doing a little redecorating. Taking down the diplomas and putting up some art. I like change now and then. Go ahead and open the box, since you'll be spending so much time here you might as well have input."

Michael opened the box on the floor and lifted out the first painting, a reproduction of The Last Supper. Too heavy for the room, he decided before placing it carefully on the floor.

"Wow." The second painting incredible. Old, but not yellowed. Paint, but not oil. And it wasn't framed, it was on a wood panel. The picture itself was amateurish, and the subject absurd -a whimsical giraffe in a cityscape, but the medium was breathtaking.

"My father painted that."

"What did he use?"

"Ah? Mind hungry, are we?" She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. "I see you're in Mr. Hind's art class."

Usually when someone found out, they asked to see him work and acted insulted when he refused.

"Maybe one day you'll feel comfortable enough with me to let me see."

He smiled.

"Anyhow, its tempera. Egg tempera."

"Like from chickens?"

"Yes. It's a very old technique, the Egyptians used it. Boticelli used it. The artist, or the apprentices, makes the paints himself. With pigment, water, and yolk. My father made his own. It's an arduous process, but in my father's opinion, breathtaking. A labor of love. You see, you need to have an ink underpainting, and gesso. And you can't use canvas. Wood panels or it'll crack. My father made his own panels, too. That way, the work was completely his own creation."

Michael could tell this was special. The painting was beautiful, as if it had been shined with silk. "How come I've never seen one before?"

"As I said, its difficult. Oil paints are more convenient. Its only enjoyed its revival in the twentieth century, you can buy the ground pigment in the stores now, but only in limited colors. My father always used his own."

A labor of love.

"Do you think I could learn?"

She looked at him seriously, mulling it over before she answered. "Michael Guerin, I think you do what you wish."

He smirked charmingly and as he considered, the smirk curved into a sincere smile.

This would be his medium. Egg tempera. Not oil, or charcoal. From his own hands, with his whole self. A labor of love. A work that he could focus on. Neither vision induced or using his powers. A labor of love. This would be the way he painted Maria's father.

In The Studio

Three weeks later.

***

Isabel Evans, Ice Queen Extraordinaire, could feel her heart race as she took a mental survey of her surroundings. When the footsteps faded behind her, she collapsed against the doorframe in relief.

"Gee, Is, chill. It was just my mom," Alex was lounging comfortably on his bed with a magazine.

"Exactly, Alex. Your mom. I've never met her before. I'm a girl. You're a boy. I'm coming to see you. You don't understand. Mothers have, like radar."

"Radar. I assure you my mother does not suspect that you're 'not of this earth.'"

"I'm not good enough for your son radar."

He smiled gently and took her hand. "Is, you're gorgeous, intelligent, the only thing my mom is thinking is, how I got you here."

"Well, no one else would give me guitar lessons," she purred coyly before leaning in for a kiss.

Alex's kiss was smooth and tender. She opened her mouth a fraction, letting his hot breath flow into her. He knew she'd been kissed by other guys before but not that she'd never really kissed back. Isabel thought she should tell him, did so, and was rewarded with another kiss.

"Minx," he whispered soft into her ear. "You are gorgeous -but where'd you hide the triangle?" He looked up and down her body, she was sheathed in a red sundress and her hair was down. She wore a lot more red now.

Isabel settled against him on the bed, idly fingering the strings of his guitar. Opening up to Alex had been so easy once the first spar was cast. True, she wasn't open with everyone, but security was something new to her. He wasn't there because of urgent and dangerous obligation, but because he wanted to be...

"I don't understand how they did it."

Alex waited, knowing she had to work out the words.

"How they left Liz and Maria. Now that I know how things can be so right."

He hugged her tight to him, "Max and Liz haven't really left each other. They still love and make googly eyes, you know. Or would know if you weren't so busy making googly eyes at me."

She laughed, then sobered. "But what about Maria, I've seen her maybe three times in the last few weeks. And that was at the Crashdown."

She's coping. I was right about the dancing and singing, you know. She's at school right now. Sometimes, I hear her singing when she thinks no one is listening."

"God," Isabel said. "I don't understand why Michael refuses to be with her."

"She's not the only one he's refusing. I can't remember the last time I saw the brooding one."

/Shift/

Michael is in the dessert, near caves. The sun is at apex but he doesn't notice. He is concentrating on color. Closing his eyes, he sees her hair. Lemon, maybe a little darker. The strands vary in shade but never in softness. Smiling, he pulls out a folded pencil sketch. He remembers her mother's words, the same eyes. He is searching for pigments in the place that was, in a sense, his birthplace. He will search everywhere to find the perfect colors.

/Shift/

Maria is wearing a backless black leotard and stretching in an empty studio. These are motions her body knows from before heartache. Limbering slowly, her muscles respond vaguely to a tape she has not played in a year. Before heartache.

/Shift/

Eight coats of gesso were applied to the panel painstakingly. He has to be cautious. The panels were difficult to make, he cannot afford a mistake. And this painting must be perfect. Tacking the folded sketch to the wall, he begins the ink underpainting.

/Shift/

Maria closes her eyes to feel rhythm. She moves mechanically at first across the stage. Breathing steadily, her back is arched, moving on feet and hands. Slowly, it comes back to her. A third across the stage she rises up and remembers what it is to be absorbed by the dance. The music loves her if no one else does.

/Shift/

The strokes are coming now. Sunlight entering the studio in beams of gold. He steps back and corrects an ear. The painting must be perfect but not the man. He is, after all, human. He alternates glaze and paint, it must be perfect. There are no intrusions, nothing to mar his labor of love. Every line must be perfect.

/Shift/

Spinning and leaping, Maria does not realize her eyes are still closed. With each step and stretch, she becomes riverlike. Her body rolls and ebbs. She runs her hands through her hair. She can't stop. When Maria opens her eyes, she's broken clear.

/Shift/

He stares at the panel. His arms are stiff from careful posturing. But it is worth it. The painting is perfect. Every shadow in its place. Afraid to leave it in the studio, but afraid to move it, the painting rises and lays flat on a nearby table. Michael blinks in surprise. Curious, he narrows his eyes. Cardboard egg cartons jump into the trashcan. He touches the palette, suddenly, it's clean of paint. Smiling now, he reaches for an x-acto knife and slices the palm of his right hand. He places his left hand over it, feels heat, and it is healed.

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