Another Life (Memory, Dream)
By Kara (AnyaLindir@aol.com)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to "285 South", still one of the best Candy episodes
Summary: On a dark night, Michael struggles with memories of a life that he'd long forgotten
Disclaimer: If Roswell was mine, we wouldn't need an end of the world.
Memory, all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days.
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.
--"Memory" from Cats, Lyrics by T.S. Eliot, Trevor Nunn and Richard Stilgoe
He laid back on the floor, jacket rolled up under his head, and stared at the ceiling. The dark masked the water and god knows whatever else stained the cheaply-plastered ceiling. If it wasn't for the moldy smell of the carpet, he could've almost been at Max's house, in Max's room, staring up at a ceiling that at one point in their childhood had been covered with glow in the dark stars--at Izzy's insistence. But the bed next to him was too big, the heart shape a bit too kinky for Maxwell's conservative geek taste. And the small figure that huddled on the edge, pretending to sleep… There was no way in hell he could pretend she was Maximilian Evans, his best friend of lifetimes.
He didn't bother trying to sleep, because he knew it would never come. Not tonight. Not with the blood rushing through his human veins, and his too-human hormones reminding him of exactly how alien he wasn't sometimes. That Maria girl was one weird bird, but there was something about her that made his veins hum.
It was weird. Somehow, in the midst of all their usual banter, he'd actually felt connected to the blond twit in the bed. Somewhere between reciting his favorite passage from Ulysses and admitting that all he wanted to go home, he'd found something in common with the freak of West Roswell. Maybe it was a kindred spirit thing. Freaks of a feather flock together. Or maybe weirdness crossed all species lines. Or maybe Aromatherapy DeLuca was an alien herself.
When they'd stood forehead to forehead, noses almost touching, he'd had the strangest sense of deja-vu. It was as if he'd done this before--stood toe to toe with Maria DeLuca, surrounded by a weird halo of light. He had an almost-memory of the way her lips tasted--like berry chapstick. And he knew exactly how soft her hair was, gelled and shaped as it was into that weird little flip thing she was doing with her hair now. It was something that he knew, not in the same way that he knew that he and Maxwell and Isabel belonged together, but on another level. As if he'd felt the intensity of her green eyes before. As if, at some point, her small body had been pressed against his, in another life.
Which is why he'd had to break the moment, before he took those lips in his first kiss--his first real, deliberate touch with a human that wasn't an Evans. Which is why he told her to fuck off, basically. Because he'd never do her, not if she was the last woman on earth. But his body said something different. And his memories said it was already too late.
He closed his eyes, his body automatically stiffening into his defensive sleep posture. One arm curled around his stomach, one over his eyes to protect his face. Hank wasn't here, but he never knew… And it was always better to be safer than sorry. But with his eyes closed, he could relive the previous hour over and over again. He heard her light tone, saw the mask she wore as she talked about her father, and how she wondered who and where he was. As she spoke words that he thought no one else knew--because there's gotta be something better out there for me than Roswell, New Mexico. To hear the same feelings echoed in her voice, to see the same years of unshed tears in her eyes. That woke another memory of almost the same conversation, in another time and place, of how families sucked, and how lucky they were not to have to deal with them…
He berated himself for caving into human weakness and need. He'd actually asked to share her bed, something he'd never done before. Michael Guerin didn't share a bed with anyone. He preferred the floor, just because it offered more options for escape. There were no confining covers, no mattress to sink into, no pillows to get tangled in. But somehow, his body knew what it was to rest up against hers, to feel every inch of her tucked into every curve of him, as if they were made to fit together. But she was made in the USA, and he was fabricated on some other planet. And if interracial relationships rarely worked…
"Would you stop it? You're thinking too loud. I'm trying to sleep." Her voice was gruff, pure Hurricane DeLuca.
And as he bit back his usual retort, he turned over on his side, away from the bed, so that he wouldn't see a slender hand hanging off the faded tawdry red coverlet. "Are you cold?"
There was a quiver in her voice as she denied it. "No. Why would I be cold? It's not like it's 40 degrees outside or anything. It's not like it ever gets cold at night in the desert."
Stupid girls. Stupid human girls. "Don't be such a cheesehead, DeLuca." Taking the jacket from behind her head, he threw it up at her, hoping it landed on her face.
There was a silence. "What did you call me?" Her voice was actually soft for once.
"Cheesehead. Why, you got a problem with that?" He didn't know where that came from. It just felt right. Like it was a term of affection or something. Someone had called him names once, in the dawn of his memories. Maybe it was someone at the orphanage. Or Valenti, in one of the many fights they'd gotten in when they were at Roswell Elementary.
"No. No, I don't. Don't get so paranoid, ET." He heard the rustle of the jacket, imagined his arms in the sleeves, wrapping around her body. "Thanks, Michael." And a pillow fell on his face, one reeking of cheap perfume, and the slightest scent of eucalyptus and roses--Maria's oils.
Laying his head back, he stared back up at the ceiling, wondering what stars were shining in the sky. It was fall, and Pegasus would be rising soon, followed by Cassiopeia, and her daughter Andromeda. For some reason, in his mind, the beautiful Casseopeia had always looked like Isabel--stunning and graceful and elegant, like a queen. But Andromeda, the girl so beautiful that it made a god angry, had always had long golden curls and eyes like a cat. In his mind, she'd fought like a rabid dog as Neptune chained her to the rocks. And when Perseus had finally come to rescue her, she hadn't been grateful to be saved, but pissed off that she couldn't help kick the sea monster's ass. He didn't know why that legend had always struck him, but there was something about chicks who kicked butt--who faced the odds despite the cost and won. As if a little Hurricane had once lived in his life and threatened to kick his butt daily.
A slow and even breathing came from on top of the bed. If she was asleep… He chuckled softly. Of course there would only be peace and quiet when she slept. Her blabberlips flapped so much that he had to wonder if they ever got tired. Again, he could almost feel that soft, sexy mouth pressed against his, as if…
"Maria?"
"Yeah?" Her voice was sleepy.
"Umm…goodnight."
There was a soft yawn, like a kitten's, and smacking of softer lips. "Night, dorkbutt."
And some fire lit inside of him, a spark traveling from his fingertips to his heart, at the sound of that. As if some part of him knew…
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'd ask her if she'd ever worn her hair in long golden curls.
The End
By Kara (AnyaLindir@aol.com)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to "285 South", still one of the best Candy episodes
Summary: On a dark night, Michael struggles with memories of a life that he'd long forgotten
Disclaimer: If Roswell was mine, we wouldn't need an end of the world.
Memory, all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days.
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.
--"Memory" from Cats, Lyrics by T.S. Eliot, Trevor Nunn and Richard Stilgoe
He laid back on the floor, jacket rolled up under his head, and stared at the ceiling. The dark masked the water and god knows whatever else stained the cheaply-plastered ceiling. If it wasn't for the moldy smell of the carpet, he could've almost been at Max's house, in Max's room, staring up at a ceiling that at one point in their childhood had been covered with glow in the dark stars--at Izzy's insistence. But the bed next to him was too big, the heart shape a bit too kinky for Maxwell's conservative geek taste. And the small figure that huddled on the edge, pretending to sleep… There was no way in hell he could pretend she was Maximilian Evans, his best friend of lifetimes.
He didn't bother trying to sleep, because he knew it would never come. Not tonight. Not with the blood rushing through his human veins, and his too-human hormones reminding him of exactly how alien he wasn't sometimes. That Maria girl was one weird bird, but there was something about her that made his veins hum.
It was weird. Somehow, in the midst of all their usual banter, he'd actually felt connected to the blond twit in the bed. Somewhere between reciting his favorite passage from Ulysses and admitting that all he wanted to go home, he'd found something in common with the freak of West Roswell. Maybe it was a kindred spirit thing. Freaks of a feather flock together. Or maybe weirdness crossed all species lines. Or maybe Aromatherapy DeLuca was an alien herself.
When they'd stood forehead to forehead, noses almost touching, he'd had the strangest sense of deja-vu. It was as if he'd done this before--stood toe to toe with Maria DeLuca, surrounded by a weird halo of light. He had an almost-memory of the way her lips tasted--like berry chapstick. And he knew exactly how soft her hair was, gelled and shaped as it was into that weird little flip thing she was doing with her hair now. It was something that he knew, not in the same way that he knew that he and Maxwell and Isabel belonged together, but on another level. As if he'd felt the intensity of her green eyes before. As if, at some point, her small body had been pressed against his, in another life.
Which is why he'd had to break the moment, before he took those lips in his first kiss--his first real, deliberate touch with a human that wasn't an Evans. Which is why he told her to fuck off, basically. Because he'd never do her, not if she was the last woman on earth. But his body said something different. And his memories said it was already too late.
He closed his eyes, his body automatically stiffening into his defensive sleep posture. One arm curled around his stomach, one over his eyes to protect his face. Hank wasn't here, but he never knew… And it was always better to be safer than sorry. But with his eyes closed, he could relive the previous hour over and over again. He heard her light tone, saw the mask she wore as she talked about her father, and how she wondered who and where he was. As she spoke words that he thought no one else knew--because there's gotta be something better out there for me than Roswell, New Mexico. To hear the same feelings echoed in her voice, to see the same years of unshed tears in her eyes. That woke another memory of almost the same conversation, in another time and place, of how families sucked, and how lucky they were not to have to deal with them…
He berated himself for caving into human weakness and need. He'd actually asked to share her bed, something he'd never done before. Michael Guerin didn't share a bed with anyone. He preferred the floor, just because it offered more options for escape. There were no confining covers, no mattress to sink into, no pillows to get tangled in. But somehow, his body knew what it was to rest up against hers, to feel every inch of her tucked into every curve of him, as if they were made to fit together. But she was made in the USA, and he was fabricated on some other planet. And if interracial relationships rarely worked…
"Would you stop it? You're thinking too loud. I'm trying to sleep." Her voice was gruff, pure Hurricane DeLuca.
And as he bit back his usual retort, he turned over on his side, away from the bed, so that he wouldn't see a slender hand hanging off the faded tawdry red coverlet. "Are you cold?"
There was a quiver in her voice as she denied it. "No. Why would I be cold? It's not like it's 40 degrees outside or anything. It's not like it ever gets cold at night in the desert."
Stupid girls. Stupid human girls. "Don't be such a cheesehead, DeLuca." Taking the jacket from behind her head, he threw it up at her, hoping it landed on her face.
There was a silence. "What did you call me?" Her voice was actually soft for once.
"Cheesehead. Why, you got a problem with that?" He didn't know where that came from. It just felt right. Like it was a term of affection or something. Someone had called him names once, in the dawn of his memories. Maybe it was someone at the orphanage. Or Valenti, in one of the many fights they'd gotten in when they were at Roswell Elementary.
"No. No, I don't. Don't get so paranoid, ET." He heard the rustle of the jacket, imagined his arms in the sleeves, wrapping around her body. "Thanks, Michael." And a pillow fell on his face, one reeking of cheap perfume, and the slightest scent of eucalyptus and roses--Maria's oils.
Laying his head back, he stared back up at the ceiling, wondering what stars were shining in the sky. It was fall, and Pegasus would be rising soon, followed by Cassiopeia, and her daughter Andromeda. For some reason, in his mind, the beautiful Casseopeia had always looked like Isabel--stunning and graceful and elegant, like a queen. But Andromeda, the girl so beautiful that it made a god angry, had always had long golden curls and eyes like a cat. In his mind, she'd fought like a rabid dog as Neptune chained her to the rocks. And when Perseus had finally come to rescue her, she hadn't been grateful to be saved, but pissed off that she couldn't help kick the sea monster's ass. He didn't know why that legend had always struck him, but there was something about chicks who kicked butt--who faced the odds despite the cost and won. As if a little Hurricane had once lived in his life and threatened to kick his butt daily.
A slow and even breathing came from on top of the bed. If she was asleep… He chuckled softly. Of course there would only be peace and quiet when she slept. Her blabberlips flapped so much that he had to wonder if they ever got tired. Again, he could almost feel that soft, sexy mouth pressed against his, as if…
"Maria?"
"Yeah?" Her voice was sleepy.
"Umm…goodnight."
There was a soft yawn, like a kitten's, and smacking of softer lips. "Night, dorkbutt."
And some fire lit inside of him, a spark traveling from his fingertips to his heart, at the sound of that. As if some part of him knew…
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'd ask her if she'd ever worn her hair in long golden curls.
The End