Disclaimer: Roswell, and its characters do not belong to me. Melinda Metz, Jason Katims and 20th Century Fox have that particular pleasure. If I was lucky enough to own them, you just know the show would still be on the air, and you be watching that instead of reading this.
Rating: PG-13 to R for inappropriate language and some violence.
Author's Note: This chapter title gets its name from the wonderful fic by Mt. Gazer.
Winds of Change
Chapter Seven – Shifting Realities
A soft tapping at her window woke Liz from her restless sleep. She looked around the room, but her sleep-fogged brain was unable to locate the source of the noise. She climbed out of her bed and tugged the faded tank that she slept in down to the top of her bikini panties. Yawning, she crossed the room and looked out the window. The cool night air seemed to beckon her, like the siren's song beckoned sailors so long ago.
She raised the window and flung her leg out over the sill and climbed out onto her patio. Goose bumps dotted her flesh from the cool breeze that blew, and she shivered just a bit as she absentmindedly hugged herself. She drifted, without conscious thought over to the telescope that demanded so much of her attention of late. She'd always been interested in the stars, but lately, it seemed she'd had this burning desire to study the night skies, almost as if she were looking for something in particular.
Liz looked through the eyepiece of the telescope, unable to erase the feeling that she somehow knew what she was looking for. Abandoning the telescope after several futile minutes of scanning the night sky, she leaned over the edge of the building, her attention drawn by a scraping sound in the alley.
"Liz!" a voice called softly from the alley.
Liz leaned out over the shallow brick wall and looked down into the alley.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
"It's me, Max. Can I come up?"
Liz looked around, afraid that her parents would appear out of nowhere.
"Sure, come on up," she said, trembling again, only this time it was from excitement, and not from the coolness of the air. She waited for several seconds and heard the scraping sounds of Max ascending the fire escape. His dark head appeared of the edge of the wall, smiling self-consciously.
"Hi," he said, sheepishly.
"Hi, Max," Liz replied. "Why are you here?"
"I don't know," Max admitted. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to go for a walk, and I just ended up here."
"Here, at the CrashDown?" Liz asked, doubtfully.
"No, here, in this alley, staring up at your window. It's weird, but it feels like I've done this before."
"Yeah, there's a lot of that going around," Liz said, softly, shivering slightly.
You're cold," said Max, unnecessarily. He slipped out of the denim work shirt he was wearing and draped it carefully over Liz's shoulders. His hands lingered on the lapels of the shirt, and he leaned in closer to Liz, preparing to kiss her.
"Liz, sweetie, are you all right?" a voice called from inside the apartment.
Max jerked his head back and looked regretfully at Liz before he climbed back down the fire escape.
"I'm fine, Mom," she called, softly. "I couldn't sleep, so I came outside to look at the stars."
"It's late, sweetie, come on inside now," Nancy Parker said, leaning out of the window.
Liz gave one last look down at the now empty alley before she turned to face her mother.
"I'm coming, Mom," she said, slipping her arms into the sleeves of the shirt. She could feel the warmth of Max Evans' body caught within the material of the shirt. She paused to chat briefly with her mother before climbing into bed. She slid out of the shirt, and gathered the fabric in her hands. She brought it up to her face and rubbed it against her cheek. She breathed deeply, inhaling the musky sent of Max that clung to the shirt. She laid down, her head pillowed on Max's shirt, and drifted off to sleep.
Nicholas growled angrily as he watched Max Evans run down the alley. He had planned to use his powers to break away at the ledge the Liz had leaned against, but Max's arrival had put an end to that plan. It had to look like an accident, but every time he tried, something happened to foul it up. She had to die; there was no way around it. In order to make this reality permanent, he had to get rid of Liz Parker, and it had to be soon. He could feel his grip on the time distortion slipping. He wasn't sure if he had enough power maintain this reality much longer.
Michael Guerin rummaged through one of the many junk drawers in his foster father's trailer, until he found a pencil. He pushed the screen door open and climbed down the rickety stairs and went to go sit at the decrepit picnic table where he took most of his meals. He flipped open his unused Spanish notebook and stared at the blank page, struggling to see in the dim light from a street lamp.
He could, he knew, go back inside, Hank wouldn't be back from his drinking binge for hours, but he preferred being anywhere to being in the musty trailer he called home.
Almost without conscious thought, he put his pencil to the paper and began to sketch as his mind raced over the events at the CrashDown earlier. He knew there was no way Liz had overheard Max's desire for a cherry cola, and yet she brought it. She also brought the bottle of Tabasco sauce that neither of them had asked for. They had taken to carrying their own bottles of the condiment, rather than drawing attention to themselves by always asking for it.
What happened later troubled him even more. He had been feeling like a stalker, waiting in the deserted alley to talk to Liz. He had waited for what seemed like hours and was preparing to leave when Liz finally appeared, lugging a bag of garbage behind her.
Michael prepared to move toward the door, to confront Liz and find out what she knew when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw a boy step out of the shadows and raise his hand and point it at Liz. He'd never seen the boy before yet he knew with every fiber of being that he was a danger. He reacted without thinking and lunged at Liz, knocking her to the ground, shielding her with his body as a bolt of energy passed harmlessly over their heads.
He made a lame excuse to Liz and prepared to leave when she asked him if he liked Metallica. The strange comment gave him pause, and he answered her. While he was still trying to puzzle out what Metallica had to do with anything, she stunned him further by telling him that Maria was right.
Maria DeLuca, Liz's friend was a train wreck looking for a place to happen in Michael Guerin's opinion. A completely and totally hot train wreck, but a train wreck nevertheless. A word from her could land them all in some lab acting like trained rats, or worse, starring in the next alien autopsy movie. This was all Max's fault. If he hadn't felt the need to act like such a damn boy scout, their secret would still be safe. But no, Max had to play the hero and put them all in danger.
"Hey, Mickey, what the hell you doin out there?" Hank Whitmore yelled, as he staggered out of his decrepit station wagon.
"Nothing," Michael replied, his voice taking on the sullen tone it always did when he was forced to converse with his foster father.
"Yeah, well, get your ass inside and get me a beer," slurred Hank.
"Get it yourself, I'm busy," said Michael.
"You worthless whelp!" shouted Hank, lunging towards Michael. He swung a fist in Michael's direction, but missed in his inebriated state.
Michael jumped up from the picnic table, clutching the notebook in his hand.
"I said, get your ass inside and get me a beer!" shouted Hank.
"Shut up out there," came a shout from another trailer.
Hank turned, momentarily distracted by the shout, and Michael took the opportunity to dodge the older man and take off running down the road. He slowed to a jog when he was certain that Hank wasn't following him. He stopped and considered the options available to him for the night. He weighed the possibilities of returning home or sleeping on Max's bedroom floor again. He quickly disregarded the first possibility and made his way to the Evans household.
Michael rapped softly on Max's window and waited while Max undid the latch and opened the window to admit him. True he could have opened the window on his own, but he liked to think he did have some manners and common sense. He passed the notebook to Max and climbed in.
Max tossed the notebook onto his bed and began to unroll the sleeping bag that Michael used whenever he spent the night. Michael reached into the closet and grabbed the extra pillow Max kept there and turned around to find Max sitting on the bed, leafing casually through his notebook.
Wordlessly, Max held up the notebook and showed Michael the picture he had been looking at. A picture Michael didn't remember drawing. The sketch showed Max, kneeling down on the floor, in a pool of blood, with his hand pressing down on a woman's abdomen. Michael stared in both horror and fascination when he realized that the picture did not depict Max healing Maria, instead, he was healing Liz Parker.