Author: Katydidit aka PolarEmeralds aka Kat
Email:
Rating: PG, for a bit of language and implied violence.
Genre: Drama/Angst
Category: AU. Pre-shooting. Now becoming full-blown Polar.
Disclaimer: They're mine! All mine! demented laughter Ooor not. They're Jason Katims and Co.'s. Evil demons. They should be vanquished. blissful grin Ahhh, if only.. cough Move along, folks. No evil plotting to see here. g
Summary: A not-so-short AU fic. Thirteen-year-old Michael is out one night, trying to escape Hank's fury for a while, when he stumbles across someone he hadn't expected to see and realizes that things aren't always what they seem.
Spoilers: Guys, the show's over. If you haven't seen an ep, you're not gonna. Lol. I don't think there's any, though.
Things Aren't Always What They Seem Chapter 12
The months crawled by, slowly turning into years, and Michael found himself withdrawing from the people he had once been close to. He hadn't spoken to Alex or Maria since that day in the school hallway, which wasn't surprising—they'd been Liz's friends-not Michael's, but he also hadn't really spoken to Max or Isabel. He knew it hurt them-he could see it whenever he glanced their way, but he couldn't help it. So he didn't feel like talking to people anymore. It wasn't the end of the world. Michael knew that it wasn't healthy for him to completely withdraw from all contact, so he made an effort—sort of. He'd kind of joined the school art club—'kind of' meaning that there was never anything official, but he hung out in the art room during their meetings, drawing what their assignments were and occasionally inserting a comment into their conversations. No one really knew who he was, since they were all freshmen and sophomores and he was a senior, but they respected him because he was such an amazing artist. There was a girl he talked to occasionally—her name was Miriam—just because she was always in the back, just like he was. She was a nice girl, but Michael didn't care one way or the other. He'd been numb ever since Liz was taken away.
One day, the art teacher walked into the room, passed out sheets of loose leaf paper in his usual, abstract, not-all-there way, and sat in the front of the room. "I have had an epiphany," he said excitedly. Michael just looked around the room. "This whole time, I've been telling you students what to draw. That's not art. That's...school. So here's what I want you all to do. Close your eyes."
Michael looked at everyone else, who had obeyed, and did the same.
"Good. Now. Clear your minds, please. Listen to my voice and just think of a big white blank. A blank canvas, if you will. Does everyone have it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Now, what is the first thing that you think of when I say the word... 'flying'? I want you to draw it."
Michael remembered sitting in the swing, watching Liz lay back in her swing and pretend to fly. His stomach twisted, and he opened his eyes, gulping. He looked up at the art teacher, who had gone to the art supplies cupboard and flung it open with a bang.
"You will have free rein with the supplies, students. Feel free to use pastels...charcoal...pen and ink...clay, even. As long as it mirrors what you just thought of."
Michael stood there for a while, trying to figure the whole thing out. Could he draw her? Of course. Her face had been burned into his mind. The question was, could he draw her without...hurting? Looks like that would be the challenge, then, wouldn't it? He shook himself and headed up to the cupboard, grabbing a set of charcoals and returning to his easel. Miriam had already begun painting—it looked like the sky. He sighed, and she smiled over at him.
"What are you going to draw?" She asked, returning to the paint.
"I'm... You know what? I can't talk while I'm doing this."
"But we always talk when we're drawing," Miriam said, looking confused.
"I know. But. This...This is going to be hard." He selected his first charcoal, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.
"All right. Sorry. Good luck."
He nodded and began sketching her outline. It wasn't as easy as he thought it would be to remember Liz's face, which sort of scared him. Once he'd sketched her out, he took another look and realized that she looked the way she had when she left—scared and sad—not the way she looked when she was 'flying'. He growled and tore the paper off the easel, crumpling it into a ball and dropping it onto the floor. By the time he'd gotten her outline right, the teacher was telling everyone to put their supplies away. He sighed and wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving black smudges on the denim, then replaced the pencils in the cupboard. The teacher came around behind him and looked at his picture. Michael snapped his book shut and spun around, trying to ignore the burning pain in his scar. When had that appeared?
"Who is she?" the teacher asked, smiling kindly.
"A friend," Michael growled, tucking the sketchpad under his arm and stalking out of the room. He was concentrating so hard on the floor that he didn't notice when he ran right into someone, knocking both of them to the ground. He looked up—it was Isabel. He stood and offered her his hand, which she took, then bent to pick up her backpack.
"You okay, Michael?" Isabel asked worriedly.
"I'm fine, Isabel," he replied, more gruffly than he'd meant. He softened his tone a little. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I meant...in general. I haven't seen you in a long time." Her voice was bordering on reproachful, but it also held a hint of excitement.
"I'm fine," he repeated. "What about you?"
"I'm great. Your birthday is coming up, isn't it?"
Whoa. It was. How had he forgotten this?
"Yeah, I guess."
"How much longer—three, four weeks?"
"Yeah." Why did he get the feeling she was planning something? "Look, you're not going to do anything, are you?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Because I know you, Isabel. Just...don't do anything."
"You're such a male," Isabel said, laughing. "And so arrogant. I'm not doing anything. But look, I've got to go, okay? I'll see you later."
She bounced away, leaving Michael to pick up his sketchpad and head home. Hank was the same as ever—usually drunk—but since Liz had left, Michael hadn't cared. His passiveness when Hank was wailing on him must have made it boring for the useless slob, because beatings were fewer and shorter. And usually—like today—Hank wasn't even at home. Michael entered the trailer and shook his head, heading to the cupboards for something to eat. He was reaching for the Saltines, but then froze when a memory punched him in the gut.
By lunchtime, Michael's stomach was about to cave in, as he rummaged in his locker for whatever would pass for a lunch. Did he remember to bring those crackers?
Of course not. He sighed and put his head in his locker, wondering if you could pass out from being this hungry.
"What's wrong?" a soft voice asked from behind him. He jumped and turned to face Liz, whose chocolate eyes were sympathetic.
"Nothing."
"You forgot your lunch?"
His shoulders slumped even more. "Yeah."
A shadow of something passed over Liz's face, and she reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills.
"I don't want your money."
"I'm not giving it to you."
"Oh..." His stomach gave a half-hearted growl, as though it had realized that it wasn't getting anything, and had to register one final protest.
"I'm lending it to you."
"I know how that works. No thanks." Sure he was hungry, but he had to keep his dignity. Her eyes narrowed.
"Seriously. I'm expecting it back. With one percent interest per every two weeks that you don't pay me back." She thrust it into his hand, then dug through her bag, coming up with a perfectly shaped, brilliantly red apple, then held it out to him. "And, here. I don't even like these. Mom always packs one the day after Dad—" She broke off. "Well, if you want it, its yours."
Michael stared at the fruit in her hand for a second, then slowly reached out to take it. She smiled softly, then began to head away.
"Thanks..." He said. She turned back and nodded.
Michael dropped his hand. He never had repaid her. He must owe her so much by now. He grinned. She hadn't really been expecting it back, he knew. She'd just been trying to get him to take her money. A part of him had known when he'd taken it, but hunger had prevented him from refusing. He remembered her face when he'd finally accepted—she'd been pleased, but not smug. He wondered if he could draw that. Abandoning his crackers, he grabbed his sketchpad and a pencil and darted into his room.
At the next art club meeting, Michael immediately claimed the easel furthest from the front, and then went to get the charcoals. He opened his book to the picture of Liz flying. Without saying a word to Miriam, he got right down to work. By the end of class, he had finished. He stepped back and looked at his work with mixed feelings, rubbing absently at his scar, which was tingling.
Liz's face was tilted back and she looked peaceful but exhilarated as she flew back and forth in the swing. The sun made her dark hair shimmer, and she drank the sunlight in happily. He'd taken special care with her lips, which were curled in Liz's small smile as she swung.
Michael looked up, sensing a presence behind him, and spun around. It was the teacher, who was studying the picture just as intently as Michael had been. He saw him smile as he caught sight of Liz's hair in the dust, and then tore his eyes away, looking at Michael.
"It's...amazing, Michael," he said. "You're an amazing artist."
"Yeah, well..." Michael muttered, putting the charcoals away.
"What are you going to call it?" he asked, returning his gaze to the picture.
"What are you doing?"
She sat up slowly, dragging her feet in the dirt. "Try it. It feels like you're flying."
He leaned back, watching the ground fly up at him, then the sky. It was kind of like flying...in a way. He sat up and looked over at Liz, who was laying down again, the very end of her hair trailing in the dirt. She looked up at his face and began laughing.
"What?"
"You have dirt-on your-face..." she giggled.
"What's so funny about that?" He asked, swiping at his face. She looked at him and laughed harder.
"What now?"
"You've just-made it worse!" She stood up and wiped her finger across his cheek, right under his eye.
"Is it gone now, or what?" Michael asked, almost sorry that her gentle touch was gone.
"It's gone. You're such a boy."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
"I... I think... It's called, 'Dirt on My Face,'" Michael said.
"What made you call it that?"
Michael shrugged uncomfortably, realizing that he was being far too open with this man, who might as well be a stranger. The man nodded and moved on to the next student.
The assignments in art club continued in the same vein, and it seemed like Michael thought of Liz for every single one. On one hand, it hurt that he was thinking about her all the time, but, then again, drawing Liz was the one way for him to keep from forgetting her face. And she was so perfect to draw—it seemed that he rarely made a 'mistake' when it came to her face, except on his most melancholy days, where she would come out looking sad and afraid. This was rare, though, and soon his book was half-filled with pictures of Liz.
One day, as he was walking out of the classroom, Isabel and Max stepped in front of him. He froze, and then laughed.
"What do you guys want?" he asked, then lowered his voice. "And you'd better not do that anymore—I nearly blasted you guys."
"Sorry," Max said. "We didn't mean to scare you."
"What are you talking about?" Michael demanded. "I never said you scared me. I said I nearly blasted you."
"Whatever," Isabel said. "You're coming with us." She grabbed his arm and led him to the doors. Michael, having nothing better to do that day, allowed her to drag him back to the Evanses'.
Email:
Rating: PG, for a bit of language and implied violence.
Genre: Drama/Angst
Category: AU. Pre-shooting. Now becoming full-blown Polar.
Disclaimer: They're mine! All mine! demented laughter Ooor not. They're Jason Katims and Co.'s. Evil demons. They should be vanquished. blissful grin Ahhh, if only.. cough Move along, folks. No evil plotting to see here. g
Summary: A not-so-short AU fic. Thirteen-year-old Michael is out one night, trying to escape Hank's fury for a while, when he stumbles across someone he hadn't expected to see and realizes that things aren't always what they seem.
Spoilers: Guys, the show's over. If you haven't seen an ep, you're not gonna. Lol. I don't think there's any, though.
Things Aren't Always What They Seem Chapter 12
The months crawled by, slowly turning into years, and Michael found himself withdrawing from the people he had once been close to. He hadn't spoken to Alex or Maria since that day in the school hallway, which wasn't surprising—they'd been Liz's friends-not Michael's, but he also hadn't really spoken to Max or Isabel. He knew it hurt them-he could see it whenever he glanced their way, but he couldn't help it. So he didn't feel like talking to people anymore. It wasn't the end of the world. Michael knew that it wasn't healthy for him to completely withdraw from all contact, so he made an effort—sort of. He'd kind of joined the school art club—'kind of' meaning that there was never anything official, but he hung out in the art room during their meetings, drawing what their assignments were and occasionally inserting a comment into their conversations. No one really knew who he was, since they were all freshmen and sophomores and he was a senior, but they respected him because he was such an amazing artist. There was a girl he talked to occasionally—her name was Miriam—just because she was always in the back, just like he was. She was a nice girl, but Michael didn't care one way or the other. He'd been numb ever since Liz was taken away.
One day, the art teacher walked into the room, passed out sheets of loose leaf paper in his usual, abstract, not-all-there way, and sat in the front of the room. "I have had an epiphany," he said excitedly. Michael just looked around the room. "This whole time, I've been telling you students what to draw. That's not art. That's...school. So here's what I want you all to do. Close your eyes."
Michael looked at everyone else, who had obeyed, and did the same.
"Good. Now. Clear your minds, please. Listen to my voice and just think of a big white blank. A blank canvas, if you will. Does everyone have it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Now, what is the first thing that you think of when I say the word... 'flying'? I want you to draw it."
Michael remembered sitting in the swing, watching Liz lay back in her swing and pretend to fly. His stomach twisted, and he opened his eyes, gulping. He looked up at the art teacher, who had gone to the art supplies cupboard and flung it open with a bang.
"You will have free rein with the supplies, students. Feel free to use pastels...charcoal...pen and ink...clay, even. As long as it mirrors what you just thought of."
Michael stood there for a while, trying to figure the whole thing out. Could he draw her? Of course. Her face had been burned into his mind. The question was, could he draw her without...hurting? Looks like that would be the challenge, then, wouldn't it? He shook himself and headed up to the cupboard, grabbing a set of charcoals and returning to his easel. Miriam had already begun painting—it looked like the sky. He sighed, and she smiled over at him.
"What are you going to draw?" She asked, returning to the paint.
"I'm... You know what? I can't talk while I'm doing this."
"But we always talk when we're drawing," Miriam said, looking confused.
"I know. But. This...This is going to be hard." He selected his first charcoal, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.
"All right. Sorry. Good luck."
He nodded and began sketching her outline. It wasn't as easy as he thought it would be to remember Liz's face, which sort of scared him. Once he'd sketched her out, he took another look and realized that she looked the way she had when she left—scared and sad—not the way she looked when she was 'flying'. He growled and tore the paper off the easel, crumpling it into a ball and dropping it onto the floor. By the time he'd gotten her outline right, the teacher was telling everyone to put their supplies away. He sighed and wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving black smudges on the denim, then replaced the pencils in the cupboard. The teacher came around behind him and looked at his picture. Michael snapped his book shut and spun around, trying to ignore the burning pain in his scar. When had that appeared?
"Who is she?" the teacher asked, smiling kindly.
"A friend," Michael growled, tucking the sketchpad under his arm and stalking out of the room. He was concentrating so hard on the floor that he didn't notice when he ran right into someone, knocking both of them to the ground. He looked up—it was Isabel. He stood and offered her his hand, which she took, then bent to pick up her backpack.
"You okay, Michael?" Isabel asked worriedly.
"I'm fine, Isabel," he replied, more gruffly than he'd meant. He softened his tone a little. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I meant...in general. I haven't seen you in a long time." Her voice was bordering on reproachful, but it also held a hint of excitement.
"I'm fine," he repeated. "What about you?"
"I'm great. Your birthday is coming up, isn't it?"
Whoa. It was. How had he forgotten this?
"Yeah, I guess."
"How much longer—three, four weeks?"
"Yeah." Why did he get the feeling she was planning something? "Look, you're not going to do anything, are you?"
"No. Why would I?"
"Because I know you, Isabel. Just...don't do anything."
"You're such a male," Isabel said, laughing. "And so arrogant. I'm not doing anything. But look, I've got to go, okay? I'll see you later."
She bounced away, leaving Michael to pick up his sketchpad and head home. Hank was the same as ever—usually drunk—but since Liz had left, Michael hadn't cared. His passiveness when Hank was wailing on him must have made it boring for the useless slob, because beatings were fewer and shorter. And usually—like today—Hank wasn't even at home. Michael entered the trailer and shook his head, heading to the cupboards for something to eat. He was reaching for the Saltines, but then froze when a memory punched him in the gut.
By lunchtime, Michael's stomach was about to cave in, as he rummaged in his locker for whatever would pass for a lunch. Did he remember to bring those crackers?
Of course not. He sighed and put his head in his locker, wondering if you could pass out from being this hungry.
"What's wrong?" a soft voice asked from behind him. He jumped and turned to face Liz, whose chocolate eyes were sympathetic.
"Nothing."
"You forgot your lunch?"
His shoulders slumped even more. "Yeah."
A shadow of something passed over Liz's face, and she reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills.
"I don't want your money."
"I'm not giving it to you."
"Oh..." His stomach gave a half-hearted growl, as though it had realized that it wasn't getting anything, and had to register one final protest.
"I'm lending it to you."
"I know how that works. No thanks." Sure he was hungry, but he had to keep his dignity. Her eyes narrowed.
"Seriously. I'm expecting it back. With one percent interest per every two weeks that you don't pay me back." She thrust it into his hand, then dug through her bag, coming up with a perfectly shaped, brilliantly red apple, then held it out to him. "And, here. I don't even like these. Mom always packs one the day after Dad—" She broke off. "Well, if you want it, its yours."
Michael stared at the fruit in her hand for a second, then slowly reached out to take it. She smiled softly, then began to head away.
"Thanks..." He said. She turned back and nodded.
Michael dropped his hand. He never had repaid her. He must owe her so much by now. He grinned. She hadn't really been expecting it back, he knew. She'd just been trying to get him to take her money. A part of him had known when he'd taken it, but hunger had prevented him from refusing. He remembered her face when he'd finally accepted—she'd been pleased, but not smug. He wondered if he could draw that. Abandoning his crackers, he grabbed his sketchpad and a pencil and darted into his room.
At the next art club meeting, Michael immediately claimed the easel furthest from the front, and then went to get the charcoals. He opened his book to the picture of Liz flying. Without saying a word to Miriam, he got right down to work. By the end of class, he had finished. He stepped back and looked at his work with mixed feelings, rubbing absently at his scar, which was tingling.
Liz's face was tilted back and she looked peaceful but exhilarated as she flew back and forth in the swing. The sun made her dark hair shimmer, and she drank the sunlight in happily. He'd taken special care with her lips, which were curled in Liz's small smile as she swung.
Michael looked up, sensing a presence behind him, and spun around. It was the teacher, who was studying the picture just as intently as Michael had been. He saw him smile as he caught sight of Liz's hair in the dust, and then tore his eyes away, looking at Michael.
"It's...amazing, Michael," he said. "You're an amazing artist."
"Yeah, well..." Michael muttered, putting the charcoals away.
"What are you going to call it?" he asked, returning his gaze to the picture.
"What are you doing?"
She sat up slowly, dragging her feet in the dirt. "Try it. It feels like you're flying."
He leaned back, watching the ground fly up at him, then the sky. It was kind of like flying...in a way. He sat up and looked over at Liz, who was laying down again, the very end of her hair trailing in the dirt. She looked up at his face and began laughing.
"What?"
"You have dirt-on your-face..." she giggled.
"What's so funny about that?" He asked, swiping at his face. She looked at him and laughed harder.
"What now?"
"You've just-made it worse!" She stood up and wiped her finger across his cheek, right under his eye.
"Is it gone now, or what?" Michael asked, almost sorry that her gentle touch was gone.
"It's gone. You're such a boy."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
"I... I think... It's called, 'Dirt on My Face,'" Michael said.
"What made you call it that?"
Michael shrugged uncomfortably, realizing that he was being far too open with this man, who might as well be a stranger. The man nodded and moved on to the next student.
The assignments in art club continued in the same vein, and it seemed like Michael thought of Liz for every single one. On one hand, it hurt that he was thinking about her all the time, but, then again, drawing Liz was the one way for him to keep from forgetting her face. And she was so perfect to draw—it seemed that he rarely made a 'mistake' when it came to her face, except on his most melancholy days, where she would come out looking sad and afraid. This was rare, though, and soon his book was half-filled with pictures of Liz.
One day, as he was walking out of the classroom, Isabel and Max stepped in front of him. He froze, and then laughed.
"What do you guys want?" he asked, then lowered his voice. "And you'd better not do that anymore—I nearly blasted you guys."
"Sorry," Max said. "We didn't mean to scare you."
"What are you talking about?" Michael demanded. "I never said you scared me. I said I nearly blasted you."
"Whatever," Isabel said. "You're coming with us." She grabbed his arm and led him to the doors. Michael, having nothing better to do that day, allowed her to drag him back to the Evanses'.