Chapter 15

The next day, Michael had what he referred to as the dead shift. It started right after the breakfast rush, so there was basically nothing to do for several hours except twiddle your thumbs and draw in the grease on the grill's surface. He leaned against the grill and looked out at the mostly empty dining room, failing to stifle his yawn. This was always the worst shift. Maria headed over, slipping her order pad into the pocket of her apron.

"What's up, SpikeBoy?" she asked, leaning against the window. He shrugged. "What's going on with Liz and you?"

He looked at her sharply. "What are you talking about?"

Maria scoffed. "It's called women's intuition, Michael. You really like her, don't you?"

Michael ignored her comment and looked out into the restaurant. "I…just missed her, okay?"

She laughed in disbelief. "Oh my god. You don't just like her."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael demanded. Maria grinned.

"You're in love with my old best friend!" she exclaimed, doing a little dance. Michael looked around frantically.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Shut up!"

Maria froze, but continued giggling. "Michael Guerin and Liz Parker! Priceless!" She sobered a little. "Sorry. Go for it, SpikeBoy. She likes you too."

"She does not," Michael said, feeling his face heat up. "Not like that."

Maria put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Do not speak to me like that, Michael Guerin. You are not the possessor of women's intuition. I am. And therefore, I can tell when one woman likes one man. And Liz is that one woman and you are that one man. So grow a pair and do something about it already." She went to leave, but then returned. "Just…don't kiss her in the Crashdown?"

"Why?" Michael demanded, remembering last night.

"For one thing, a kiss just isn't as romantic when you're standing four feet from a vat of hot oil. And it probably violates some sort of health codes to have a cook kiss a waitress. And it's been done before." She rolled her eyes and headed off to take the Evanses' order, muttering something about stupid men. Michael shook his head and looked up again, into the restaurant. Someone leapt in front of the window, and Michael stumbled backwards a few steps before catching himself. Liz laughed and rested her chin on her hands, watching him through the window.

"I didn't scare you, did I, Michael?" she asked innocently.

"Wh-are you kidding me? I don't get scared."

"Good. How do I look?" She stepped backwards, to allow him to look her over. She was wearing one of the uniforms that waitresses at the Crashdown wore, except…it didn't look so tacky on her. There was something about the way the apron was draped across her hips…the way the bottom of her skirt swayed invitingly… Michael didn't even trust himself to look at the top part of her outfit. He cleared his throat, which had constricted mysteriously, and looked away.

"You look—fine. Great." He tapped the spatula on the surface of the grill. Could he look her in the eyes after checking her out so thoroughly? He glanced up. She was grinning, and her eyes were shining with…a knowing light. So she knew what he'd been doing. He felt his face burning. "So, uh…you're working here?"

She shrugged. "It was this or the Pizza Pan. And…as much as I love karaoke…" she trailed off and made a face. "I figured I was best suited for working here. At the Crashdown. You know…since I have the menu, like…memorized."

"You still do? I mean, even after all these years?"

"You don't exactly forget something called 'blood of alien smoothie', Michael," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You'd think that just the names of some of these things would be enough to make tourists head for the hills."

"And instead they come running this way."

She shook her head and turned around to face the customers. "I'll see you later," she said, heading towards a table. Michael followed her with his eyes, then had to force himself to look away. A disbelieving laugh from the counter drew his eyes towards Alex, who was sitting there, smearing syrup across his plate.

'I believe you were just checking her out, my man," Alex said, not looking up.

"I was not," Michael said defensively, wishing desperately that there was an order to fill.

"I saw your eyes head south, Guerin," Alex grinned. "A few times there."

"I was looking at the floor. Maria needs to learn how to sweep." Just drop it, Alex, Michael begged him silently. He smirked and obeyed his silent order, allowing Michael to slink back into the kitchen.

After a long day, Michael didn't usually have the patience to sit at a booth and talk, but today Liz was sitting there, so he slid in next to her, ignoring Maria, who he had to push past in order to claim the seat. She winked at Liz and sat next to Max. Liz leaned her head on the back of the seat with a little moan.

"I'm too old for this," she complained. Michael snorted and poked her in the stomach. She shrank away and glared at him.

"You're not exactly grey yet, Parker," he informed her, holding out a strand of her hair for inspection. "Oh, wait. What's this?" He expected her to knock his hand away, but instead she just made a face.

"Stop caressing her hair, Michael," Maria teased. Liz whipped her head around to glare at her, but Michael took a different approach, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, twining his free hand pointedly in her long locks.

"You're not the boss of me," he said snottily. Liz caught on and reached up to wrap some of his hair around her finger, and Michael had to struggle to keep his eyes from sliding closed.

"Yeah," Liz added, then began giggling for no reason. Girls. Maria rolled her eyes and leaned on Max.

"You remember when we couldn't keep our hands off of each other?" she purred, rubbing her hand across his chest.

"Looks like you still can't," Liz said, arching an eyebrow.

"Details," Maria said dismissively, shrugging. They all laughed again, and Liz pulled her hand away, her action reminding Michael that his was still entangled in hers. He smiled sheepishly and folded his hands on the table.

"Hey Michael," Max said, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Why don't you take Liz to the trailer and show her your sketches?"

Michael shot Max a deathglare, but Liz looked up at him hopefully. "Could I? I mean, could you show me? Please?"

What was he supposed to do, when she was looking at him like that? You just didn't say no to Liz Parker. He sighed heavily. "All right. Come on." He stood and offered his hand, which she took, and followed him over to his bike. Liz stood there for a second, until he handed her the extra helmet he carried.

"You have a motorcycle," she said quietly, standing there and holding the helmet.

"I do. Come here." She stepped closer, and he slid the helmet carefully onto her head, making sure the strap was fastened under her chin. "Get on."

"I've never been on one before…" Liz said hesitantly. Michael had to laugh.

"It'll be fine-I've been riding for a year, and she's never given me any problems. Just get on and hold on to me."

Liz sighed and followed his directions, and he drove them to the trailer. If he weren't such a good driver, Liz's firm grip around his waist would have sent the two of them flying off the road, but fortunately, he managed to keep his mind on the road and not on the pretty brunette hiding her face in his back.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, strapping their helmets to the seat.

"No…" she said, sounding surprised.

"I'm a good driver. Now come on." He took her hand once more and started to lead her inside, but she stopped. He turned back, to see her inspecting the trailer nervously.

"Is he in there?" She asked, biting on her lower lip. Michael turned around to look at the sardine can he called home one more time. There was really no way to tell—you never knew where Hank had left his truck the night before.

"No," he said decisively. It was the most likely answer, anyway. "Come on."

She allowed him to lead her into the cramped space he'd called 'home' for the past eight years, but this time they both froze when they heard a football game on the television. Michael took a few steps towards the chair, and jumped backwards when the balding fat man in it spun around, leering at Michael when he noticed the pretty girl standing behind him.

"Hey, Mickey," he said, winking. "Who's this?"

"A friend," Michael said, stepping in front of Liz to shield her from Hank's gaze. "We're going to my room."

"Oh, of course." He held up his hands. "I'll stay in here. You want me to turn the volume up so I don't hear anything?"

Michael narrowed his eyes. What was he getting at? "…No…"

Hank nodded in pretend understanding. "So you're a quiet fuck," he whispered to Liz. She stepped back as through she'd been slapped. "It's a shame," Hank continued. "I like my women loud." He turned back to the game, waving them off. "Whatever. Get on with…getting it on or whatever kids are calling it."

Liz just stood there, frozen in place, until Michael took her hand and tugged on it gently. She looked up at him blankly, and then shook her head as if to clear it, then followed him back to his room.

"Hey Mickey," Hank called as they were leaving the room. "If she don't wanna go with you, you can always leave her out here with me." He turned around and winked at Liz. "Bet I could get a squeak out of her."

Michael clenched his fist a few times, trying to get his powers under control, and pushed Liz into his room, surreptitiously using his powers to lock the door.

"Sorry…" He began, not knowing what else to say. "I—didn't know he'd be here. And…he's…" He looked around his room. How would you apologize for something like that? For someone like that? Liz wrapped her arms around her middle and forced a smile.

"It's fine."

Michael nodded and looked around his room again, wishing he'd had time to at least move his dirty clothes. Self-consciously, he pulled the comforter up on the bed, giving it some semblance of being made. Liz smiled and sat.

"I have a birthmark shaped like a bear."

"This I've gotta see. Where is it? Can I see it?"

"Just under my shoulder blade…"

"Let's see."

Liz laughed and sat up, pulling her shirt up so he could see. Sure enough, right under her right shoulder blade was the unmistakable shape of a tiny bear-not just the head, either-the entire body of a bear, shrunk down so that it would fit on Michael's thumbnail. He reached out and brushed a finger across it, and Liz shivered, quickly yanking her shirt back down. She lay back on her stomach, as did Michael.

"Sorry…"

"For what? Oh. No. It was…I got the chills, is all." She smiled.

"Oh. Hey, you're not going home, but isn't your dad going to be worried?"

"No. Whenever he…" She looked away. "He leaves for a day, then comes back and acts like nothing happened.

Michael was silent for a while, but resumed talking when he was afraid she was going to sleep. Their conversation went on like this until Michael looked at the clock and realized that it was nine o'clock.

"It's probably safe now," he said, yawning for the hundredth time that night and looking over at Liz. She laughed.

"Finally."

"Want me to walk you home?"

"Michael, I have been awake for twenty-four hours. I am not walking home right now."

"Then what are you planning on doing?" he asked, though he had a hunch. She looked at him and rolled onto her side, curling up a little.

"I'm sleeping right here. Don't try to move me, either. I may look small but you'll never lift me once I've gone all limp."

"I've done it before," he replied, sticking his tongue out at her.

"You want to carry me home, be my guest. I'll just be asleep…" she let out a small yawn and almost immediately was asleep. Michael laughed and pulled his blanket up so it covered her over, then lay down next to her. She wouldn't have a problem with it-it was his bed, and she was dead to the world, anyway.

"You remember—" Michael began, and Liz nodded, making the rest of his sentence unnecessary. He sat next to her on the bed, and they said nothing for a few minutes. Hank came thudding down the hall, stopping in front of Michael's door.

"Hey Mickey, I'm goin' out for the night—I'll be at the bar, if your girl gets bored with just you." He heard the smirk in his foster father's voice, and felt Liz tense next to him. She didn't relax until they heard the door slam shut. Michael stood, pacing back and forth, clenching his fist in an attempt to control his powers. He felt them spiraling rapidly out of control, so he directed them as far away from Liz as possible. A lamp on the other side of his room blew up, and Liz leapt off the bed, startled. She didn't ask for an explanation, and he didn't offer one, so they stood there for a few more minutes, silent.

Finally Liz spoke. "So where's your sketchbook?" she asked, looking around. Michael strode over to his closet (not much of a stride, really—it was more like a big step and a half) and tugged the book out from under some dirty clothes, holding it behind him protectively.

"Right here."

"Can't I see it?" she asked with a shy smile, tilting her head to the side.

"Nope."

"Come on, Michael," Liz pleaded, making a lunge for it. He dodged her, and she tried again, still without success. She stepped away, obviously rethinking her approach. "Don't be a jerk."

"I'm not being a jerk. This is my property and I'm allowed to say who can and can't look at it."

Liz rolled her eyes and stepped closer, digging her fingers gently into his stomach. Nothing. "Not ticklish. Nice try, though."

"Please? One picture."

He pretended to consider it, then shook his head. Liz crossed her arms and sat on the floor, pushing a shirt out of the way.

"Fine," she said, sticking her nose up in the air. "I'll bet you're not even that great, anyway."

Dammit. Reverse psychology. Max used to pull it on him all the time, but he had never learned to resist it. He set the book down on the bed and got to his knees, edging towards Liz.

"What was that?"

"I said you probably aren't even that great of an artist," Liz taunted, getting to her knees as well, and holding out her arms defensively. Michael went to tackle her, but she somehow managed to knock him to the ground first, and held his arms to the floor, grinning. "And you also suck as a wrestler."

Michael knocked her elbow, sending her toppling to his chest, then rolled the two of them over, so that she was now pinned under him

"No I don't," he said simply, He held both of her wrists in one hand, so that his other hand was free, and began tickling her. Just like always, Liz immediately began giggling and trying to push him off, to no avail. Suddenly, her eyes clenched shut and a small cry of pain escaped her lips. Michael froze immediately, getting off of her. "Did I hurt you! I'm sorry! What'd I do? Are you okay?"

Liz got to her knees, holding her side. For a moment, her eyes looked like a trapped animal's, but then an idea flashed behind them, and she leapt to her feet, lunging for the sketchbook. She retrieved it and held it behind her, giggling as he got to his feet.

"You may have the strength, but I've got the agility and the speed, baby," she taunted. Michael rolled his eyes. When she saw that he wasn't heading for her, she took the sketchbook out from behind her and ran her hand along the thick cover. Michael expected her to flip through it, in celebration of her triumph, so he sat on his bed, leaning against the headboard in defeat. But Liz didn't open it, instead sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"May I?" she asked, her dark eyes seeking permission.

"Weren't you going to, anyway?"

"No." She looked surprised. "Like you said, Michael, this is your property. I'm not going to leaf through it unless you say I can."

"Oh." Interesting. "Then, go ahead."

Liz looked down at the book, then went up and leaned against the headboard, sitting next to him. He looked away, bracing himself for whatever reaction she might have to seeing herself covering the pages of his sketchbook, but he heard nothing. He looked down at her. She was transfixed by the first page, studying it carefully. This one wasn't even of her—it was of the tree he'd been sitting under that first night, with a streetlight in the distance. Anxious to just get it over with, Michael took hold of the corner of the page, breaking the spell. Liz looked up at him.

"There are other pages," Michael said softly.

Liz smiled and turned the page. This was of the Crashdown during the dinner rush—he'd drawn it a few months ago. He saw the corners of Liz's mouth turn up, and she turned the page again. Michael closed his eyes—he knew the next picture by heart. It was the one he'd drawn that day in class—of Liz laying back in the swing. He heard a soft gasp of surprise, and looked at her again. She turned the page again, and looked at the rest of the pictures—all of her. She looked down at the picture he'd drawn when she'd first come back—when she was looking at the stars. It was rough—there hadn't been much light—but it was of Liz.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him, eyes shimmering. "Michael…" she began, then trailed to a stop, not knowing what to say. He slid his fingers through her silky charcoal hair and tilted her chin up. She bit her lip for a moment, but then smiled and let her eyes slide closed.

Their lips brushed against each other, cautious at first, but growing bolder with every second that they were touching. He slid his tongue across her lips, seeking deeper access, which she granted, smiling against him. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and bit it softly, and he felt a slight tremor run through her body. Their tongues did a soft, slow dance to music no one could hear. He could have stayed like this forever, but all too soon, their lungs began to protest, and they had to pull apart.

Liz looked down at the forgotten sketchbook and closed it, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He ducked down a little, and saw that she was blushing. He caught her chin, pulling her up to look at him. She smiled shyly as their eyes locked, touching her lips. In that moment, it seemed like he understood her perfectly. He pulled her tightly to him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. They sat there for a while, clinging tightly to each other until finally, Liz pulled away, and he noticed that she was pinching the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pulling her hand away.

"I guess… I'm the one who thinks this is a dream now," she said, smiling sheepishly. They laughed, and she slid the sketchbook away.

"You know the only way to make sure it isn't?" Michael asked, looking away.

"What?" Liz asked, though she probably knew what he was thinking.

"We'd have to do it again."

"Oh…" Liz whispered, nodding. "Well, anything in the name of science, right?" She twisted so she was sitting in his lap and lowered her head to his.

"Anything," Michael agreed, before allowing her to capture his lips.

This kiss was different from the other one they'd just shared. Michael found himself growing dizzy, and clinging onto Liz, even as her grip on him tightened. Then he felt a small tug at the back of his mind, and a rush of images and feelings flooded him.

Two children in a tight farewell hug. Crushing torment as the car pulled away from the only place she'd ever felt safe. Tentative hope as she is introduced to her foster parents. A few good memories-happiness. But then things take a darker turn. A nasty-looking man with a bald head reaching down to touch her. Confusion and pain. Humiliation. Terror as she is pinned down while a thick, burning liquid is poured into her mouth—

Liz broke away, scrambling away from him and trembling.

"What was that? What the hell did you do?" She demanded.

Michael took a few steps forward, and Liz scrambled backwards some more, nearly falling off the bed. She caught herself and stood there. She was—afraid of him?

"Liz," he coaxed. "I don't know what just happened, but no one's going to hurt you."

"I kn-know," she replied, chest heaving. Michael moved forward and took her in his arms, and they both sank to the floor. Liz was trembling and sobbing, and for a terrifying second, Michael thought that whatever had just happened, was alien-related and that it had hurt her. Then he realized that, although it was obviously alien-related, Liz was just scared, not hurt. She put her head on his chest, and he lay back, bringing her with him. He stroked her head while she calmed down. When he felt the last of her trembling subside, he looked up and brushed at a tear trail.

"What were those pictures?" he asked her. "I mean, what were they of?"

She tried to bury her face in his chest, but he caught her chin, forcing her troubled dark eyes to focus on his.

"Liz?"

"That was…my life," Liz said, shrugging helplessly and pulling her chin away. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly.

"All of them? Who was that man?" He prodded, sitting up as well. She didn't answer, so he moved closer to her. "Liz, you can tell me. I need you to tell me."

"I…know," She said, not looking at him.

"So?"

"So, it's hard, Michael. I just want to forget. Why do you want to know, anyway? Morbid curiosity?"

"No. I…I don't know why. I just feel like I need to know. It's the same reason I asked about what happened when we were thirteen, Liz. Please. I care." She shivered, and Michael pulled her to him, taking her hands.

"In the beginning…" Liz began shakily. "…Everything was fine. The family was nice—like I said, there were a lot of kids there, and we got along great. I thought it was…okay. We did the things I guess other families did-you know, movies, ballgames, all that cheesy stuff."

"Sounds…good?"

Liz snorted. "Right. Then we had some sort of family reunion-they introduced me to this couple they called Aunt Lucy and Uncle Willie. The other kids were completely comfortable with them, but I…they were scary. That night, I was making more lemonade in the kitchen, while everyone else was in the living room watching some stupid slide show from someone's trip to Maine. I thought I was going to die of boredom. So I'm at the sink, and I feel someone come up behind me. It was Uncle Willie. He…" Her voice cracked and she looked around the room helplessly.

"He tried to-he. God. He tried to touch me." On his blank look, she elaborated. "The way you asked me once if my father touched me." He nodded. "I threw the pitcher of lemonade at him, and he started yelling, and Janice and Ed—my foster parents—came in, and Uncle Willie made up some stupid story about how I went all psycho and attacked him. They sent me up to my room. I…went down for breakfast the next morning, and they yelled at me and sent me back upstairs. I…had to stay there all weekend."

"In your room? You couldn't go anywhere else?"

"Um. I managed to sneak to the bathroom a few times, but…yeah. Then, Monday morning, they acted like nothing had happened, except they didn't wake me up until, like, five minutes before school, so I couldn't get breakfast, and I didn't have time to pack a lunch."

Michael shook his head and pressed his lips to the top of her head, inhaling the warm, faint smell of her shampoo.

"School was…it wasn't as good as it was here. I mean, there was no Alex, or Maria, or Max, or…you…" She blushed. "But there was this one teacher, and I think she kind of knew something was up. She took me out to lunch that day-told me to eat until I was full." Liz smiled. "But I didn't, because I didn't want her to catch on. But…then that was over, and the family pretended everything was normal for a while. Then, in the beginning of eighth grade, there was another 'family reunion', and Aunt Lucy and Uncle Willie were there, only this time they stayed overnight. I woke up that night because someone was opening my door-it was Uncle Willie. He tried to climb into the bed, but I jumped up and screamed, and the family ran in to see what was going on. He made up another dumb story about how he'd heard me crying in my sleep, and they bought it, because, I guess I had cried during the night, in the first few weeks. But luckily he didn't try anything else, and I didn't get into trouble."

"Is that all that happened? I mean, it was only occasionally, right?"

Liz said nothing, but slowly shook her head.

"Then what else did they do?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath and rolled up her sleeve. There were several small, circular scars dotting her shoulder. She looked away as he traced them gently. He knew what they were. He bore tons of them.

"Liz, these are—cigarette burns."

She nodded forlornly. "Janice smoked."

Michael squeezed her tighter and tilted her head up, gently brushing his lips against hers. The whole reason Liz'd had to leave Roswell, was to get away from that shit. She shouldn't have had to deal with it in her foster home. He clenched his fist several times, but again was unable to control himself, and directed his power towards his window. It shattered, and Liz yanked away from him.

"What keeps doing that?" she demanded. "First your lamp, now your window." She rose to her feet. "And where did those pictures come from? How did you see them?" Michael stood, but Liz stepped away from him, backing up against the door before he could touch her.

"Liz…" he began, but she opened the door, looking at him strangely.

"What are you?" she whispered. He had no answer for her—could only drop his eyes to the floor as she took backwards steps out of his room, then turned and stalked out of the trailer.

Michael turned around and punched his wall, letting out a roar of pure rage, and then fell to the floor, holding his head in his hands.