285 South

Dinner was nice and casual, a burger and fries at a nearby diner, something they used to have at the Crashdown when they were teenagers.

Maria had felt sixteen all over again, that immovable weight which had been crushing her for the past few years was lifted and she found it easier to breathe, to smile, to laugh.

It was a nostalgic night, Michael could see the ghost of the old Maria ever so near them when she played with her straw and sent him a saucy smile across the table. As Maria watched the oh-so-familiar action of Michael placing a small heap of Tabasco sauce on his chips she felt a soft warmth spread across her chest and rise to the back of her neck, she had almost forgotten his spicy and sweet dietary quirk.

Rath didn't have that problem and at the time she had been glad there were so many differences between them.

Her mood darkened a little at the thought of Rath, but it didn't last long as she turned to look at her Michael. They were walking through the town centre, it was close to Christmas and Maria enjoyed watching the glowing festive lights reflect off Michael's angular cheekbones. She wished she was a painter or sculptor so she could capture it, before age plundered his face of its youth, even though he immortalised everything else in his paintings, she knew he would never think of painting himself.

Michael stole glances at her as they continued to walk; they hadn't spoken a word in the last few minutes, instead just enjoying the companionable silence.

Sage and Lilac scents hung in the air like an unspoken question, the sweet of the lilac and the earthy tones of the sage mingled into a heady atmosphere. The rustic dusky red pueblo-style buildings appeared to cradle them as they strolled. Despite being well-maintained there was something worn in about Santa Fe's architecture that Michael fell in love with. It was beautiful but damaged, a little tired and with a lot of history. Far from the commercialisation that was embedded in the very roots of Roswell, tourists in Santa Fe were rare and there was a delightful absence of gimmicky signs and neon puns.

Maria thought they'd been walking at random until he abruptly stopped outside of a building that had large glass windows, a white terrace and a white veranda, held up by white pillars. The paint was cracked from heat and age and the building was slightly crooked but it radiated a warm sense of welcoming. It was easy to spot why they were, a large A4 poster was pasted onto one window displaying his name, Michael Guerin, and the dates of the gallery opening – the first of which was the following evening. There was a gold sign hung at the top of the door embossed with Manitou Galleries and underneath it, 123 West Palace Avenue.

Maria's mouth dropped open a little as she realised where Michael's artwork was being displayed: Manitou Galleries is very well known in the art world. The university of Art and Design in Santa Fe is also very prestigious but she hadn't realised just how far Michael's career had blossomed until now. For Manitou Galleries to be showing his entire collection well….he must be a pretty big deal. She shot Michael a questioning look, unsure why he had brought her here tonight when she'd packed a cocktail dress and her fanciest makeup for the grand opening tomorrow.

She opened her mouth to speak but Michael quickly cut her off. "I just need you to see this before the public do…" He answered cryptically.

Michael took out a key and ignored the slight tremble in his fingers as he opened the double wooden doors. This was the moment he had been dreading and hoping for. He felt sick. With a shaky breath, that he made no effort to hide, he took Maria by her hand and pulled her inside as he turned on the lights. He didn't look at the paintings hung on the walls; he'd supervised the way the paintings had been placed, the layout of the collections.

Instead he watched her reaction, trying to memorise every flicker of emotion that ran across her face, every colour reflected in her eyes. It was this moment that would define their future; whether she would run from him as fast as her little legs could carry her, or if she would stay, stay and be with this new (if slightly obsessed) person that he'd become.

Maria's eyes refocused as the soft fluorescent lights flickered on in the dim room, lighting each collection at a time. A small gasp left her lips before she could stop herself. The walls were alternately painted in white or that sandstone-rose that was on each of the surrounding shops and houses. Paintings ran along the sides of the room; each with an individual plaque proclaiming the title and a gentle spotlight above it. The room was separated by a long wall that ran down the middle of the room, the centre of which was dedicated to a sizeable painting and a few others dotted around it. The collection was titled Maria in bold golden letters.

Her heart stopped, literally. It stopped and didn't resume until a few seconds later when she started to wheeze ever so slightly. It was like her insides had decided to shut down, understanding more than her brain would allow her to.

The painting was amazing. It was dark, vicious, and agonisingly beautiful. It vibrated with fiery reds, harrowing blacks and scornful swathes of jade. It was of a fallen angel whose golden blonde curls had been tumbled haphazardly; she was wearing a torn green dress and was curled up, weeping, on a black iron-post bed. The haze of reds and blacks obscured the sides of the bed and filled the background as if she were in hell itself. One wing was raised as if in a desperate plea to leave, whereas the other hung limp behind her. Her cat-green eyes seemed to follow you around the room as the black makeup around them had smudged and mixed in with her tears. There was a desperate hope in her face that haunted you. It was exquisitely painful to look at.

Around this painting were smaller normal sized paintings, which repeatedly contained a green-eyed blonde girl with pouty red lips and long elegant legs. There were 7 in total; not including that one in the middle - larger than real-life Maria. Was this really how he saw her? The fallen angel resonated very deeply, if you took away the wings and the torn dress and she could imagine that it was her only a few days ago when she had drunkenly told Michael to leave. The others however, they looked like older paintings and the subject looked far less damaged. Michael must have been painting me for years! She realised as she saw how perfectly she had been put onto paper. Each painting told a moment of their relationship before everything had changed; one was even entitled 285 South as an homage to her abduction.

"Oh Michael…." She breathed, at a loss for what she could possibly say to all of this.

Her heart had stopped skipping beats; instead now it appeared to be collecting the ones it had missed, hammering twice as fast. One of the smaller pictures caught her eye, it was of the night he had left, the night she had lovingly bestowed on him her virginity as a goodbye gift. She stepped closer with a shaky hand outstretched as she stared at the image of herself asleep on her childhood bed, a tangle of a limbs, one rounded breast shyly peeking above the sheet, her hair in a sensual disarray.

Her mouth opened and closed. Naked. She was naked. She was naked in a painting that is being showcased in the most prestigious gallery in Southwest America. Many people were going to be looking at her nipple tomorrow night and she had to be there and see them looking at her nipple. Her hands fumbled in her pocket for a bottle of Eucalyptus essential oils. She had spotted a small stall on the way to Santa Fe and had decided to pick the habit back up again, it was better than jonesing for something stronger like a joint or a fifth of Jack.

Michael continued to watch her silently, nervously. With the critical eye of an artist; he compared his work to her face, knowing it had all been done by memory instead of having her sit for him - which was the preferred method. The eyes were slightly more curved than they should be, the nose a touch too small and her hair was a shade lighter but it was still a striking likeness. He felt a wave of pride as he continued to compare, he had actually done a pretty great piece of work. The pride was quickly replaced with concern and deja-vú as he witnessed Maria take unsteady gasps from a small brown vial. Maybe he had done too much of a good job.

Maria threw down the vial, not happy with the lacklustre result, how could she think that eucalyptus oils would take away her cravings. The bottle didn't shatter – it just bounced across the glossy tiled floor with a quiet plink!

She glared Michael's mute figure, irritated with his unusually calm mood. "Oi buddy say something!" She shouted and began to pace. "Explain all of – of – This!" She waved a furious hand in the air towards the numerous reflections of herself, unnerved at their accuracy and the silent meaning behind them. Those looming three words that seemed to repeat themselves over and over and over within every brush stroke, so undeniable that Maria's carefully constructed self-defences wobbled every time she looked at those paintings.

No longer could she protect herself like Michael had, with walls made of solid stone, smooth and cold to touch. Now her defences were becoming insubstantial, jellified, a raging heat was spreading through her body and she found herself conflicted with so many emotions. She wanted to kill him, kiss him, run away. She wanted to grab the paintings off the wall and throw them out the window. They mocked her, this silent paper Maria had experienced far more of Michael than she'd ever had. Of course it hadn't mattered to him that he'd left her behind because he could just replicate her whenever he wanted. She didn't even have a photo of him.

Yeah but you had Rath. How is he going to feel about that? A sly voice piped up in the back of her mind. The thought shocked her into a stillness. Shit. Shit. Stupid conscience was right. He didn't know and eventually he'll find out.

Michael watched as Maria turned to him, her mouth opened and closed and seemed unable to say anything more. All in all, she had reacted as best as he could have hoped for. She easily could have gone far more bezerk than throwing a tiny bottle of oil. He walked forward slowly, as if not to spook a particularly wild animal, and took her warm hand into his. He faced the paintings and continued to stare at them as he spoke, not sure exactly what he was going to say but he had the feeling it was going to be more than he should say.

"The night when I left sort of followed me around. I couldn't sleep much, I kept seeing your face and it was driving me crazy. So I would draw and draw in my sketchpad – like I was trying to draw you out of me but it never went anywhere. Then after a few years I did that competition, got a scholarship to college and started to paint again. So I painted you. I think somewhere inside I thought that if I just painted you perfectly, if I captured everything that made you who you were, then I would be free of you and I could try to move on - as I was sure you had." Michael glanced sideways, feeling the weight of Maria's stare and saw that her face had softened, her eyes were shiny and a little wet.

He fixed his gaze firmly on the floor as he continued, "But there's too much of you to put into one painting. I can remember all of these things about you that are untranslatable to canvas, like the sound of your voice, the taste of your lips, that fact that you avoid odd numbers as much as possible because they freak you a little. I can't paint any of that. So I gave up. I figured you would have found a better person to be with, got married, had a few kids and was working on your music. I just accepted that I'd never be over you and got on with my life. Occasionally painted you when I remembered another expression, another moment, but also painted other things. But then I saw Max in a bar and I just couldn't pretend any more. I hadn't found any aliens which before made me feel like a failure so it had been easier to stay away, but after seeing him look so…old….I had to come back. Although others had been pushing me, I wasn't going to tell you about the gallery. I thought it wouldn't be all that big and you probably wouldn't hear about it. But then when I saw you, when I heard about…your marriage, I knew I couldn't be a shit-scared teenager anymore. Not with you. I…."

Maria, mid-panic, cut him off before she could hear it. "Michael! Don't." She avoided his eyes, ignoring the stunned expression and the flash of pain that swept across his face. "Michael, you must know I'm damaged. I won't be that other girl, the girl in these paintings. I can't save you anymore." She nervously played with one of her blonde curls, the black nail varnish on her fingers were worn and chipped away absently reminding her to re-paint them when she got home. Michael's eyes were boring into her, seeing through that now pudding-like barrier, making her breath catch fire and her heart drum out an old tribal rhythm. His dark eyes saw everything, remembered everything.

He took her face between his hands and stared deeply into her eyes, making sure she saw the sincerity in his.

"Maria," He said slowly, deliberately, "as you know, that middle painting is of you now. Damaged, dark and still easily the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. Maybe all of this, Hank, me leaving, your marriage, college, maybe all of this has lead up so it's not you who saves me anymore, or me that saves you. Maybe it's so we can save each other." The nausea returned and Michael felt his stomach do a double-loop a he realised that he was going in for the kiss. Maria's eyes were glittering, her lips were crying out to be tasted, that cherry flavour so close he could just swipe his tongue across the bottom lip, the red shimmer sending his pulse skyrocket.

He pressed his lips to hers, gently but firmly with such a sense of longing underneath it that Maria couldn't help but return it. Explosions. Fireworks. A million movie montages ran through her head as she opened her mouth and pressed herself against his hard body, feeling the rough swipe of his tongue against her lip-gloss and then massaging her own. The knots in her stomach disappeared; the ache in her chest blossomed and spread across her entire body. She writhed as one of his cool hands slipped underneath her t-shirt, across the burning skin of her back, fingers grazing the side of her breast. The other hand was clamped on the roundness of her arse, holding her tightly against him, sparks of pleasure ran up their spines as they rubbed against each other. Flashbacks of erasure closets, bleachers, and the Crashdown kitchen all came back to her in a blinding sensation.

Then she saw herself. Many images of herself. A door opens and she's standing there – from earlier today, again when they were teenagers and her hair is much shorter, her sweeping the diner, her lips, her eyes, her legs, her smile, her singing in her bedroom, her drying him off and holding him at night, her crying on the bed, her looking up at him during their lovemaking, the vulnerability…she could feel his sorrow during that night, so thick he couldn't swallow past it to speak, to say the words he so eagerly needed to say.

Their mouths broke apart but they remained in each other's arms. Michael's eyes were glazed but Maria's were wide open, she had finally got the flashes and they were all of her. A tear slipped down her face as she brushed her lips against his cheekbone, silently thanking him for loving her so much. But Michael didn't respond. Michael slowly pulled away from Maria and untangled himself from her arms. His face was furrowed, as if he had been given a puzzle that just wouldn't come up with the right answer.

"Michael?" Maria queried, her voice losing all strength as she witnessed a return of his silent stature. There was an electric charge in the air that she could feel crackling away. Her heart began to pound as she realised what he may have seen.

She had seen the flashes. She had finally seen the flashes. He must have seen some too.

She ignored the dark memories rising, trying to clamour for attention. Rath hitting her. Rath throwing beer cans. Rath tying her up. Rath shapeshifting into Michael and raping her. The nights before Rath. Sex behind a club. Empty. Numb. Drugs. Rough fingers scratching her skin as they pushed in dollar notes. She ignored them and kept her eyes trained on Michael, hating the instant terror and fear that seized her body as a secondary instinct.

Michael swallowed. His eyes refocused and looked back into her wide ones. He opened his mouth a few times before licking his lips and finally asking her what he needed to know. "Maria," he murmured, "who was your husband and why does he look like me?"

TBC

Authors Note:

Thank you so much ValentineBabe and Ti88 for your reviews, they really helped me work on this chapter at such a speedy pace! I guess it's only you two who are actually reading this any more, SO I hope you're enjoying it! If you have any suggestions let me know. Sorry about the cliffie, I couldn't help myself.

Ti88 - thank you for reviewing, don't worry we will get back to the other characters as well, I haven't just left them. Yeah originally Liz's death was going to be a bigger storyline but writers block hit me so badly and the story had been going on for so long that I wanted it to still have an impact but to just get it out of the way aswell. I hope it didn't come as too much of a letdown.

ValentineBabe - Thank you so much for reviewing, I'm a terrible lurker myself sometimes so I really appreciate it and also I appreciate the compliments :D they cheered me up a lot over christmas.

The next part might be a in a week or two, as I have essays to write for uni and a chest infection to battle. But I promise I will not leave it so long as I have done before. My lazy muse has come back and I've captured it. Reviews keep her alive lol.

Thank you again for continuing to read!