A/N: Characters aren't mine. One shot slash. Please R&R.


In all respects I was a normal seventeen year old guy. I was straight because I never entertained the idea that there was an alternative... let's just leave it at that. Roswell's a small town. I was your typical popular jock, I was the captain of varsity football, basketball and wrestling teams. I was the King; the top dog, I owned the school. My duty was to win and go out to get wasted every so often. I'd probably hook up with some similarly wasted girl. I was the big man on campus after all. Until the day Elizabeth Ann Parker agreed to a date.

The thing you have to know about Liz is that she is perfect. She's perfect without trying, she's beautiful but not unapproachable, she's smart but she doesn't flaunt it and she's got a sense of humour, this dry sarcastic wit. Like I said she's perfect, she's the dream you fall in love with, not that it was love; Liz was never mine. Now in hindsight, Evans and his eye fucks, his reciprocated eye fucks...I should have seen it.

A year ago I would have laughed in your face if you told me there was a world where demons and aliens existed, that all the tall tales your parents told you to keep you quiet were true. I would have asked you what drugs you were taking and to share.

But that was then.

This is my reality now. Max Evans decided to heal Liz Parker. I should've steered clear, so that fateful day when some FBI wanker decided to go rogue and I got shot dead never would have happened. I can hear you laughing, but this is no joke.

My name is Kyle Valenti and I've died and been saved, resurrected really, by a high school geek with a secret. His soul mate is my ex-girlfriend…and we're both irrevocably chained to Max Evans.

This is why I'm still alive to tell these tall tales. I was healed by an alien. I was and still am dependant on some guy, an alien, who owns my ex girlfriend. But the mind trip doesn't end there, now, months later the strangeness has just begun.

Every time someone unknown arrives in Roswell they irrevocably impact our lives. First it was Kathleen Topolsky, then Tess and Ed Harding, and now this scruffy red haired man affectionately known as Oz.

I can't say that there was anything special about him, but the things that go bump in the night are always more attractive than they should be. He's only a little shorter than me, his red hair offset against pale, almost snow white skin. But then you look at his face, his green luminescent eyes, his perfect bow shaped mouth.

Shit. I'm "waxing lyrical". ...funny expression...how can wax be lyrical?

I don't remember when I decided that feeling his hands over my body was okay, but I do remember the moment that I fell out of infatuation with Miss Elizabeth Ann Parker. Okay, that was a lie. I know exactly when I decided that feeling his hands over my body was okay. I remember exactly when it became okay that a guy and not a girl pressed their lips on mine. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It started on a Tuesday, I was at the garage when a clunked out Volkswagon van shuddered to a jerking halt next to my convertible, steam pouring out of the engine which clouded the windscreen. As the door creaked open, I half expected to see billowing smoke caress the hourglass figure of an exotic bikini model. FYI I'm picturing barely there black triangles held together by spit and some inventive knots.

My father always said I had an active imagination.

Instead an average bloke clambered out. His shoulders were bowed with a weight all too familiar to me. The wrinkles, assorted tears and food stains on his shirt screamed no stops. It was the day before the full moon. He must have felt the weight of my stare because he turned to me and gave me one of those 'wassup I'm cool' Neanderthal nods. I gave him an 'I'm alpha. Back off my turf' stare, which looking back now is fricking hilarious. I hopped out not bothering with the door because, face it, what else would you do in a convertible?

"Sweet ride."

I grunted at him looking over his van with a critical eye. The wheels were caked with dirt and grit. There was a distinct smell of burning rubber and singed hair.

"Wish I could say the same." I muttered, he shot me a look making it clear he had heard me.

"I need to get this looked at. Who do I talk to?"

I eyed him over, my hesitation speaking volumes. "I can pay."

I pause a moment before reaching into the back of the car for my overalls, "I can look over it."

That was our first meeting, there was no hint of what was coming. I didn't feel the earth move, I sure as hell wasn't attracted to him and for all I knew he was blowing through town on his way to somewhere better.

He rocked up at the Crashdown the next day holding an old flyer that Alex had pasted up months ago, not batting an eyelid at the costumes and decor he quietly approached Maria who was serving.

"Hey."

Maria turned, "It's full table service, how many..."

"Actually, I just wanted to know about the garage band..."

Just like that he was in the group, well, almost in the group if you haven't noticed I have a slight tendency to exaggerate. I know, shocking right? But in all seriousness it all came to a head…heh…head….on the day of the full moon. Oz had been hanging around for three weeks and that night obviously was critical.

I'd like to say it was deliberate, but like most of our discoveries it was all down to a combination of a deep and abiding mistrust, luck, timing and good old fashioned curiosity. Mine to be exact. I knew that something was up. He was extremely closemouthed about everything from his previous life. Not that I cared at that point. Our interactions were limited to the occasional nod-grunt combo or if we were particularly communicative a muttered wassup. But I had caught hints of not quite rightness. Dad had came in one day complaining under his breath about a nutter in the graveyard with a wooden stake. I had found rusty stains and a chain link in the back of the van, and about two weeks after his arrival I caught the tail end of a conversation, something about angels and amulets.

But I digress, the day of the full moon, Maria had arranged for the band to play a "gig" at the Crashdown.

Maria burst into the school grinning, she looked around and spotted me first. She charged up to me babbling excitedly I could only catch one out of every ten words coming out of her mouth.

"Err, Maria that's just great but you realise I have no fricking idea what you're on about. You need to slow down."

"Right." Maria fumbles around in her bag, pulling out a small opaque bottle, which she proceeded to sniff frantically. I glanced around spotting Alex holding court at the bleachers. I guided Maria over as she continued to blather at me. I pressed my finger onto her lips as I said quickly to Alex, "Here have a Maria, something about a gig in the Crashdown tonight?" I left quickly.

That night I went to the Crashdown. Oz wasn't there and Alex was playing instead. I felt the faint stirrings of curiosity. I left quietly and made my way to the graveyard. I spotted his van parked a street away, my spidey senses were screaming. I parked and hopped out of the car pulling out my trusty bat and flashlight. I heard noises coming from a crypt and made my way there.

I don't really know what I expected but I know what I didn't expect. Oz was hammering chain hooks into the ground and scattered next to him were torture devices from medieval England. I must have gasped or something because he spun around mouth gaping like a fish stranded on land.

"Kinky." I said.

From there it was all downhill. I found out that Aliens were the least of my problems. There was a whole world of demons; vampires, werewolves, the whole shebang. There were alternate and parallel universes. It was a complete mind fuck. I did what any reasonable human being would and bailed. But like the sucker I am I went back.

It was around the time of my tenth demon killing with Oz that I felt something other than platonic bromance stirring. Maybe it was all the killing. I don't know what that says about me. But as I shouted at Oz to duck and shoved Katzbalger into the cat demon thing's stomach I felt a rush, I had saved him. An inconsequential human armed with a skinny sharp metal stick.

He was covered with guts and sticky blue-black goo. I don't know why I did this but I reached over and swiped the goo off his cheek I had stopped laughing and he was just staring at me. He pushed up and lunged at me and just like that my boy kiss virginity was broken. In amongst the guts of some demon in the back alleys of Roswell a werewolf kissed me. I'd like to say it was life changing, but really it wasn't. It was, to be honest, disgusting because I'm pretty sure that the liquid smeared across his face was all kinds of unsanitary. But all I could do was feel the chapped lips pressed firmly against mine. I could feel his heart pounding underneath my hand as he slowly moved away from me. He couldn't or wouldn't meet my eyes and I had a split second to decide.

What can I say? In the end it wasn't a hard decision to make. I knew what hand life had dealt him. A certified genius seeking a hard won calm through Buddha. He was sarcastic and his laconic one liners killed me. Over demon slaying and my inadvertent discovery we had bonded but it was everything else that kept me from running.

It's strange, the lengths we go for the people we care about. Liz would pretend to sleep with me for a Max that wouldn't exist. I used to chain up a werewolf in my basement once a month and sleep outside his cage with one eye open and one hand on a tranq gun.

Let me make some things clear. We aren't soulmates, we aren't destined to be as one, our "love" doesn't belong in some poetic love song. We stay together because we want to. We don't run from each other, that's the deal. We fight, we make up...vigorously and repeatedly. We have bad days but in the end there's nothing that can't be solved, that knowledge was hard won. I literally bled to figure that out. But that's a story for another day.

So remember kids, don't get between people who eye fuck, don't underestimate the importance of protection, decent lube, and a weapons cache that would make the Marquis de Sade blush and remember the dark of night hides all manner of sins. So suit up and buckle down for the ride.

I swing my slightly modified baseball bat onto my shoulder and reach for his hand. I glance down at him and he smiles at me as his claws retract. We walk out of the graveyard together.