Hi guys. This is my first foray into Roswell fanfic so please be patient with me. This story popped into my head after watching the rerun of "Missing" a few nights ago. It's set right after the scene at the Crashdown with Michael and Liz. So obviously there are some spoilers for that episode.
Now, I'm a devout Dreamer girl and definitely a Candy girl as well, but this intrigued me. Besides, this fic involves each couple, in a way, without truly switching anything around. Basically just your average Michael angst.
Since this is my first try at Roswell fic, I would really appreciate feedback afterwards. Thanks again.
Remember, this is rated PG-13 (maybe borderline R) for language and some sexual content.
Thank you for giving me one more reason to envy Max Evans.
One more reason. One more damn reason.
He swore violently as he punched a nearby locker, pretending it was Max's skull. Instantly regretting his action, he drew back his hand, bright red and pulsing with pain, and waved it across the dent, neatly restoring the door to its original condition.
He tightened his jacket against him. At night the school was colder than usual. Glancing to his left and right, he stalked towards the dark room at the end of the hall.
He easily manipulated the lock and flicked on the light. The clock ticked loudly, announcing to the world that Michael Guerin has voluntarily entered school grounds way after hours. 1:34. He had all night. The security guard would be a little tied up for a while with an over-heated generator. He chuckled to himself. The guy's probably still wondering how the hell it ever got that hot to begin with.
No, he was safe there, at least for about five hours. It was enough.
The school seemed to echo with the sound of the easel scraping across the floor as he tugged it to his usual place. He found a brush and paint set on a shelf and placed them on the stool next to him.
He shook his head and flipped over the first page of his sketchbook. Now was not the time to think about his vision. He only had one thing on his mind.
A smile quirked at his lips when his second sheet revealed a crude stick figure. But the smug grin dropped when he remembered why he was there. He unscrewed the cap off the black paint so hard that it splattered onto his shirt.
Flipping to a new page, he dipped his brush in the paint and paused. Inspiration failed him. The only thing he felt was anger. At the Crashdown, he had at least felt calm enough to tease her a little, to draw out her suspense, and even extend his own friendship. To announce that she had his approval. But all the mental prepping he had put himself through beforehand had only carried him so far. By the time he was finished, his control was nearly spent, and he just couldn't help it anymore.
He had said it, and he couldn't take it back.
He flicked his wrist in frustration, and a trail of paint spattered thick and wet against the paper. It was so obvious she pitied him. No matter how hard he tried, Michael knew he couldn't blame her for that. Who wouldn't feel sorry for him?
Compared to his best friend, who wouldn't find him wanting? Lacking in nearly every area of his pathetic life. The list played over in his head for the millionth time. His brain recited it automatically; it was inscribed in his head, and he couldn't get it out.
Loving parents. Splat. Caring sister. Streak. Good grades.
With every characteristic named, Michael launched his paintbrush at the easel, sometimes backing away to take aim and fire, sometimes approaching the paper and tearing the brush across the sheet.
Likeable. Flick. Responsible. Double flick. Controlled. This garnered merely a wry chuckle from the artist as he gazed at the mess he had made of the sheet. Reasonable. Lines of paints dribbled down the paper and onto the floor.
And now: Liz Parker's fucking soul-mate.
Sure he had read the journal. She was obviously into Max, into him in a way Michael could hardly understand. No, make that in a way he absolutely understood. Yeah he understood alright. After all, who wouldn't be into him? It only made sense that Max would be loved, and he himself would be pitied and ostracized.
His mind briefly lingered over Maria, but he quickly dismissed the idea. She was strange, way 'out-there.' She was cute, sure, but she wasn't Liz. And he wasn't Max. And anything they could ever have together would be a pathetic attempt at replicating the true connection the other two had.
He cursed out loud, his words seeming to play back to him as they swirled around the empty room. He tore the heavy, dripping sheet from the pad and dropped it into the nearby trashcan.
If only he could get her. Tear away from Max the one part of his perfect life that would hurt the most to lose. He felt a pain of regret when he thought about what he was saying. Part of him cringed at the prospect of hurting Max. But the other half of him screamed that Max Evans had had enough good luck in his life. Too much even. Anything he got, he had coming. And anything Michael got out of it was rightly his as well. Just as Max was due for some disappointment, he was due for some happiness.
But he had long ago given up the belief that life owed him anything. He had seen too much injustice to believe that things ever would or should be evened out. Some people were just born with bigger burdens then others, and that was too damn bad for them. While the rest of the world enjoyed the fact that they were blessed with some form of contentment and worried over their petty problems, people like him struggled every day to put on a positive front, if you could call it that.
Sure Max and Isabel looked after him, cared about him, watched over him. But they weren't there when Hank came stumbling home, yelling and throwing beer bottles across the room. They weren't there when they got too caught up in their happy little lives to notice that when they left, he was alone.
Isabel had always been more social than the two of them. She was pretty and popular, and never struggled with fitting in. At least he had had Max most of the time, when he wasn't off with his parents someplace. But now Max had someone, or was in the process of getting someone. Someone who would occupy his time, fill his life in a whole new way. Of course the first of them to fall in love would be Max. Like he was the one who needed the extra support.
His hand swept back and forth across the page in a fury of energy. He had abandoned the messy paints to a piece of black charcoal. As he etched, shaded, and blended it occurred to him that maybe his talent didn't have to be reserved for alien visions.
I saved someone's life, Michael. I wasn't dabbling in the arts.
Naturally. Naturally whatever he was good at wouldn't be as important as whatever Max could do. Naturally Max's powers could save lives, when his could only mess things up. Naturally Max could choose exactly when he wanted to use his abilities, and his own just exploded out whenever he was upset.
The picture slowly took shape and form. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, and as they did their work, Michael let his mind wander. Sometimes only fantasy could keep him from losing it, could save him from his depressing reality.
He imagined sitting on her balcony like he knew Max did. He imagined climbing in her window like he climbed into the Evans house. He pictured her welcoming him, holding him in her arms and comforting him like Isabel did sometimes. Only different. Much different.
He imagined himself laying her down on her bed and taking her. Hard. She would gasp with pleasure and pain and mumble his name. No, he wouldn't tell her he loved her. He wasn't a liar. Not all the time anyways.
He imagined stealing away her innocence, claiming the gift as his own.
Even while the thoughts played out in his mind, he told himself they were wrong. She would keep quiet, he was sure. Protect them, help them even. He had no right to wish her harm, not anymore.
He brought the charcoal down hard on the sheet, nearly ripping the page in his intensity. But it wasn't about her, dammit. She was too perfect to think of as a person, just an entity. The ideal complement to Max. Which was exactly why he wanted her to be his.
A faint light began to stream through the windows. Dawn was right around the corner. He had no idea how early teachers showed up, so he knew he had to finish soon.
The sun illuminated his drawing, nearly complete. He wasn't surprised by the face that stared back at him. Long straight hair framing small lips and doe eyes. Unreachable. She herself was his complete and utter opposite, just as Max seemed to be.
It was eerie how well he had captured her. Only he had fooled her into thinking he was someone else. The expression in her eyes was deep, awkward, moony even. Loving. He recognized it well.
He smiled to himself. Probably the only time he would ever see anyone direct that kind of look at him. He treasured the brief moment, but soon frustration took over.
He had been an idiot to come here, expecting some sort of magical revelation. He had been an idiot to let himself imagine his life any differently than the way it was. And he had been an idiot to think that he could ever take her away from Max. Of all the people in the world, he was the one who should know the most that that wasn't possible anymore. It was written all over every page of her damn diary. Whether she intended to or not, she had made it very clear that her feelings for Max were well beyond friendship or even a passing crush.
Chalk another one up for Max Evans.
A sardonic grin twisted his face unpleasantly. What was the count now? Even he was starting to lose track.
With vicious determination, Michael swept his hand across the easel, reducing the once charcoal-covered sheet to a blank page once again. Leaving behind false fantasies and hopeless dreams, he stalked out of the room without once looking back.
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