Disclaimer: The characters of "Roswell" belong to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, WB, and UPN. They are not mine and no infringement is intended.
Pairings/Couples/Category: Michael/Liz (UC, Polar)
Rating: Very much adult, because of Michael's potty mouth and lots of teh nasteh-nasteh.
Summary: Who is Elizabeth Parker? Sequel to The Photograph, The Stray and The Bathroom Mirror.
Author's Note: This was written for the Inferno Challenge over at Roswell Heaven. Many thanks to Whimsy, who reads my everything and still hasn't tired of me, yet.
The Father
THE SIN: Sloth/Anger
THE SIN: Sloth/Anger
The human heart beats over one-hundred thousand times a day. Seven-hundred thousand times a week. Three million times a month. Thirty-six million times a year.
Multiply that by zero, and that was how many times she felt it beating now.
She was still breathing. That much was apparent, else she would not see the golden rays of light filtering through her open window, would not see the plain curtains rustling in the slight desert breeze. Would not feel the soft sheets beneath her cheek, the gentle tickle on her neck when dark tresses shifted ever so slightly, the soothing caress of Ava’s hand upon her back. The sting when crimson lightning cackled beneath her skin and webbed between her fingers, snapping through her hair before zipping backwards and returning to her abdomen, where it fizzled out and died; something else she’d learned over the past few days since graduation. This firework display that would occasionally erupt throughout her immobile frame was a side-effect from the now fully aborted fetus, as her body was still coping with the loss and the energy left in the empty womb had to slowly ebb and dissipate into the mother. She had always thought Antarian energy to be green, demonstrated by the hybrids’ abilities time and time again, but green signified healthy. Strong. Alive.
She had never seen the vermilion dusk of death. Hoped to never see it again.
Tess Harding had lied about many things, but none as ridiculous as the time span of an alien pregnancy. One month? Wishful thinking. Because of the human portion of the hybrids’ DNA, they also had the human reproductive system and thus, had to endure the same forty weeks of pregnancy as any earthborn woman would. Two hundred and eighty days, counting from the last menstrual cycle, and approximately two hundred and sixty-six days from conception. The hybrids would have to deal with the same pains, the same strange cravings, the same explosion of hormones, the same vicious mood swings, the same weight gain… everything.
She had not known about the life blossoming in her uterus, had simply disregarded Ava’s little quips about being a good mother, eating certain foods and being careful as just another strange quirk of the New Yorker. Had not paid much thought to the subtle changes in her waistline, or how her breasts were suddenly awkward and pronounced in her clothing. Even the new appreciation for hybrid delicacy had not registered, which should have been the biggest clue, rampaging emotions aside. Ava, she learned, had known about the baby since the day they’d embraced in Utah. Subconsciously, Michael must have known as well, if one dissected his uncharacteristically gentle and affectionate nature in the time between Salina and Roswell; even his jealous rage—something she now understood as a miscommunication over what he’d thought had transpired between Sean DeLuca and herself… but as all things, the knowledge came too late—could be attributed to the pheromones neither parent-to-be had been aware of. It was startling how easily blinded to the obvious she, a budding molecular biologist, had been, when the evidence had all but smacked her with a neon sign screaming: You’re Pregnant.
Hindsight, it was said, was always painfully clear. Twenty-twenty. Elizabeth Parker had always made an effort to disprove that awful phrase, striving for a clinical detachment in any situation, personal or otherwise, in order to refrain from committing such glaring errors that would have her looking back with a grimace. Scientists were interested in facts, in separating the truth from myths. How could she call herself a scientist when she’d blatantly ignored every signal her own body had given her? How could Ava have called her a good mother, when she’d killed her unborn child? She’d murdered her baby, poisoned it with alcohol until it could not grow, could not breathe, could not live, and disintegrated into shreds of tissue and an endless river of blood.
So much blood. Pouring down her legs, gushing from her mouth as she vomited over and over and over again. The tiny shorts she’d worn at the graduation after party had been stained black from all of the blood. Her hands had been covered with it, the mortar between the tiles of the downstairs bathroom had been irrevocably painted red with it before Ava cleaned away the shame with a wave of her hand. Had Ava not been there to hide the messy residue of the miscarriage, there would have been a thick trail of blood from that lavatory, spanning the length of the Crash Down’s kitchen and continuing up the steps to her room, where the abdominal pain had been too much for either girl to bear. It must have been hell dragging the crying, writhing Liz Parker to the tub, but Ava, sweet, wonderful, loyal Ava, had managed to get her in there. Had tried to heal the damage in her womb, tried to save the flailing baby inside in spite of limited healing abilities… but all Ava could do was hold Liz as she sobbed in the aftermath, knowing and yet not knowing, that she had lost something precious. Something she could never fix. And it had broken her heart. Broken her.
She had not seen Michael since.
He’d run away, as Liz had done upon finding him with Maria that horrible night before Utah. They were disgustingly similar in so many ways; it was surprise neither of them had noticed before. Afraid? Run. Too much to handle? Run. Emotionally imbalanced and ready to explode from the overload? Run faster. Elizabeth Parker tried to overcome that childish need to hide from the things that hurt her the most, but when she was caught off her guard and thrust into a situation her analytical mind could not rationalize, that child reemerged and propelled her legs far, far away from the source. Michael was no different. After a lifetime of hiding in plain sight, of running away from a broken home and drunken fists, his legs were stronger and faster than hers. His instinct to run must have roared in his veins.
“Liz,” Ava murmured, breaking through the hollow wasteland of her thoughts. “You need t’ eat some’in’.”
Food? Oh, Ava. She appreciated the alien more than words or actions could ever express, but did she not know that there was no point? She did not need to do anything anymore. People who murdered their offspring did not deserve to live, ignorant or otherwise. Why should she, Elizabeth Parker, keep eating? Keep breathing? Keep living, when she so easily disregarded something so unbelievably fragile in her wild frenzy to earn Michael’s heart? She’d needed Michael. She’d needed his touch, his body, his love. It was pathetic. She had not been able to win over the father of her late child, even when nature had decided to lend a hand. Then, in an effort to have one last hurrah with her friends before she accompanied Ava to California for some much needed relaxation, she had disposed of the little beacon of life within her. Two great, overwhelming failures that would haunt her for the rest of her disgusting, pathetic days on the Earth.
Food? No, she did not need food.
“Liz,” Ava tried again. “This ain’t healthy.” Of course it wasn’t. That was the point. “You gotta get your skinny ass outta bed.”
Why? It was quiet here. It was soothing and consistent. The mattress would never leave her, did not care if she was too skinny or too short. Did not care if she could not sing to save her life, or if she did not have voluptuous curves, or if she did not have blonde hair, or if she was not Maria, or if she killed her baby. The mattress would not die, like Alex had, like her child had. The mattress would not hurt her by sleeping with another woman over and over and over and over again. The mattress would not rip her heart into a thousand little pieces, simply because he was too pigheaded and angry to talk to her about the rumor regarding Sean DeLuca instead of slamming her against a refrigerator and staking his claim of her body like some savage animal. The mattress knew the sincerity of her heart, would not question it, even when it had no reason to because he was the one that kept her hidden like some shameful secret since he loved his girlfriend so much. The mattress would never string her along like a puppet, even when he knew she willingly gave herself to him because she knew of no other way to keep him.
No. She liked this mattress very much. She would stay right here, where it was safe.
The sound of the door opening kept Ava from further attempts at nudging Liz. The bed shifted as the alien stood to intercept the intruder, as she had done for countless days since Liz refused to do anything besides curl around her pillow. Her self-appointed guardian. God, she was lucky to have Ava.
“Is she doing any better?” The disembodied voice of Nancy Parker.
“Nah,” was Ava’s quiet reply. “Fever’s still up.”
Her mother fell for the lie so easily. “I wonder if I should bring in a doctor. She’s had this flu for much too long, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Let’s wait ‘nother day before you call in the doc.”
Footsteps neared the prone form of the catatonic brunette. “My poor baby,” her mother cooed, brushing a hand through dark tendrils of hair. “I hate seeing you like this.”
Liz did not move. Did not look at her mother and reassure Nancy Parker that everything was fine. She was tired of lying, of pretending everything was okay when it could never be again. What would her mother think if Liz decided to tell her the truth? What would her mother say if she knew why her daughter would not eat, could not sleep, did not speak? No bout of influenza had ever kept Elizabeth Parker from living her life, and were it not for Ava and that nifty mind warp, there was no doubt that her parents would have called in a physician days ago. But Ava was getting desperate, Liz could hear it in her voice as the days grew longer, and may resort to desperate measures. When Nancy Parker shuffled from the room after a promise to return with a meal, the small part of Elizabeth Parker that remained aware of her surroundings sighed in relief.
Today would not be the day her parents realized what a screw-up their only child had become. Today would not be the day she stood up and faced the world and its endless injustices. She did not realize that she’d been crying until she felt arms wrap around her waist in comfort, trying to calm yet another bout of tears. No, she would not get up today. She could not. She’d lost the strength to hold her head above the sea of despair that threatened to drown her if she dared to feel. There was only her, the angel named Ava, and the soft pillow she kept smothered against her motionless frame.
Why was she still here? Why did her heart keep beating? Who was Elizabeth Parker?
She didn’t know, because anything multiplied by zero was still zero.
* * *
A lifetime flashed by. Day to night, night to day and back again. It stormed once, confusing the delicate balance she maintained on the flow of time, and it was then that Michael finally popped in for a visit.
She knew it was him before he’d spoken a word. The air always felt different when he was near. Charged. As if the atoms of the world had to rearrange themselves in order to encompass his presence. Maybe they did. She could hear the soft drip drip dripping as his rain-soaked clothes made a puddle on her hardwood floor, could hear his slightly uneven panting. Had he run here? That would have been irrational. He had a motorcycle… but riding that in this kind of weather was just as silly. His heavy feet clomped over to where she lay, still huddled around her pillow in naught but a loose shirt and a pair of underwear. Ava chose the perfect time to fall into a deep slumber behind her, though she deserved it after playing the role of protector for so long. The young alien would not be happy to know that Michael was here. As Liz stared at the dark skies weeping upon their small town, she distantly felt her pulse flutter. It was a far cry from before, and yet so much more than she’d allowed herself to feel since… since then.
Her window and the rain disappeared behind a familiar pair of broad shoulders. Even as he knelt by her bedside, he was still too large for her room. “Liz,” he whispered hoarsely.
Eyes that had forgotten how to see were suddenly focused, honing in on insignificant little details, but she could not look at him. Her peripheral vision caught sight of his limp hair sticking to his face and neck in thick, wet clumps. His shirt was nearly transparent from the amount of water it had been forced to endure and he was unusually pale. She would not meet his gaze. A damp, cold palm tentatively stroked one of her cheeks with infinite care and the contact sent a jolt of crimson electricity through her flesh, buzzing around her scalp for a moment before returning to her belly. “What the…?” She heard him breathe, those frigid fingers pausing in response to the strange current. The ring he always wore felt like ice against her warm face, but she bore it. “That’s gotta hurt like hell,” he murmured, gently tucking a few strands of dark hair behind her ear.
Those fingers trailed across her collarbone, down her arm, around her elbow and along her forearm until he reached one of her smaller extremities, disentangling her appendages from the pillow and threading them through his own. His lips grazed the back of her knuckles in a light caress and her heart hammered painfully, uncertain and afraid. Why was he here? What was he doing? It had been so long since she’d seen him last, since she’d felt him. His proximity sent ripples of awareness throughout the tight cocoon she’d woven, threatening to unravel her sanctuary thread by aching thread.
“How’ve you been?” Michael asked, then immediately cursed beneath his breath. “That was fucking stupid.” A ragged sigh left him, annoyed and defeated. His other hand crept forth and covered the little one already in his grasp. As if in prayer, his large hands curled around hers and brought it to his mouth, his breath igniting a blaze of sensation on her skin.
“I have no goddamn idea what to say,” he admitted, his voice a quiet mockery of its usual satin rumble. “I…” A pause. Another breath. Another sigh. “I don’t know what to do. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t…” His inability to articulate seemed to frustrate him more than anything else, and the grip on her hand tightened. She felt his wrinkled brow push against her wrist. After a moment of thick silence, he tried again. “I fucked up… so much with you. And you… goddamn it, Liz. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” There was an odd, choking sound that she could not immediately identify. It was gone as quickly as she heard it. “You were supposed to be with Max—Max—not me. What the fuck, Liz?” Was he talking to her, or himself? Were his words meant to comfort or place blame where it belonged? She did not know. The line had always been blurry with Michael Guerin. Maria had never been able to peg him down, why would she, the ghost of Elizabeth Parker, be any different?
“What happened?” At this point, it was obvious he did not expect her to answer. “Everything made sense before. I knew it was a bad idea, fucking knew I should’ve stopped this shit, but… you were just… and then you’re fucking everywhere. There was… I didn’t… fuck.” That choking sound again. It came from him, she realized. “Fuck, a baby. A baby. I would’ve been a father… and you… you…”
A drop of moisture fell against her arm. Then another. His scattered speech broke until he was babbling in cracked whispers. “I don’t know… how to fix this. I can’t fix this. I left you here… I fucking left you here… I couldn’t… goddamn it, Liz.”
The last time she’d seen or heard a man cry, she’d been at the funeral of Alex Whitman. Men, she knew, shed their tears in the same manner as a woman did. Their pain was identical, but the manner in which they revealed that anguish differed from each individual. Whether from pride, or just a conscious generalization that men did not cry, but most men refused to perform any of the actions that women were, usually, far less inhibited to show when they grieved. Michael was one of those men; he rarely revealed a weakness, rarely allowed another to observe him in a state of vulnerability. A stone wall, she remembered his self-description, and he did his best to impersonate that idealism… but that pesky human DNA he tried so hard to hide could only handle so much. And Michael Guerin had reached his limitations.
It was enough to draw her gaze away from the vague juncture of his elbow. His lips were clenched into a thin white line, amber eyes burning a hole in her beloved mattress. He was trying so hard to keep himself together, so hard to hide his beautiful face. Was he ashamed of his grief? He’d knelt before her, as if petitioning before a sacrificial altar, confessing to his greatest failure in that disjointed way of his and yet, he did not allow himself the luxury of mourning. A tear fell down her cheek, but she did not pay it any heed. The foundation she’d built of sorrow was quivering beneath her, one word at a time.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he gasped, cutting off the painfully apparent sob. “God… I’d do anything… anything…”
Moving had never seemed so difficult in the past, just a simple flexing of the muscles, but after the ease of floating on a cloud of emptiness, it felt like wadding through a pool of molasses. Determination wiggled through the dark web of her emotions and she made the effort, using her free unencumbered arm to crawl closer. He noticed the first signs of life, was startled from his own heartache long enough to reach for her, to embrace her. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his shoulders shaking violently once he’d found a safe haven within which he could pour his remorse, his agony, his unending sadness that reflected her own. Long fingers clutched at the material clinging to her back, bunching her shirt irreparably, tangling in her wild tresses, but she could not find it in her to fret over it as she cradled his torso against her, sobbing into his drying hair. Spasms of that accursed red lightning flared to life. Neither felt inclined to care.
She had waited for him. For an eternity, she’d waited for him. Their tears alone would not wash away the sins of the past, but she needed this, needed him. Always and forever. Ava was, and would always be, a wonderful, cherished and most treasured gift, but without Michael, she could not breathe. Elizabeth Parker could walk and talk, but she could not see without him, could not move without him, could not feel without him.
“I don’t forgive you,” she croaked into his golden strands. She placed a kiss there, closing her eyes.
“I know,” he rasped against her pulse. His hold on her intensified. “Will you…” His lips brushed against her jaw. “Will you let me try?”
The scent of him, the feel of him loosened the hard coil of pain around her heart. Just a little. Just enough to remember why it hurt so much to live. To love. “I don’t know if I ever will,” she whispered honestly.
His nose nuzzled against her, reveling in the sensation of being close. Of touching her again. She knew, because she felt it, too. “Things could change between now and the rest of my life, you know.”
She was uncertain of the meaning behind his words, but she did not possess the strength to worry over them. “It’s a start.” Whatever his intent, he was here. Now. And that was much more than she’d ever expected of him.
They stayed there, wrapped around each other as the storm raged and drenched Roswell with its limitless fury. She convinced him to shed his shoes, his dripping shirt, his soggy jeans. Michael climbed into bed with the grace of a crumbling mountain, but his shifting weight did not disturb or rustle Ava… whom she suspected had awakened sometime during their reunion. It mattered little. Michael slipped his arm beneath her shirt to rest on her belly protectively, his breath fluttering the small hairs at the nape of her neck. His solid bicep substituted for her pillow and when he brought her spine flush against his naked torso, she reached for Ava’s limp fingers, needing to complete the circuit between the two people she loved more than her heart could bear. Elizabeth Parker no longer held any aspirations, dreams or fears. She would take what she could, good and bad, and simply enjoy the bittersweet symphony of their beating hearts.
* * *
She was dreaming. She instinctively knew that she had fallen asleep, and when Michael slid through the orb that surrounded her, she knew that he was dream-walking her. A low, resonating note accompanied his invasion of her bubble, the translucent edges sealing closed behind him seamlessly. Liz had assumed Isabel Evans to be the sole owner of that particular ability, but after everything their merry bunch of humans and extraterrestrials had encountered and overcome, one more revelation hardly seemed surprising; just as Maxwell Evans was the strongest with his healing capabilities and that power was not exclusive. What else did Michael hide? His control was notoriously unstable, and his powers were more on the offensive side, but if he could dream-walk, did he have the potential to heal on Max’s level? Could he produce the same shield? Could he mind warp? There were so many possibilities.
Perhaps, one day… when this was just a memory and she found Elizabeth Parker again, she would ask him.
“Liz,” he rumbled, his voice soft. He looked horrible, and she wondered if he’d gotten any sleep before his venture into her room. His large hands were stuffed inside of his jeans. “I’m sorry, I just… I had to see if you were okay.”
She stared at him, striving for lucidity and gaining only foggy lethargy.
“Liz?” He crept closer in the darkness of her dream world. “Liz, can you hear me?”
A memory filled the empty plain around them. The evergreen grass was fresh and sharp to her nose, a familiar tree swirling into the picture. Enchanted by the clarity of the image, she turned, stricken by the familiarity; as if she watched two actors in a play, she stared at a pair of lovers in the throes of passion, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. There, with her little red dress hiked up to her waist, was Elizabeth Parker, leaning against the old oak as Michael Guerin flexed his hips between her wide-spread legs. Her head was thrown back, dark eyes gazing at the sky between emerald leaves, an oblivious smile on her lips. They were marvelous together, surrounded by nature but aware only of each other. How she wished she could rewind time and go back to that blissful ignorance. To feel heaven in his arms. To tell the younger Liz Parker to be careful; when she counted the days, that wonderful coupling had been the conception.
Michael watched with her, sliding a hand through his shaggy hair. He seemed nervous. “You… I liked that dress on you,” he admitted. Had he ever complimented her before? It was awkward. Sweet.
If her mouth could remember how, she would have smiled. “I wore it for you,” she croaked, husky from disuse. This brazen honesty was very new and very difficult for them, but if Michael was determinedly stumbling through it, so would she. So much had been left unspoken before, so much left to chance, to hope, and where had it gotten them?
His lips twitched. Perhaps he’d forgotten how to smile too. “Kinda figured. You don’t usually wear stuff like that.”
“I never had a reason to, before.” They were having a normal conversation. It was… nice.
Michael let out a puff of air through his nose, kicking at the ground. “I wasn’t worth it.”
She did not bother to correct him. “Neither was I.”
He frowned, unsettled. “Liz, that’s bullshit. You know damn well—”
Their pretty landscape changed, swirled and morphed into a candlelit living room. The nauseating scent of vanilla—oh, no… please, God, no—surrounded them in its sadistic embrace, angrily churning in her stomach like acid. She tasted bile when she spied herself, curious and wide-eyed in wonderment as the dolled up replica of Liz Parker scanned the dark apartment, searching for her missing paramour in a small emerald number that made her wince upon closer inspection.
She closed her eyes. She did not want to see this, did not want to relive this scene with Michael standing less than a foot away. It was a song she knew all of the lyrics to, a movie she’d seen enough times to repeat the lines. She heard Maria as she sank to the hardwood floors that had materialized beneath her, heard Michael and that voice like ice as she hugged her knees, heard the sound of heels clicking against the wood in a desperate attempt to run. She knew what came next; the mad dash home, the shaking, the strangled sob followed by unsteady pacing, the rebellious tears. The phone call… shredding her dress, throwing on the first thing her hands touched… lunging at Max when he arrived, projecting a passion she did not feel into a kiss she did not want… on and on it went, reminding her why she could not stand to hear Maria’s name, why she’d let jealousy corrode a friendship she had cherished since infancy. That horrible, horrible night before Utah. God, why wouldn’t it stop? Why wouldn’t it go away? This was her dream, so why couldn’t she control it?
A hand settled on her thigh, the warmth of its owner settling in beside her huddled form. He was so familiar with her body, completely comfortable with physical contact and general intimacy in private, but speaking with him was an Olympian feat, even when he seemed doggedly set upon this new, strange course they’d embarked on. The old, cavalier Michael had injured her deliciously with his touch of sin, taking her in closets, bedrooms, bathrooms, cars, parks, kitchens and countless of other areas she could not remember now. This Michael, this worried, uncertain, caring Michael, she’d glimpsed of very rarely, but every glance became more poignant than the last.
“Liz,” he whispered into her waterfall of hair. His nose bumped her ear, trying for a response. “Liz, talk to me.”
She shook her head. “I… can’t.”
“Then look at me.” She shook her head again. “Why not?”
“It’s too hard.”
That answer seemed to annoy him. He reared his head back a little and she could feel his glare. “What? You think this shit is easy for me?”
She did look up then, frowning at him. “You expect me to believe that it isn’t?”
He bristled. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
This discussion was already a chore. She deflated, unable to muster the energy required to counter his rising temper. “Nothing, Michael. Just leave it alone.”
“No,” he refused. Strong arms pulled her back from her fetal position, forcing her to face him. “You got something to say, then say it.”
She batted him away. On quivering legs, she stood, oblivious to the new memory that played around them. “Back off.”
He stood too. “Why should I?” He came closer. “I’m not Maxwell. I’m not your goddamn dog, Liz, so just spit it the fuck out ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”
She was enraged. Her ire flared to the surface, humming beneath her skin with artificial adrenaline. “No, you’re Maria’s good little boy.” Her volume rose with each syllable. She noticed he did not snarl like she had predicted he would at the jibe, did not roar with the anger that now possessed her; his face was an impenetrable mask of indifference, which suited her just fine. It was her turn to cut him down. The vindictiveness came, unbidden, and she eagerly obliged its request. “You’re not Max. You’re nothing like Max because my dog knew how to behave!”
Michael decided to interject, crossing his arms. “Is that why he slept with Tess? Last time I checked, Parker, you don’t get treats for shit like that.”
She lost it. “Don’t you dare talk to me about her.” Damn him. She detested vulgarity, but he always found a way to bring it out of her. Now, her righteous shrieking would be sullied by profanities, though she could not bring herself to care. “You aliens and your goddamned destiny and your goddamned holier-than-thou bullshit. Poor little Isabel, I’m so scared, so I’ll act like a frosty bitch and no one will know. Poor little Michael, my life sucks so I’ll act like a prick to everyone who tries to help me. Not like Earth is home, right? Oh, and let’s not forget, poor little Max, I’m so alone so I’ll go and fuck my old wife, knock her up and send her on her way to Khivar even though—oh, yeah—she killed Alex!” She was hyperventilating as tears wormed their way down her cheeks. God, Alex. “You and your damn destiny took him from me. You took Alex away from me!” Her screams were echoing, scratching her esophagus painfully, but she could not stop. She was angry at herself for crying, angry at him for just standing there. “Why Alex? What did he ever do but help you? What did he ever do but love us all? He was the sweetest guy in the entire world, and you bastards killed him. For what? So you can stay here and fuck up our lives even more?”
Michael came closer, but she pushed him away. He had no right to touch her, not right now. A sob broke through her tirade and she barreled on over it, unwilling to allow the weakness to hinder her. She would get this out if it killed her. “Get away from me! Since when did you give a damn about us? About me? Humans are expendable to you, right? We’re your fucking toys, so who cares if a few of us break? Who cares that you got one pregnant, and she killed her baby? You’ll just find another stupid little doll to play with until she falls in love with you, and then you’ll break her too!” She gasped for air, swiping at the moisture overwhelming her eyes. She could not see clearly anymore. “You want me to believe you care? Now? I will not be your penance because you feel bad. Boo-fucking-hoo, you found out how much reality sucks, and that the shit you pull has consequences. Welcome to the human race!”
“Liz—” He was embracing her in spite of her protests.
She struggled, but could not break free of his hold on her. “Fuck you, Michael! God, I hate you… I hate you…” The fists pounding at his chest were weakening, her rage bleeding into sorrow until she was wailing into his shirt, her cursing and yelling muffled by the soft material. “You… you took everything… everything from me… what am I supposed to…” He was stroking her hair, his chin propped upon the crown of her head. “What am I going to do? I killed my baby… I killed it. I didn’t know and I killed it and Ava knew but I didn’t listen and I…”
His words were hushed, emotion thick in his voice. “It’s not your fault, Liz.”
She shook her head, gritting her teeth. “It is,” she insisted. This was why she had not wanted to argue with him; the clever bastard knew which strings to pull, which threads to tug, and she unraveled so easily in his arms. Damn him. She dissolved into putty in his hands, drenching the fabric of his shirt as she wept and wept and wept. He made soothing little shushing noises, allowing her the grief she had denied herself for far too long. Her lungs hurt from her loud, cracking wails, her throat hurt from her outburst… everything hurt so much. The spiteful, irrational hatred and fury subsided, leaving only the gaping hole in her heart, the throbbing ache in her chest. Michael did not let her go, did not say a word, and she was grateful. Nothing had been achieved, nothing had been solved, but he was here, slowly tearing down her defenses, and it was enough. For now, it was enough.
The one aspect Liz Parker had always abhorred when it came to venting—something observed and learned from years as Maria DeLuca’s confidante—was the embarrassment that followed on its coattails. Her senses gradually returned as her explosive sobbing turned into wet hiccups, and she burned with shame.
He must have noticed her tense, must have understood the sudden, forced silence, because he held her tighter. “Don’t even think about it.”
She let out a shaky breath. “But I said… Michael, I didn’t—”
“I mean it, Liz,” he interrupted, pulling away enough to gaze down at her. Gently, much too gently for someone with so much strength, he slid his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away what his shirt had not. “You needed it.”
She sniffled. “You…” A huff escaped her. “You suck.” Her mouth formed a distinctive pout.
Michael chuckled, smiling wide. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Their somewhat reacquaintance with civil conversation was cut short when a tremor ran through the dreamscape. “Michael?” Like an earthquake, her bubble shook, fading. “Michael, what’s going on?”
The smile he had sported ironed out, glancing at the violent ripples running through her dream-orb. “Something’s waking you up.”
She frowned. “But… but no one really comes to—”
* * *
People were yelling. Even as the vestiges of sleep gradually left her, she could hear the sound of raised voices. The sting of electricity stabbed across her sensitive flesh and she hissed softly, too tired to control the reaction. A hush fell over the argument until the slight buzz filled in the dense void of sound, then that, too, quieted. She could almost believe she was alone again, for she did not feel the familiar warmth of Ava by her side, but the voices started up once more, shattering the pleasant fantasy. Michael’s arm had moved higher, tickling her ribcage, and the familiar weight grounded her. Would he awaken soon? If one had the power to enter another’s dream, did they also have the ability to awaken from their own at will? She certainly hoped so; dealing with whatever caused this ruckus was not something she wanted to face alone right now. The bleeding cavity she felt in her chest was still entirely too raw to endure yet another problem without some support.
The angry cacophony grated on her battered nerves. How many people were here? Why were they here? What time was it? What day was it? Gentle rays of light pooled in from her open window, soft enough to suggest morning, at the latest. What would bring people here, to her room where she had lain forgotten for many a day, so early in the morning? She heard Max’s distinct tone and fought the urge to wince.
“What was that?” Max demanded.
“Great goin’, fuckhead,” Ava countered, clearly grumpy after a night of very little sleep. “She ain’t slept right in days, so you go an’ wake ‘er up.”
“Why? What’s wrong with her?” Maria. What was Maria doing here? “What was that… that red… what was that? And why is Michael here? What the hell is going on here?”
“That ain’t none o’ your business,” answered Ava, severely agitated now. “What the fuck do you people want?”
Maxwell Evans had a gift for ruining lives with that soft timbre of his. He demonstrated his natural talent with startling accuracy. “Tess is back.”
The lamp on her nightstand shattered first. A warning. The mirror above her bathroom sink followed suit, the light bulb bursting not too long afterward. A second ticked by nonchalantly, a murmur of confusion broke the silence, and all was still. No one moved. No one spoke. She felt eyes on her, and it was enough to tear her apart.
She grasped at her hair, bumping her forehead against her knees. Distantly, she felt Michael jerk to awareness behind her in response to the flare of sangria energy that, upon closer inspection, coiled into ebony. She felt him move, scrambling around to peer into her face, but she could no longer see anything aside from her blaze of mindless hysteria. He was calling her name, shaking her shoulders, but she could not respond. How could she? It was too much, too soon. The tremulous peace he’d forced upon her in that realm of dreams was shattered and she was unable to quell this rising tide of wordless cries.
Tess. The windows that led to her private balcony imploded, tiny flecks of glass surging forward to halt in mid-flight, hovering in the air like immobile gems. Tess. The lightning never made it back to her stomach, multiplying into dozens of new jagged threads, off-shooting from the main current until it enveloped her. Tess. It hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced before; it was worse than a bullet in her ribcage, worse than discovering her soul mate kissing another woman, worse than the future version of her love telling her that they could never be. Tess. Worse than losing her best friend and knowing she could have prevented it, worse than losing her virginity. Tess. Loving Michael and knowing he would never return that sentiment; Michael and Maria and the scent of vanilla. Tess. The thin, red lines expanded, leaping from her skin and stabbing through her bedroom in a violent arc as the scar around her heart began to tear.
Tess was back? Tess was back? Someone was shouting, so she screamed louder to cancel out the sound. Why had they come here? They were quick to dismiss her before, when she needed them the most, but when all she wanted was to be left alone, they came barreling back into her life. They had not called, had not visited her after graduation. Now, they brought these ill tidings to her door?
And Tess was back. Had it been nine months? Did Tess bring Max’s child with her? Why was she here, on Earth? Did she bring Khivar? The shrill cry twisted into uneven laughter. God, Liz hoped she had. She hoped there was an army of Skins waiting at her door, hoped there were a hundred Khivar’s waiting out there. Let them come, let them try and destroy what little Elizabeth Parker had left in this world when there was finally, finally a shred of hope. She would relish tearing them limb from limb, would enjoy bathing in the never ending waterfall of their blood. Pouring down her legs, gushing from her mouth as she vomited over and over and over again. She would paint the town red. Tess Harding had destroyed her life, had taken everything until Liz could only wallow in despair and pick up the scraps.
Not anymore. Excitement floated to the surface from the boiling broth of her madness. They would cry and beg for mercy, but there would be none to give. They had brought the war here, had crossed light-years from Antar to Earth, and they would regret it with every fiber of their being.
Bring the fire. Bring the brimstone. Bring Hell and high waters.
The Apocalypse was nigh.
