Roswell Fanatics

Thanks and a big barrel of hugs to

Carrie:

But the way you talk about Max and how he handles everything and his feelings really blew me away ..

I'm dying to know if Kyle is going to tell Max what he found out and what Max will do about it..

Thanks! I wouldn't say that Max is problematic for me to write, but I find that it's really tricky writing him if it's not from his or Liz's perspective. I'm glad that you liked him. As for Kyle, I tend to think he will be pretty straight-up. He may, as Michael pointed out, have certain moral grey areas, but Max is his friend, and Kyle seems to me like the kind of person who would be honest with anyone he loved.

paper: Welcome back, chica! *clears throat* Or, um, dude. Whichever you go by.

Go Kyle, go Kyle. Now that he hit this dead end I imagine he will be contacting Maria to get the scoop directly from her. I love Kyle. He's so funny, so I was glad to get this chapter.

Hmm... I think Kyle's reaction to all of this might surprise you a little bit. Hopefully in a good way.

I really love the story you are weaving around Liz, Max, Lee & Rena.

Why thank you. Serena and Eileen were really just supposed to be supporting characters, but (for me, at least) they just started jumping off the screen as soon as I sat down to write them. Now they're battling it out to see who gets to be featured next to Maria and Liz in the sequel (pfft, not even halfway through this and already planning more. How optimistic of me. ).

Sorry I've been MIA (lost). My internet explorer keeps messing up my favorites. Somehow, I think I have 2 conflicting files, so when I add or delete, it keeps messing with me. I have to keep track of my favs on a piece of "paper". Must be fate. I just love Vista. Not!

I'm sorry about your computer! I can empathize, somewhat - my server has been icky. And RF was a complete meanie to me today - couldn't log on for hours. And I'm on your favorites list? *sniffles*

I agree, the irony of your screen name is funny.

Drew has to be Zan. And his wonky powers must scare the stuffings out of his foster dad, right?

Ummm... *smiles innocently*

begonia9508:

Are you going to torture them more and us in the same time

I know, I know! I'm sorry. But it should encourage you to know that even if the torture continues for awhile, Kyle and the aliens are going to get their behinds into gear and do something. There will be no passive over-analzying and nitpicking here. Well, almost none.

Christina: Your reviews just constantly give me the self-esteem boost I need to get off my rusty dusty and keep writing. Thank you so much for sticking with me!

I have to admit, I'm amazed with how you're writing Jesse, too. I've never been a huge Jesse fan and I certainly wouldn't care for a Jesse section, but I do like his inclusion in this and the fact that you're not overlooking him as a character.

I'm so glad you like Jesse. Really, most people hate him or are just completely apathetic to him. Me, not so much. I'm not sure where I would have fallen in an Alex/Isabel/Jesse triangle, but I did like Jesse. So to know that I am making him tolerable to someone who dislikes him is a huge compliment. I plan to sneak him in in increments, until he's flying under everyone's radar inconspiciously, and then when you least expect it, he will take over the story! *rubs hands together and cackles evilly*

Well, not really. Although for some reason this character has been poking at me and begging for me to write a semi-AU I/J story. Which no one would read, since no one ships them. But oh well! That is neither here nor there, since I do not write for reviews [most of the time] and since I have absolutely no time to write anything else.

I sincerely believe that none of the other pod-squadders would have mentioned Zan had Michael not brought him up first.

Nope. The munchkin is a bit of a taboo subject to the podsters. Michael has the worst timing ever - but I do think that in a different situation, Zan should have been addressed. Isabel may have thought out her actions, but Michael has been completely blindsided, and as the protector to a small extent he does have a right to be in the know about these things so he can help deal with the fallout. Plus... no, wait. I can't say that yet. Drat!

I loved how Max was actually crying over Liz. I missed that Max in the show. I really did. And I love how you gave Max his quiet time until he recooperated enough to play level-headed leader.

Emo!Max rocks my socks. Or even just a heartfelt Max. It sounds so queer, but I actually felt like Max was begging me for some privacy - both in front of the other characters and the readers - so that he could collect himself. Since the characters haven't steered me wrong yet, I generally try to give them what they ask for.

Kyle's isolation was something shown a lot in season 1 with Jim always going off to work (of course before Kyle was included in the I Know an Alien club, then he and Jim shared a stronger bond) and I can't tell you enough how happy I am that you include that in this fic. It's a theme that's often overlooked when Kyle comes into play in fics. I love that your representation of him is a lot more than just "comic-relief." I love he's a real person, with real feelings, and you include those feelings.

I tried so hard to play this chapter mostly straight humor. But there is something so forlorn about Kyle - and I felt like to ignore that would be almost as bad as making him dour or brooding.

Haha, I love how Kyle was checking out Eileen in the picture he saw at the Parker house.

All acknowledge my pitiful attempt at foreshadowing. *snickers* I have a feeling I'm going to love writing Kyle and Eileen so much in this story, just because they are both pretty blunt and usually take things at face value. I don't think they're going to pull a Max/Liz or even a Michael/Maria and dance around each other for weeks on end.

Over the weekend I was at my boyfriend's house and he has the station that shows Degrassi. We saw the episode where Spinner has cancer and doesn't want to miss school so he starts taking weed. We laughed so hard when he texted Jay with "Have needs for weed." And then today, when I was reading your response to our feedback and saw all the talk about Eileen giving Liz weed, well, it reminded me of that. So I thought I'd share. Lol.

Ahhh! I love that episode. Spinner crying made me so sad. But then there was the overall corniness and the weed and them making Darcy into this strange cross of emo and shrew, and I was just rolling on the floor laughing. They better not kill him off, because I have a feeling that Spinner will make an excellent stoner.

I love, love, love your writing. Please, never stop writing.

Thank you! I very much doubt that I will stop writing, at least for good. Even getting blocked for a week or two makes me cranky and miserable, so I can't imagine going for years on end without writing. I also have a feeling that I'll still be writing Rosfic in the 2010's. There are just too many unexplored stories and ideas - well, okay, not really. But there's always a new twist on an old story.

nibbles2:

You know I'm pretty sure that there are rules about selling goods that aren't as advertised. That part was so bleak and sad and miserable.

I know, I really suck. But as soon as I started writing I remembered that Michael didn't know that Isabel was pregnant, and then as soon as I let him open his big fat mouth he and Isabel just kind of took the chapter by storm. By the time Kyle got it back it was all I could do to try to further the plot infinitessimally. I am hoping to eventually write the scene that should have made it into the chapter - where Michael, Kyle, Max, and Jesse scramble to repair Isabel's casserole dish before she gets out of the bathroom. If it ever does get written I will make sure to post it before an angsty part to cheer ya'll up a bit.

As it is, this chapter will start off worse. But even if it's still pretty miserable, I think there's [small] hints of happiness to be found in the ending. Hopefully. And as soon as Kevin gets a chance to get Maria on the next plane out to LA, we're going to get some Maria/Liz/Eileen/Serena girl time. Which will, of course, be generally broody. But I am holding out hope for lots of fluffy moments, too.

starcrazed: I'm glad you liked it! I tend to think that some of the minor-ish characters have the freshest perspectives, so generally some of them will get utilized in this story.

A/N: Uhm... most of the A/N that I would like to write would spoil what little surprise this chapter brings. So, that said, I will reply to the questions/comments people bring up after reading it - and I would imagine there will be at least a few validly noted discreppancies. The opening line of this chapter sucks. I'd love to say it's not my best, but, well, this part has been doubled in sized and tweaked extensively, and I think my best must be hiding out six months in the future. I'd much rather keep up my streak of regular updating than wait that long(honestly, I think I get more anxious than you guys when I don't update for awhile. Which is as it should be.). I'd also love to write some wise cautionary remark, but as you may have been able to tell from my review replies, I'm a little punchy right now (darn those McFlurries!). So I hope you enjoy, and will just ride out that angst with me... the light at the end of the tunnel may only be a pinprick right now, but I promise it exists.

Part Eleven

It’s still dark when high-pitched, childish sobs rip him from sleep and drop him into his worst nightmare.

Aaron is out of bed in an instant.

Weighed down with sleep, only fight-or-flight stifles his early morning clumsiness. His form is caged by the small room, though, and adrenaline doesn’t keep him from colliding with the nearby dresser. Searing pain lashes his right shoulder.

Something or other crashes to the floor, and the sound is noisy in the pre-dawn stillness.

It is the continued whimpering that rings in his ears.

He navigates his cluttered floor carefully.

Head pounding.

Bile rising in his throat.

Please God don’t let them have him –

His fingers itch for an invisible trigger and he curses as he realizes the gun is still safely tucked away in his bedroom closet.

The sight waiting for him bruises his heart.

Drew is sitting Indian-style by the foot of his bed.

Eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Face crumpled and wet.

Pitiful hiccups rack his body, and his small finger trembles as it strokes the rendered portrait sitting in front of him on the floor.

Aaron is paralyzed by the picture.

He has seen this woman’s face too many times to count in the past nine months; hers are the cries that follow him into his nightmares.

He thought they were finally putting this behind them.

“Andrew,” he says softly. The gentlest of Texan twangs weaves through the word. “Andy, you’ve gotta get up and try to get some sleep.”

Drew raises one eyelid, and the almond-shaped, whiskey eye that appears contrasts sharply with his alabaster face and shadowed under-eyes. Fat teardrops stick to his nose.

“I can’t. Sh-she’s blocking me. I – I h-have to make sure she’s ok-kay.”

Aaron lifts a work-hardened hand to tug at his hair. Drops it awkwardly as he encounters his new buzz cut.

He has no idea how to deal with this.

Whether he’s supposed to order or merely suggest. If it is more damaging to treat Drew like a kindergartener or the thirteen-year-old he is intellectually – because as far as he can see, neither option works that well.

And he is absolutely furious with his parents for leaving him without so much as an informative letter to help him figure this out.

He decides to be succinct and disapproving. A vague recollection of his father effectively employing that method on him floats through his mind before he speaks.

“That’s because her head’s private, buddy. You shouldn’t be walking around in there.” Aaron is happy to find that his voice is stern but not hard.

“B-but earlier she was so sad,” he argues.

Aaron meets the tearstained eyes, now both fully opened, and wants to clutch Drew to his chest and protect him always.

Even in the space of two years he’s had a few near-slips, though. And right now the person Drew needs protecting from is himself.

He crosses the room and stoops next to his baby brother. The hand he runs up and down Andy’s back in soothing motions dwarfs the small boy’s frame.

“I thought we talked about this. You told me that you could shut this thing off, right? Now it seems like you’re saying that you can’t.” Aaron sweeps away the midnight bangs that fall on Andrew’s temple.

Andrew’s skin is splotchy from crying. The ever-present rings under his eyes are irritated and puffy.

He kneads his full lower lip with tiny front teeth, nervous and resolute at once. “I don’t wanna shut it off,” he admits, voice nearly inaudible.

Aaron swipes a hand down his bewildered face.

It’s too damn early for this.

“Drew, this isn’t up for discussion. I may not be able to read people’s feelings like you can, but I know that this is hurting you.”

Drew guiltily touches the side of his head. The gesture does not escape Aaron’s notice; neither does the furrowed brow and downturned mouth, both of which are classic indicators of a power-related headache.

He wonders what emotional return compels Drew to put himself through this.

“You know I do my best to take care of you. But you’ve gotta take care of yourself, too. All right?”

There is only stubborn silence from his brother.

He is still too tired to be extremely frustrated, and for that at least he’s glad. ‘Loud’ emotions always seem to aggravate Andrew the most.

Aaron picks up the pencil sketch.

It’s a near-perfect depiction of the woman they found last August.

There’s no point in asking where Drew got it. He is well past being surprised that his six-year-old brother can wield a number 2 pencil well enough to draw something like this.

He studies the woman thoughtfully.

Dark eyes peer out of a heart-shaped face. Long, inky black hair frames defined cheekbones and a stubborn jaw.

There’s a small indication of a scar above one eyebrow – he had completely forgotten that detail.

He chuckles, the sound merely an exhalation.

Drew only saw her up close for five seconds.

“Why’d you draw her?”

Andy shrugs. His wide eyes are melancholy. “H-helps me focus the c’nection.”

“Ah.”

He returns the picture to its resting place and looks at his brother soberly. He’s gotten a better at talking since Drew – has gotten better at a lot of things since Drew – but he has no idea how to say this without wounding him.

Drew could be thirty and Aaron would still see him as a baby. As it is, Drew’s only six. And he suspects that six-year-olds need to be handled with some measure of care.

There’s just not a very delicate way to say this.

“Drew, you know she’s not your mom, right?”

His perfect face shadows. “I know. Mommy’s dead.”

Aaron frowns. Elaborates, “I mean, your birth mom.”

“I know.”

Drew’s annoyance fades, and his trembling voice lowers even more. “She’s dead, too.”

His chest constricts at the depth of sadness he sees in his child’s face.

His child’s face.

His child’s feet, arms, legs, skin – but not, he thinks, a child’s eyes.

(Or a child’s soul.)

“So what is this woman to you? Why are you hanging on so hard?” he asks, feeling foggy and slow and generally useless.

He desperately needs to know why.

She’s forgotten you, he thinks, if she even knew you to begin with.

Piercing eyes pin him, like sunlight filtering into a long-forgotten room.

“Out of – out of everyoneinthe world… she’s the one m-most like me.”

Some small, instinctive part of Aaron understands exactly what he is saying, but the rest of him struggles helplessly to catch up.

The person most like him in the world?

Who could she be, then, if not his mother?

According to the lawyer who handled Drew’s adoption and his parents’ estate, Drew’s biological dad is younger than Aaron. Could this woman be Andy’s aunt?

Aaron’s eyes skim over Drew’s sketch, looking for any physical resemblance. He finds none and tries not to deflate.

Is she another empath? Someone who could tell Drew what to do when the emotions clouding his head and the tears that he cries aren’t his own?

He thinks back to the first and last time he met her, and realizes she probably doesn’t know any more than he does.

“Aaron?”

The small, musical voice snaps him from his reverie, and he looks down to find Drew watching him cautiously. His eyes are alert.

“We’re not getting back to bed today, are we?” he asks with a sigh.

His head bobs in agreement, his eyes relieved.

“To the kitchen it is, then,” he says, and laughs when Andrew eagerly bounds to his feet.

His tiny hand gently takes the picture back from Aaron. “Food always helps me concentrate,” he grins excitedly.

Aaron’s good mood wavers.

Andrew pads out of the room, still wearing a tiny smile, and he decides not to say anything.

He’s not about to take his little brother’s security blanket from him.

Aaron makes his way to the kitchen and finds Drew already situated on one of the barstools, swinging his legs back and forth as he smoothes his portrait out on the counter. Once more Aaron catches sight of her eyes, and this time he notices that they appear a hundred times warmer here than they did in person.

Questions nag him.

Who is this person, and what exactly does she know?

Does she know that Andy insists she watches over him?

Does she know what could have possessed the parents of this talented, amazing, endangered little boy to hand him off to ill-equipped strangers?

And does she know, he wonders, that without even trying, she’s taking away the only person he has left?

-

The elementary principal is businesslike and to the point. Her graying hair is pulled back, and her eyes look at him speculatively, as if he’s a zoo animal that’s been let loose in a public park.

Aaron does his best to stay relaxed.

“Andrew’s speech therapy isn’t progressing as well as we’d hoped,” she informs him bluntly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. For the most part he’s been doing better at home,” he says truthfully. This morning was a rare occurrence.

“Have you been doing the recommended exercises with him?” Ms. Sharpe asks. One over-plucked eyebrow is raised.

He feels as if he’s been transported back to high school and has once more been called into the principal’s office for falling asleep in class. There is that critical set to her face, that hint of a non-verbal ‘You should be trying harder.’

(He has been trying. Had thought he was doing well, all things considered.)

“To be honest, Principal Sharpe, when Drew is at home I just try to keep him talking as much as possible. He’s very articulate for his age when he’s not so self-conscious,” Aaron says. Trying to explain.

His voice sounds odd in his ears, rough from lack of use. Aaron wonders if maybe part of Drew’s problem is that he’s gotten too used to the silence.

He feels a stab of muted resentment at the condescending glimmer in this woman’s eyes, and tries to reason that he’s most likely imagining it. Still, it seems as though she’s waiting for an apology.

She’s not getting one. Drew doesn’t need apologies made for him, and he doesn’t think he needs to make any for himself, either.

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. You know that we hold Andrew in very high regards, Mr. Carson. There is a reason we placed him a grade ahead of his year mates.” She draws in a deep breath and looks down at the file spread out on her desk.

He has the bothersome urge to lean over and peek at it.

She deftly snatches up a piece of notebook paper and holds it out to him. “Drew’s teacher confiscated this from him during sustained silent reading yesterday. Normally she would have simply sent him to timeout for the infraction, but he said he’d already finished his book, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with this.”

Aaron glances down at the sheet. He feels somewhat sickened as he looks at his own handwriting next to his brother’s larger, loopier scrawl.


1. 52800
x 356
528
356
3168
2640
1584
18796800

2. 3607
x 95
18035
32463
342665


The page goes on like that: numbers lined up neatly, with no eraser marks or notations in the margins to show carrying. The faintest of smiles touches his lips as he sees correct answer after correct answer staring up at him. A ridiculous and completely paternal sense of pride fills him.

“This work is on a third grade level,” the principal says.

He looks up, surprised for some reason that she is still here. “Well, yeah. Drew seemed to be getting a little bored with his math homework, so I’ve been working ahead with him a little,” he says quietly.

‘Working ahead’ with Drew equates to dropping a few textbooks into his lap and giving him two minutes to scan them.

He doesn’t think she needs to know that.

Another paper is pushed in front of him. Aaron glances at it and then looks up, eyebrows raised. “Indigo children?” he queries.

Ms. Sharpe looks vaguely embarrassed. “Yes, well, most of it is rather obscure New Age theory, but some of it has been documented –”

“– I’m well aware of the phenomenon,” he interrupts.

Drew had been in Aaron’s custody for less than two weeks before he was convinced that he was going crazy. After he’d finally realized that he didn’t need medication, he started searching for answers. This popular New Age belief had been one of the first seemingly plausible explanations he came across.

He suspects, though, that Indigo children don’t heal flesh wounds and leave behind silver handprints. They probably can’t disappear at will, either.

“Well?” she prods with a hint of impatience.

He contemplates his answer for a moment. “Well,” he finally says, “from most of what I’ve read, Indigo children are very outgoing and assertive, often to the point that they become disciplinary problems. I’ve never seen any indication of that in Drew.”

“That could be him withdrawing after your parents’ death more than anything,” she refutes gently.

His muscles tense. The familiar headache starts behind his forehead, and Aaron squeezes the bridge of his nose tiredly.

Things like this are supposed to get better with time, but it is his experience that they don’t. This – more than the powers, more than the constant uncertainty – is what makes him ache for his younger brother.

“He was in therapy for that. It was the psychiatrist’s opinion that he was coping as well as could be expected.”

“Yes, well, you’re not to be blamed,” she hurries to add, and her voice says that he is indeed to blame. “Children often spend years dealing with this kind of trauma. And Andrew was there when they died, wasn’t he?”

Aaron draws in a deep breath. This is getting too intrusive for comfort, and the repeated mentions of his parents compounded with this morning’s small disaster are steering his thoughts to a place he doesn’t want them going.

He does his best to seem polite and focused as he redirects the conversation. “I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with Drew’s schooling?”

Her other eyebrow lifts in acknowledgement of his unspoken request. The principal quickly gets down to business. “After talking extensively with his teacher, it is my recommendation that Andrew be placed in our neighboring magnet school, or if possible home schooled or tutored privately.”

He regards her with disbelief. “You’re kicking him out… for being too smart?”

She looks affronted. “Of course we’re not expelling him! If it is his desire to stay here then we certainly won’t mind having him. But you must think of what is best for the child in this case.”

And he’s not sure what it is, exactly, but suddenly he is angrier than he’s been in a long time. His heart feels too large for his body as it pounds a frantic tattoo against his chest. “I’ve done nothing but think of Drew’s welfare since I became his guardian.” The words are practically spat, and his voice is tight.

The older woman looks taken aback. “I’m sure you have. Believe me, I understand the kind of pressure you must be under. You are, after all, rather young – and to be doing this on your own… I’m not trying to judge you. You’ve done as well with him as can be expected, especially considering that you didn’t exactly ask for him.”

A rare violent fantasy of smashing her antique desk to smithereens flits through his mind. He clenches his fists spastically.

He can’t put up with this much longer.

“I don’t think thirty-two can be counted as too young to raise a child. If this is all you wanted to talk to me about, I should be getting Drew. His classes are almost over.”

As if on cue, a harsh buzzing fills the air. He stands stiffly.

Ms. Sharpe stands with him and walks him to the door. “Mr. Carson, I know it may not seem like it, but we are here to help. We simply want to give Andrew the best chance to succeed.”

Aaron meets her eyes and sees that she is not lying. Even so, he feels small and exposed under her knowledgeable scrutiny.

He speaks, offering verbal reassurance to someone who isn’t in the room with them.

“I may not have chosen him, but I do want him. That has never been the problem.”

She nods, and the fist around his chest grows tighter. He leaves the office and makes his way toward the wing where Drew’s classroom is located.

The hallway walls are plastered with posters. Aaron wonders if Andy is the boy pictured with a friend on each side or the one standing alone, eyes begging for acceptance. He knows that for the most part kids like Andrew – it would be hard not to. Still, he worries sometimes.

He feels whole-body heavy, as if he gained twenty pounds in the time between when he entered the school and now.

Rowdy children spill into the hallway and Aaron finds himself adrift in a sea of miniature people.

Andy comes into sight. His hair is ruffled, the knees of his pants smudged with dirt. Another little boy is tagging after him, talking incessantly. His baby brother is smiling broadly. Drew turns to him, and although Aaron hadn’t thought it possible his grin widens.

As if a sense of purpose was all he needed, Aaron’s feet and chest lighten, and his steps are sure once more.

Andy mutters a few words to his friend and then runs to Aaron. He hugs him tightly, his small arms barely reaching around his waist.

When he has stepped back Aaron swings him up into his arms, heavy backpack and all. “You ready to go, kid?”

“Yeah, let’s go home,” he replies.

Home, Aaron thinks, and squeezes Drew tightly for a moment. He sets him down, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth when Drew grabs his hand.

They walk like that, hand in hand and savoring their contented silence, all the way to the parking lot.

big fat sappy smiles to

Christina: double coolness for being the first reviewer and for bumping.

And man, did you depict a 6 year old alien child to a tee. Or, at least, how I imagine a 6 year-old alien child would be like. Intelligent, mature, complex and curious.

I was so worried before writing him that he would read like one of those little kids who are so advanced for their age or all-knowing that they end up seeming like weirdos. Thankfully, he was perfectly agreeable. He's pretty much the only character who has any interest in cooperating with the way the story is supposed to go. Then again, that might just be because once we get through this mini-arc he gets to be in every other scene.

I feel both bad for Andrew and happy. He certainly ended up with a wonderful older brother. I already love Aaron, simply because of how he feels towards Andrew and how he is handling such a traumatic situation. (It had to have been recently that his parents -and Andrew's adopted parents- have passed on. Of course, I wonder how that happened, but I'm sure it'll be explained at some point.) He knows about the extra-terrestrial powers that Andrew has, just doesn't know that he is extra-terrestrial yet. Which, I'm already looking forward to reading when the time comes that he learns who his brother is.

Aaron is a really good guy. He's not perfect, but he's one of those people that I think I - and definitely Serena - really need to believe do exist. As for Aaron and Drew's parents, they died two years ago. So it was fairly recent, but it was long enough ago that while Aaron and Andrew are still mourning, they're a little bit more steady on their feet. Aaron is very constant in that even if he feels the pain and fear from his parents' deaths and his situation with Drew, he doesn't necessarily let that stop him from moving forward or appreciating little moments. /gushing

As for the extra-terrestrial bit, there's more coming up on that soon.

I was so mad at that lady at the school talking down to Andrew. I like how he said he wasn't too young to raise a child, at 32. Man, By the way she was talking to him, you'd think he was 18, not 32.

Yep, she definitely made some faulty assumptions. Part of that is because Aaron looks a bit young for his age - not baby-faced; more like JB, who could somewhat convincingly play a teenager in his late twenties - and he's also, as he mentioned, not much of a talker. That's not to say that he's not intelligent or doesn't necessarily know what he wants or thinks of things, he just won't talk unless he has something he deems worth saying. He's also still a little vulnerable about his parents' death, and I think that when you mix all those elements together he would seem to a generally pushy person like someone that could be walked all over. She just didn't really take into account how deeply loving and protective Aaron is when it comes to his little brother.

Oh, and yeah it'll be so much fun seeing Kyle and Eileen interact. I'm already looking forward to that, too. Hell, I'm looking forward to the moment where the aliens and the humans come together again. I can only imagine the crazy/interesting dynamic that'll make.

Hee... the group dynamics are going to be so much fun to write. I don't necessarily have every aspect of it planned, but little things - like Kyle and Eileen's interaction, say, or Drew and Liz/Michael and Maria meeting up - are tugging at my heartstrings. I am actually foreseeing a little comic relief eventually, too.

Perhaps Aaron will seek out Liz to see if she knows anything because Andrew has such a strong connection with her? Or maybe he'll end up seeing Serena because he's feeling stressed out? Or, take Andrew to see her?

You're on the right track. As far as Serena seeing Aaron or Drew, I think that if she worked with one of them and then ended up falling in love with Aaron she'd probably feel so guilty for consistently having conflicts of interest in her job that she'd quit.

Carrie
nibbles2

Wow, I didn't expect Drew to be Zan. Poor guy. Although, thank God he has Aaron who is wonderful with him.

Aaron is my favorite. Except, of course, when my favorite is Max. Or Kyle. Or Michael. Or Jesse. Or any number of the girls.

Also if Serena and Eileen are fighting it out to be featured in the sequel (yay!!!) does that mean you're going to kill off the other?

I think if I tried to kill off Eileen Kyle would pin me with puppy-dog eyes until I wrote in a surprise resurrection. And if I tried to kill off Serena Isabel and Liz would double-team me. In terms of the sequel, it was originally just an idea for Kyle/Eileen fluff, but then I got an idea for a sequel to the sequel, and wouldn't you know it, it turns out that I will need an actual plot. And with a plot came questions about Max and Liz, and Isabel and Jesse, and then of course Serena jumped in and said she thought she deserved some focus on her since she's always trying to concentrate on everyone else here, and then Michael and Maria got grumpy that they weren't being included... so I've got ten (eleven if you count Andrew) characters that are running around in my head demanding top billing. It will probably turn out to be a semi-even balance of everyone. So God help me while I try to write Candy without making them cliche or OOC and while I fight for my right to fluff. As for deaths... none of the main eleven will die, but there is a very important death.

Geez, I need to stop talking before I give the whole story away.

begonia9508: Nope, Aaron isn't a protector. Just a very concerned adoptive big brother.
tequathisy:

Yet he seems very mature considering.

He's got a lot going through his head constantly, so he's had to learn how to cope very quickly. Plus, I figure if Max, Michael, and Isabel could in two years become the equivalent of human eight-year-olds, Drew's got some good genes when it comes to growing in leaps and bounds.

Timelord31

A general note on Andrew(Zan)'s and Liz's connection:

I'm so glad that you guys seem to like this development. You've all asked some very good questions and made some very smart connections between certain events or situations. Because this thread of the story is so important to upcoming parts, I can't reveal too much without giving most of the story away. However, I can say that, aside from the fact that Max is the person who brought Liz into the alien business and that the connection is in fact alien, it does not directly concern him at all. I can also say that my favorite wunderkid is not getting the full range of Liz's feelings - a big part of the reason that he was so upset to feel her sad and then have her making a conscious effort to shut him out is because both occurences were very unusual. It was extremely scary for him - he was actually wondering if she had been hurt or killed. Then, when he realized she was shutting him out, it was a whole other can of worms. This chapter, as well as Drew's upcoming part, will hopefully help shed some sort of light on their connection while still leaving you in the dark a bit.

A/N: This chapter did not want to be written. At first I just felt too guilty about picking around in Eileen's head to try to write it, and then as soon as I worked up the courage, she kicked and scratched and bit and threatened in an effort to get out of exposing any vulnerability. I might have been inclined to let her get away with it just because the angst in this story is going to cause me a nervous breakdown sooner or later, but I needed to flesh out a few points. Actually, I was supposed to tie up a few plot points as well - but go figure, they furthered to a certain point and then refused continuation until a later date. I remember when I was optimistic that I'd be able to make this a whole fifteen parts. It turned out kind of... eh. Eileen is probably going to seem all over the place to anyone who doesn't know her entire past and all of her relationships. So basically, everyone but me.

On a brighter note, although ya'll may very well hate me for not jumping right back to Kevin and Maria after this part, as soon as we get an itty bitty nightmare sequence written, we get more Drew. And with that I must conclude this long-winded note and go back to my Isabel/Jesse happy place until I can write you guys lots of M/M and K/E banter and plenty of nice, sappy M/L and S/A scenes. Enjoy.


Part of you that'll never show
You're the only one that'll ever know
Take it back where it all began
Take your time would you understand
What it's all about,
What it's all about

Something is scratching its way out
Something you want to forget about
No one expects you to get out
All on your own with no on around
-- from "Little House" by The Fray

Part Twelve

Eileen paces the apartment for awhile after they leave.

Physical activity helps.

Not as much as alcohol or nicotine, maybe; but smoking always makes her feel vaguely guilty, and ever since the doctor at the rehab clinic called her a borderline alcoholic she has made the effort to keep her drinking strictly recreational. (And he can shove his medical terms and his patronizing smile, because after toeing the line for three years she has yet to get drunk.)

She stays away from drugs – not just cocaine, but the whole truckload – completely.

Even though she knows logically that it isn’t the reason Serena was so angry, Eileen still wonders if maybe her sister reacted the way she did partly because Rena was worried she was dipping into the pot she was getting for Liz. And that thought hurts in places that haven’t been touched in awhile, because she likes to think that her sister has more faith in her than that.

(Not that she deserves it, really.)

In Rena’s mind, she should abstain from anything remotely capable of giving her a buzz.

(And she thinks this is probably somewhat sensible, because she’s not the nicest drunk in the world and having a drug dealer on speed dial wouldn’t exactly be smart. Her brain chemistry – or maybe just her personality – has always been on the addictive side.)

Liz has enough foreign components swimming around in her blood already, and adding anything more into the mix could be dangerous or fatal as far as Rena is concerned.

(Serena does get concerned; too much sometimes.)

While she trusts her big sister with her own health care – even though it is her humble opinion that doctors on a whole don’t know shit, Serena is different – she isn’t so quick to agree when it comes to Liz.

Is giving Liz drugs the best idea? Maybe not.

But Serena always seems to forget that for three and a half years Liz functioned on an almost constant chemically induced high and never dealt with so much as a hangover. That Liz drank even more than Eileen when they went out and that she was just as eager with the consumption/inhalation/snorting of various illegal substances but didn’t once suffer a bad reaction.

She also seems to forget that after Tommy died, Liz pretty much snapped her fingers and went cold turkey on everything. She didn’t have withdrawal symptoms, didn’t have cravings; didn’t even suffer the occasional mood swing.

Maybe it’s the alien DNA.

Or maybe Liz is just a lot better at hiding than Lee assumes.

All this walking is winding her up even more.

And she just had to go and think about Tommy. Now her mind, which at rest spins in about a hundred different directions, is reexamining a million dirty and shameful and just all-over depressing memories.

Eileen loves Liz to death, but she’s never envied her her wallowing and isn’t about to emulate it now.

Loves Liz to death. And Rena thinks that that’s what it’s going to come down to – that Liz, who has brought and kept the two of them together and who has always carried that incongruent air of indestructibility, is going to fall apart and just die on them.

Screw being good. Any more thoughts like this and she’s making for the beer.

“Get a hold of yourself,” she mutters.

Stops next to the kitchen counter, leaning forward on her elbows.

Even bearing down on something else, there’s still that niggling weight that refuses to ever fully go away.

She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against her hands.

Serena and Eileen both have their dirty little secrets when it comes to Liz and Maria and the aliens.

Even though Serena will never, ever tell anyone else – Lee suspects she hasn’t even admitted it to herself – some twisted part of her feels responsible for Future Max’s trip through the rabbit hole.

It’s the knowledge of what-might-have-been and what Liz suffered to make it what-hasn’t-been that brought her sister out of her indecision and made her go with psychology instead of physics. It’s this that compels her to be so fucking passive when it comes to Liz.

(Because God forbid she ever has an incident like this afternoon where’s she’s insensitive and mistaken and human; instead she must be perfect in front of everyone else because she’s so flawed in her own head.)

It’s also why she goes along with the completely stupid ‘let’s keep important information from Maria’ plan that Liz enforces so stubbornly.

She knows how Maria feels about the aliens and how Maria feels about Liz. And she knows that the minute Ria learns how closely the two are still intertwined, she will fail to keep the middle ground she’s worked so hard to find – because really, when it comes to Liz’s situation there is no middle ground.

Lee wonders sometimes if her sister is ever going to see herself as clearly as she sees everyone else.

The thing about Eileen’s secret, though, is that it’s much more selfish; or maybe, she thinks, just self-centered.

(And maybe her hatred of Max has more to do with her than with Liz – because, honestly, for a long time she worried that she was the one dragging Liz down. He was just unfortunate enough to prove her wrong and give her a faceless name to project on.)

Her elbow bumps into something. She looks down and sees the velvet-covered book she and Serena rescued from the guts of the sofa. Runs her hands over it for the hundredth time this afternoon.

Feeling wistful and fragile and just a tiny bit stronger by something that should be so insignificant –

but it’s not.

She and this book have quite the history together.

Liz sent it to her when she was in rehab. She’d just gotten through her thirty-day isolation period and she’d been refusing to see Liz and Rena whenever they came to visit. (It took a lot longer than a month to stop being royally pissed at them.)

She came very near to trashing it on the spot. Instead she read it and found that in that odd, semi-freaky way best friends do, Liz had known exactly what she needed.

She knows that she’s probably placing more credit on this book than it deserves – that in reality, things like time and healing and the once-unthinkable idea of growing up were really what brought about all the good things she got from rehabilitation – but in her mind this unassuming journal served as a bridge of sorts, both between her and the outside world and between her and Liz.

Maybe she feels this way because this is the first real glimpse into Liz that she ever got.

Her fingers run against a protruding piece of paper. Carefully she flips through the book in search of the disturbance, mindful not to rip the yellowed pages. Spidery handwriting smiles up at her like an old friend.

A single piece of stationery, significantly newer than its hiding place, falls to the counter.

Eileen takes one look at the writing and has to bite her bottom lip against tears.

Remembering the first time she read this. It feels like a lifetime, but it’s really only been four years.

(Some days this hits closer to home than others.)

Her eyes scan the text. She tries to skim it quickly; but like there’s some maximum-strength emotional force controlling her, her eyes are pulled back to certain words and phrases until she’s slowly reading the whole letter.


Dear Lee,

I know you hate me right now. I hate myself, too – not for getting you help but for being such a big part of the problem for so long.

You should know that I thought a lot about sending you this. Every time I’ve tried to come down for visits you won’t see me. I understand, even if I think it’s stupid. It’s selfish, too – Serena cries every time we come back without seeing you, and she isn’t even the one who arranged the intervention. But if you won’t let us – let me – be with you, hopefully you’ll at least accept this.

You’re probably wondering right about now just what ‘this’ is. I guess the best way to explain would be to remind you of a conversation we had our senior year at Winnaman – our second senior year, I mean. We were talking about grandparents, and you mentioned that yours was a ‘fascist old bat only concerned with the family reputation,’ and that you wished you’d just had a normal grandmother. I think that you were probably mostly joking (it’s hard to tell with you sometimes), but I thought that right now maybe a grandmother was what you really needed.

When Grandma Claudia died I was devastated. She was the person I told the secrets of my heart to; before Max, I thought she was the closest I’d ever come to a soul mate, if one of a completely different kind.

A week after the funeral my parents went to the reading of her will and brought me back the number to a safety deposit box. She left me quite a few things, but this journal was and remains the thing that I treasure the most.

My grandmother was the most joyful person I knew – so full of life that when she died it seemed liked the universe had broken some chief rule. Like it couldn’t possibly be true that this person with so much to give was really gone. I was happy to have this piece of her, of the bright and funny person that I’d know my whole life. I guess I naively believed that I wouldn’t find anything that strayed from the picture of her I had in my mind.

The odd thing about this journal, though, is that reading it I felt like I was hearing the thoughts of a complete stranger. Most of the pages here are filled with her talking about the darkest moments in her life (and there were quite a few of those). Maybe not at first, but eventually, I came to be grateful for finding out about this side of her, even if it meant that I had to change the way that I viewed her. Some of the glimmer may be gone, but now her memory feels a little more touchable.

The truth is, Lee, you remind of her a lot. I’ve never met anyone as fearless – or as reckless – as you. And you, along with Maria and Alex and Serena, are one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

I know you probably don’t always feel it, but I love you. So much.

I’m not going to apologize for telling your mother what was going on. I hope you can forgive me for that eventually.

Even if you don’t, though, please just do me a favor – read the journal? I promise there’s a happy ending.

Love,
Lizzie-Beth


She hasn’t called Liz Lizzie-Beth in years.

(Probably because in the past, every time she convinced Liz to go along with some drug-involved or just plain crazy-ass scheme she prefaced it with, “Lizzie-Beth, I’ve been thinking…”)

Eileen wonders if that’s really what happened. If she was always introducing Liz to things she wasn’t ready for and convincing her to do something dangerous and stupid.

But she remembers so clearly that sometimes it was Liz doing the suggesting, and that they worked off each other when it came to the drugs and the alcohol, as if they were always trying to see who could do more shit and walk away in one piece.

To most people it would probably be astonishing that they’re still friends.

She knows better than that, though.

Knows that even if she comes with problems, they are all human-sized problems.

That Liz has given her more than a hundred years of selfless friendship could even start to repay.

It was while reading Claudia Parker’s journal, becoming acquainted with and grieving for a woman whose life she had missed, that Eileen began to really mourn herself.

It was between Liz’s visits and the tapes of Maria’s music that she passed on that something inside Lee broke/mended until she was someone fresh and almost unrecognizable, with only traces of the old mold showing in the new.

And then, as Liz realized that she could extend a hand without being bitten, Eileen finally got to know the girl she’d been sharing her rooms and bad habits with for the past two years.

Got to learn the insecurities and stubbornness. Saw that underneath that constant, firm persona was someone too lost in the past and their own head to move forward in anything more than baby steps without threatening to collapse.

It was also during this time that Eileen really met Maria.

First with just a few scribbled notes about some song lyrics she’d liked. Then there were phone calls and letters until, finally, Maria was making almost as many monthly visits as Lizzie and Rena.

Somehow, during the most wrenching time in her life, Lee stumbled upon the treasure of a best friend.

(And it is a credit to Maria that when Eileen was too immersed in her own resentment and pain to appreciate was a treasure she was dealing with, the other woman hung on anyway.)

Liz gave her two friends – one a living, breathing human being and the other the echo of someone from the pages of a diary.

She’s given Eileen support whenever things are too difficult to deal with alone.

In a strange way, she’s also given her her sister.

(Then there’s the small, pesky fact that she may very well owe Liz her life.)

But Eileen likes to think that even if Liz had just given herself, it would have been enough.

-

Liz whips through the door like a compressed tornado.

Her movements aren’t loud or exaggerated. That, she thinks, would be better.

Because all of the rage glimmering just beneath the surface of Liz’s eyes is being tightly compressed into tensed muscles and clipped steps, and sooner or later it’s bound to come out all at once.

“Did you tell her?” Eileen asks Serena.

Serena is wearing that neutral expression, the one that makes it so hard to decipher a damn thing she’s thinking. “Yes,” she says. Quiet. Not quite shameful, but deeply tired.

“You didn’t know, right?” Liz bursts out. She is standing in the corner of the apartment, her arms banded across her stomach. Some intimidating stew of emotions is brewing in her eyes, and the effect makes her look like a crazed animal.

“I only found out a few hours before you did,” she answers. Against her will her voice comes out sounding slightly defensive.

Serena sends her a look that clearly says ‘thanks for the help’ and she resists the urge to glare at her sister. She’s not going to take partial blame for a lie she had no part in.

“Of course you didn’t know,” Liz fumes.

Eileen watches in fascination as Liz gets increasingly worked up – temper tantrums are usually her forte. It’s strangely compelling watching Liz wear her anger like a weapon.

There’s a foreign slant to her face: bitten lips swollen and turned down, eyes trying to narrow and widen at the same time and eyebrows not quite making it into a frown.

Liz looks more alive than she has in weeks.

“Liz –” Serena says.

“No. No, you know what? Don’t talk to me right now. Just – just don’t talk to me. I’m still trying to figure out if I’m more furious that you did what I specifically asked you not to or that you lied to me about it,” she interrupts. Draws herself up to all of her five-foot-two glory and tries to pierce Rena with her eyes.

Apparently Liz has forgotten that that tactic never works on a Burrows. (If anything, it only makes them angry.)

“Liz, don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t have done the same, because you would. You are doing the same thing with Maria.”

Liz’s eyebrows raise, her lips curling in a sarcastic smile. “Oh, okay. We’re going to bring Maria into this? Then why don’t you tell me this, Serena: why haven’t you told her that Michael is ‘dead’? And better yet, why would either of us have to? She talks to Kyle, so why didn’t he tell her?”

“So you’re saying that if someone doesn’t want to know it’s okay? Well, I hate to be the one to remind you, Liz, but you haven’t wanted to hear anything about Max in years!” Serena replies. Rakes a hand through her out-of-control hair.

And just like that, all the fight is gone.

Eileen curses as she sees Liz go limp with guilt, now hugging her middle in an effort to curl in on herself.

She notices belatedly that green sparks are crackling at Liz’s fingertips.

Liz notices the direction of her stare and catches her eye. Communicates a silent request.

She coughs uncomfortably. “Liz… the weed is gone.”

She stiffens. “What do you mean, gone?”

Serena takes over now. She is to-the-point and firm, all business as usual. “We flushed it while you were gone. And if you try to get anymore it’s all going to go the same way.”

Liz steps forward, clearly bent on being confrontational. “What I do in my home on my time is none of your business!”

“Actually, Liz, it is very much my business. You aren’t paying me to hold your hand and offer up tissues.” Serena is steely, her mouth showing faint traces of frustration.

Eileen thinks she sees the beginning of tears in her eyes; but when she blinks it is gone and she thinks it must have just been the lighting.

“We’ve talked about this, remember? You may not see any short-term effects, but we have no idea what kind of damage foreign substances will do to your brain in the long run. It wouldn’t surprise me if part of the reason you have so little control over your powers and your emotions is because of all the junk you’ve taken into your body in the past.”

There isn’t an answering argument.

Liz is pinching the bridge of her nose. Her forehead creases in pain as a small whimper escapes her mouth, and Eileen and Serena are moving toward her even before she stumbles back against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” Lee asks urgently. “Liz, what’s –”

She stops as she sees the blood trickling from her left nostril.

Liz’s voice is drowsy, as if she is fighting the pull of sleep. “It feels… it feels like someone’s been chinking away at my head with a pickax all day. I can’t –” She inhales sharply. Blindly stretches out one of her hands.

Serena grasps it quickly. Her eyes are narrowed, and Eileen tries to calm herself as she sees her sister quickly running through some mental checklist in her head.

“How bad is your headache? Is it a pressing sensation or a sharp pain?”

“It’s not – it’s not that bad,” Liz says. But she hisses in pain and tries to stifle a series of small cries. “It’s not really either. More like a… probe?”

Something about this catches Rena’s attention, but she soldiers on without comment. “Have you had any other symptoms? Low energy, trouble moving limbs or walking in a straight line? Have you had difficulty breathing? Did your heart rate lower or increase a lot when you were by yourself earlier?”

“No. None of that. I just…”

Her eyes fill with tears.

Eileen swallows thickly at the sight of them.

“… I can’t let him in. Not now.” Liz’s whimpers have escalated into full-out sobs.

Rena’s eyebrows raise and she glances at the floor, a frown puckering her forehead. When her head rises she is reluctant but determined. “Liz, if Max is trying to reach you…”

“No, it’s not –”

Then the strangest thing happens.

Liz smiles.

Her face relaxes completely. Eyelids fluttering shut; a smile that is for once genuine playing at her lips. Breathing in deeply, and she is at rest as she leans against the wall and slides to the floor. A stray tear trails down her cheek.

“Okay,” she whispers. Eileen wonders who she’s talking to, because it certainly isn’t either of them. “Okay, okay,” she reaffirms, her voice soft.

Her whole demeanor – the tone of her voice, her expression, even her posture – is heartbreakingly tender.

Liz looks as though resting in her hands is the most precious thing in the world.

Lee is scared to tread on this moment. It feels near-sacred, and she dreads seeing Liz’s smile disappear as she remembers herself. But even though the bleeding has mostly stopped, all she can see are the circular maroon stains decorating Liz’s t-shirt.

“Liz?”

She is too late anyway, though, because Liz’s head has lolled to the side; and as she inhales, her breathing follows the steady pattern of sleep.

-

Liz has been sleeping for over two hours when Maria calls.

Eileen feels a burst of relief. Even with the half-truths and the distance and the always-unspoken questions hanging between them, Maria DeLuca has always had the rare ability to make her smile no matter what the situation.

“Ria!”

Her voice is excited. Maria hasn’t had time to call for a few weeks, between crazy studio hours and promotional photo shoots for her upcoming album. Lee is every inch a kid in a candy store.

“Hey, Lee.”

Just like that, her good mood drops.

Maybe it’s the way her voice leans more toward scratchy than sultry, or the peculiar speed at which she speaks the words – drawing each one out as if afraid to get to the next – but underneath her forced cheer Eileen detects that something is very, very wrong.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

Maria doesn’t question her intuitiveness. “I – I just…”

She can hear the floodgates break through phone line.

“I got a call from Isabel today. She said that she dreamwalked Max, and that Liz got pulled into it, and she’s worried about her. And she said these things to me, and I just can’t… I don’t…” Sobbing filters through the receiver.

Damn it.

This is happening too fast, and now that Maria is being dragged into it too she feels terrible for lying to her and hopeless because Liz will feel guilty too and see it as one more thing she has done wrong and, Christ, she is completely out of her league here.

“Maria, it’s okay. It’s okay,” she says, floundering hopelessly as she attempts for the second time in the space of twenty-four hours to soothe someone who appears inconsolable.

“No, it’s not. Because she thinks that I would just leave Liz to deal with this on her own instead of coming to them if she needed help, and I would never do that. Not even after Michael. God, why would she even think that?”

And this burns. After all, isn’t she herself guilty of doing exactly what Isabel accused Maria of?

Serena needs to stop watching Liz sleep and get the hell out here already.

Rena’s always been the one in charge of cleaning up the messes, and Eileen thinks that if she tries to handle this on her own she will just make the problem worse.

(Because isn’t that what always happens with her?)

For once the sister ESP seems to kick in when it’s needed. Serena exits Liz’s room, shutting the door softly behind her, and turns to find Eileen’s desperate face boring holes in her.

She mouths ‘Maria,’ and her sister’s shoulders slump in exhaustion.

Maria is still talking. “I just… please tell me that she’s alright. That if she wasn’t, one of you would tell me.”

Serena looks at her expectantly. Maria waits tensely on the line.

Eileen decides that even if the hole gets larger, having another person to help dig them out is in everyone’s best interest. Especially when the person in question knows Lizzie better than anyone.

“I think you should come out,” she says quietly. “Liz has been having a hard time lately. I don’t know – I don’t know how serious it is. But I think that if you have the time, she could really use her other best friend.”

It’s hard to tell if Maria’s cry is one of panic, relief, or both. “Just give me a few days to get everything with the album wrapped up. I’ll see if the Idol deal is still on the table and if I can pass the whole thing off as a business trip.”

Thank God.

Serena is giving her that strange, indecipherable stare that she hates. The one where she’s never really sure if she’s being found wanting or being given approval. Still, she says nothing as Maria and Eileen talk in rushed sentences for a few more minutes.

“Lee, I’ve gotta go. But Kevin wants to talk to you. Something about a book he was going to ship you?”

She vaguely remembers her librarian friend promising to ship her a book written by one of her favorite British authors that has yet to be published in the States. That conversation seems a million years away from here and now.

“Oh, okay.”

“Give Liz and Rena my love,” Maria says. Even with the added layer of anxiousness, her voice sounds somehow relieved.

“Sure thing,” Eileen chirps. Tries her best to sound like she is not in the middle of a hellish situation.

Her trademark smirk, the security blanket that always worms its way onto her face when she’s amused or unsure or just trying to fake her way through, is out in full force.

“And I love you too.”

Her tone is teasing. Affectionate. The smallest bit chiding, as if she’d known her friend had some irrational fear that she would be left out.

Eileen feels empty as the urge to hug Maria fills her and she remembers the miles between them.

“You know I love you,” she replies, her voice bored. She knows Maria is picturing her rolling her eyes exasperatedly.

The line crackles and the phone shifts hands.

“Hey, Kev!”

There is silence for a long moment, and she wonders if they have been disconnected. Then she hears a door shut and Kevin is whispering, his voice almost unrecognizable with fury and panic.

“What the hell is going on?”

“W-what?”

She falters. Sounds (and feels) like an idiot.

Serena moves toward her, gesturing for the phone. She clings to it stubbornly.

“I’d just like to know if my best friend’s going to be coming back to me in a body bag, hey? Bloody hell, what exactly is she going to find when she gets out there?”

“What are you talking about?!”

She’s mad now, too. How could Maria tell him and not even give them a heads-up, and how dare Kevin have the nerve to act so high and mighty when he doesn’t have the slightest idea what it’s been like for them?

“You know what I’m talking about, Eileen. Don’t fuck around with me. Is this about the – the thing that happened when the three of you came to visit? Is Liz sick?” Even fired up like she has never heard him, Kevin still manages to sound concerned for their mutual friend.

Serena, who has been angling closer the entire time, finally snatches the phone from her hand. “Listen, Kevin, Liz is having trouble with the – with what we talked about before. I don’t really feel comfortable talking about it over the phone.”

She can’t make out the high exclamations in the background, but she senses Serena growing more and more impatient. “Yes, I know. But Eileen already told her to come, and it’s too late to change that now. When she gets here we’ll see how she’s feeling about it and then decide where to go from there.”

Kevin says something else, and it makes Serena’s nostrils flare. “Don’t talk to me about Michael. You have no idea, and neither does Maria. And frankly, I couldn’t give two shits about what he has to say, either. Maria is a big girl, and if the two of them want to hash everything out then that’s her decision to make.”

There’s another pause, and then Rena murmurs a goodbye and disconnects the call.

It takes her awhile to find her voice.

“Kevin knows?”

Serena nods. “When we went to see them right before moving out here, Liz had a pretty bad night. He walked in on her burning straight through the hotel sheets.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “Maria doesn’t know that he knows.”

Eileen is suddenly overwhelmingly bitter. “So who convinced him to keep his mouth shut: you or Liz? Or was it a joint effort?”

Her sister is suitably stung.

“It wasn’t like that. Liz begged him not to say anything, but she didn’t… it wasn’t like that. He came to me for advice and I told him that I couldn’t get involved.”

“This is such bullshit! And what are we doing here, Serena, about to transport Liz right back to the source of this mess?! How is she possibly going to get better that way?” Eileen bursts out.

If she can’t say anything to Liz, she will damn well say it to Rena. Rena, who should know better.

…Rena, who looks like she’s about to be the second person today to faint.

It’s impossible to stay mad in the face of her sister’s insecurity.

They hear the piercing scream at the same time.

Four years of habit go out the window and they are both racing each other to the door, footsteps pounding the wood until the sound echoes through hallway.

Pulse throbbing in her ears, Eileen is the one to throw open the door. Her eyes search the room frantically for Liz.

Calling her name in a high, frightened voice. Shouting for Serena to do something, to help, because the screaming has stopped and because –

because Liz isn’t anywhere in the room.

Hugs to

Christina
begonia9508
paper
xmag
tequathisy
Carrie
and
Timelord31

A/N: Sorry there aren't any individual review replies this week. I had them all typed out, but my internet server is screwy so when it wouldn't post the new chapter it also ate those, as well as a few last-minute edits I'd put into the chapter. Grr. Normally I'd just retype them like I have in the past, but I'm still a little loopy and dehydrated so I'm not going to bother right now. But, just to reiterate, you guys rock. And I hope ya'll enjoy the new part. EDIT: yet another mionr rewrite. So anyone who read this before five am on July ninth might want to re-read. Or not.

Part Thirteen

When Liz wakes up she is in the White Room.

Her hands and feet are held down by metal brackets, and flimsy material suspiciously similar to that of a hospital gown clings to her sweat-soaked skin.

She has the peculiar sensation of unreality – as if this is a dream within a dream within a dream.

Her mind struggles to work out the specifics, but she finds it is too foggy to accomplish much.

(And that isn't right. She should be alert, aware, begging –)

Her body is trapped head to toe in a second skin. It is deceptively convincing, but as she shifts and stretches it becomes apparent and confining.

Body hollowed out. She is the only real thing, lurking somewhere below. Air is hard to breathe in, and the extra mass is suffocating her.

Mind, willpower, and strength all fight together to bring her to the forefront and strip off the prison of her body twice over.

For some reason she can’t seem to break the surface.

She’s so tired now. Wishes she could fall asleep, but finds herself stuck in this strange waking twilight.

Words are lost to her, but she can still make out voices; one of them is disconcertingly familiar. It is wrong, somehow, but with her clouded head and weighted eyelids it is too great a struggle to examine why.

Even in its unevenness it is comforting. It washes over her in waves, making her forget the pain in her head and the blood soaking the corner of her mouth. Her neck cranes to bring her closer to the sound.

Resistance comes in the form of metal brackets, and with surprise Liz feels a shock of damp hair pressed against the length of her forehead, cheek, neck. Although she knows it should not be here she finds herself merely accepting it. Too much else competes for her attention.

There are cries – awful, shrill, and high-pitched – that she recognizes as her own. But as her heart struggles to beat a steady rhythm and dizziness rolls over her in waves she doesn’t feel the sound passing through her throat or the sobs contracting her stomach. She knows it must be her, but the emotions and actions of this other person are merely faint echoes in her head.

It is disconcerting to not be entirely responsible for her actions.

Her eyes crack open into thin slights; and as they do, she wonders for the first time how she knew her location before seeing it.

With sight comes heightened hearing, and she has almost gotten a grasp on the still-wrong voice in the background when blurred figures in white atmospheric suits are swarming her.

Logic indicates that struggling is useless, but the second skin – and she can feel it more extensively now, is more deeply intermingled with it than ever – fights against the metal restraints encasing her wrists, ankles, and stomach.

Needles approach her arm, and for the first time Liz feels real panic.

She opens her mouth to speak, but that other mouth is still too busy screaming to cooperate with her efforts.

This is not me, she thinks, and is cognizant that this thought should be calming her, not upsetting her further.

Anger builds up in her as multiple hands brush against her body.

“Stop it! Stop it, damn you! She’s not part of this! Don’t touch her!”

It is this, the voice she knows so well, that drags her into some semblance of coherency.

And as she listens, she finally realizes that there is nothing wrong with it. She just couldn’t make herself listen before.

Couldn’t bear to hear the overwhelming rage and anguish, stripping his voice until it’s all just raw sounds tumbling from his chest. Couldn’t face the tears she hears in it so clearly now.

(If she faces him, she will have to face herself as well.)

Ragefearadrenaline rushing her until she has no choice but to look. To see once and for all if, outside of nightmares and dark corners, this is still what he looks like.

Max and Pierce are both at the opposite end of the room. It is dream-distance, stretched out longer than is feasible.

This is a dream, she thinks/remembers, and is somehow made more afraid for Max than if it was real.

He doesn’t have any need to keep in his emotions here. Doesn’t have anything holding him back.

And it is wounded that he does the most damage.

“Ma –”

Her throat is too dry to properly form the word – probably from all the screaming, she thinks. Liz coughs violently and their heads turn together to look at her.

Pierce is at once considering and delighted. Happy, like always, to find a new toy.

Her eyes skim his face carefully, looking for a monster but seeing only the remnants of a human being.

She knows that he will be hurting her soon.

Knows that he has already hurt Max.

In the end, this is what has her seeking out the other prisoner with her eyes.

It is second nature to her: as if it hasn’t been years since she followed his every move carefully, always noticing the slightest nuances in every shade/emotion/change when their gaze met. Also, strangely, as if it is the very first time that she is actually seeing him.

Deathly pale and exhausted, but he is still more beautiful than she'd remembered.

Even with sleep taunting her and drugs being pushed into her veins and hands still poking, prodding, hurting her, the noticeable and familiar charge fills the air when they lock eyes.

He looks at/through her, and she realizes she’d forgotten how terrifying and good it once made her feel to be the one necessary constant in his world.

A distant memory of some connection to him built on flashes and shared emotions and whispers of air teases her memory. Liz can’t place where it’s from, and as she sees him broken but furious it seems far gone and utterly unimportant.

This is the Max that is real.

This is the Max that she can touch.

“Liz.”

And it’s just a whisper, not even really her name – but somehow it stretches across the distance and makes the gap seem bridgeable.

She opens her mouth once more to speak. Can’t draw in the necessary air.

Tears fill his eyes.

Her heart throbs madly in her chest, strange and full with a million dark and wonderful emotions. There is so much she wants to say.

I love you I need you None of this is real I’m trying to find you just hold on Please don’t make yourself watch if they hurt me –

Max sees this all in her eyes and, because it is him, understands.

Her tongue remains thick and useless in her mouth.

So, even as they lay pinned to identical hospital beds with no voices but plenty of words resting between them, some part of him reaches out to her and a twin part of her responds in kind.

She struggles to hang on for him.

It's all just fragments now. Fear and sleep both threaten to pull her away from him.

Unreality and vertigo and exhaustion and then, suddenly, those twin halves are finding each other and this is truer than anything she’s ever felt. More than worth the pain required to reach it.

His eyes, still holding hers, widen.

The stretched-too-tight shell starts to fall apart.

Then the White Room and Pierce and Max are gone, and, howling in frustration, Liz finds herself facing Tess in the granolith chamber.

-

Tess, as always, is having open season on her.

Unlike always, she’s also using powers.

Liz is pinned up against the wall, being suffocated in small increments by an invisible vice closed around her throat.

And Liz is almost frightened, because for once she is utterly unaffected. For once this seems like such an incredibly old nightmare that she wonders why she should even be invested in the outcome.

“You stupid bitch,” Tess sneers. “You won’t even try to fight back.”

Chest burning. Electricity skittering up and down her arms, too weak to be very useful.

Her heart is back with Max.

Max, who, in all probability, is most likely still stuck in that room. Being held by Pierce and immobilized by a million small, cutting memories he’s chosen to shove down until they make themselves known this way. While she has found some way out, even if only to this, he is trapped by his own unhealed wounds.

She closes her eyes and none of this is real.

Then they are back in the observatory.

Max pressing small, intimate kisses to Tess’s wrists and her groaning in approval – and Liz finds that the old anger is back, thick and heavy as ever.

She has been trying to move past this since she was seventeen. To forgive Max and to remind herself that her hand was just as prominent in everything as his; that really, it doesn’t even require forgiveness in the first place.

Some part of her will always die when she thinks about it. Wonder how he didn’t know.

Why he couldn’t bend just a little further when that’s all she had been doing for months.

Jaw flexing wildly. Hot, angry tears and pin-pricks of pain in her hands. There’s a building pressure in her chest, and it won’t recede even as she closes her eyes and turns away.

Liz has become accustomed to the hot rage that comes with seeing this.

But for the first time, it has not been preceded by a Max who has been killed or tortured because of her. It has not come after so many layers of anguish and remorse have been piled on that it can’t come close to making a mark of its own.

She is weaker for seeing him, touching some part of him in that room just now. But she is also stronger.

Her face settles and she takes a deep breath.

This is no longer about Max. It is no longer about her heartbreak/wrongs/guilt.

It is only about Tess, who she has given so much power over her, exerting the crippling blow once more.

And Liz is so fucking sick of laying back and taking it like it is simply her due.

Her mind is made up.

Instantly she goes from the controlled to the controller, her hand shooting up and emitting a forceful blast. The green energy, for once in agreement with her, snakes along her skin in fluid tendrils before shooting out and sending Tess to the floor. The smaller woman is knocked on her back.

Seeing her coughing and vulnerable only increases Liz’s anger. Reminds her of the false weakness Tess played on so often to garner sympathy from Max, Isabel, and Michael.

(From Kyle. From Alex. And even, sometimes, from her.)

Her voice is high and biting.

“How dare you? How dare you call me stupid? I knew from the beginning exactly what you were. I told him when you first came to town.”

“And he didn’t listen. Because he loved me even then!” Tess spits.

That other Tess and Max appear once more, and Liz feels herself falter as the words hit their mark.

Wasn’t it this that was running through her mind when she left the cave, putting as many miles as possible between Max and herself and all of it? Wasn’t this what she thought every time that Max treated her like someone who deserved less than all of him during that last year together?

(That maybe Tess was even more of a victim than she was. That maybe the one disrupting the great love story was – had always been – Liz. And that maybe in some back corner of his mind that was what Max thought, too.)

These insecurities should cut away at the metallic rage lining her throat. Instead they only serve to feed it.

Another blast and Tess is flying across the room. Her body lands limply, limbs strewn out like a rag doll’s.

Liz is quick and harsh, not wanting Tess’s voice or her own internal ones to silence her before she speaks. “Maybe he did. But even if he loved you – even if he loved you more – in the end he chose me. You have no one to blame for that but yourself.” Tess’s form remains still. Liz draws in a shuddering breath. “I lost him. That was my fault. But for all the times you manipulated him, for all the ways you betrayed him and took advantage of his pain, how could you even think that I would ever be jealous of you?”

Her wheat colored hair, now grimy with soot and dirt, rearranges itself against her shoulders as she meets Liz’s challenging stare. That small grimace of a smile is firmly in place. “I was the first. In our last lives and in these, I was the first. All he’ll ever see you as is second best.”

That much, at least, is the truth.

Liz tries to ignore the tears stinging her eyes. It is harder to ignore the internal rupture caused by the words.

Hide. Get away, as far from here as possible before he destroys you completely.

It’s all coming to the front again, and that person she has just now stopped hiding behind is at her side, whispering in her ear; telling her that, as always, they are safer accepting it, safer not trying to fight it –

No.

Not now, and not ever again.

She directs a powerful arc of energy straight at Tess’s chest. Her aim is perfect.

It is as Tess is trembling and doing her best to squirm away from Liz that she notices the faint glow encasing her abdomen.

The world tilts on its axis.

Heart pounding. The breathing too loud, mangified, and the colors too harsh even in the dark.

Tess has noticed her gaze. “Liz,” she says, voice urgent, “You can’t kill me. If you kill me then you kill him, too. This is Max’s son. You can’t.”

This isn’t happening. None of this is real, she tells herself, and is even more strongly aware that this is just a dream and millions of others like it have never produced anything but damaged furniture and bouts of nausea.

Her heart lurches as she watches the tiny glowing hand.

Then –

“Do it.”

She whips around, not caring in the slightest that she is leaving herself open to another attack. She stares in disbelief at the familiar face.

“Max?”

His expression is stony. He grabs her arm, and she is struck by the realization that whoever this is, it is most definitely not the man she left hours ago.

“Protect him,” he hisses fiercely. “Kill the mother to protect the heir. It’s the only way.”

She rips out of his hold.

Backing up swiftly. Tripping over her feet as sobs bubble up in her throat.

This is all getting twisted somehow in her mind. Tess isn't pregnant anymore. Max is not here - not the one in front of her and not the Max from before.

Liz cranes her neck and surveys Tess struggling into a sitting position. Her hand is curled protectively around her stomach.

She stiffens at the gesture.

Her eyes are drawn back to that hand, and the lackluster glow beneath it, and she is hit with an overwhelming wave of protectiveness. Even if Tess isn't, the baby is something pure and innocent. Something worth saving.

She turns to him, this Max-but-not-Max, and places herself in front of the other woman. “No,” she says hoarsely. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“You fool! She’s poisoning him. Don’t you know why he’s dying? She’s killing him intentionally!” Eyes both furious and empty bore into hers. “She will kill both of you.”

Panic and bile rise in her throat. She turns her head, frantic as she sees that the glowing has dimmed even more. She is helpless in between the three of them.

“The heir is in danger.” His voice is a series of staccato words, running over each other so quickly they are almost indecipherable. “Kill her or let him die.”

“He’s lying,” Tess sobs.

Liz’s head goes back and forth frantically, between the tiny hand Tess uses to shield her eyes and the luminous one the other alien now holds up.

She has to make a decision. Even if it’s the wrong one. Even if it gets them both killed.

She takes another step.

Brings up her hand.

“You won’t hurt him,” she promises.

An ugly smirk transforms his mouth and she fights the urge to look away.

Then before she has had a chance to react he is grabbing her, surrounding her, forcing her into a violating kiss.

Suddenly everything is a wasteland. Dead bodies everywhere. No light or color, and the sky is clouded.

The storm growing closer, lightening flashing –

Liz hears the thud of a body hitting the ground.

She pulls away, a broken cry ripping from her lips. It abruptly turns into a whimper.

The person looking at her is unremorseful.

“I told you,” that eerily familiar voice says.

Tears and dust mix on her face.

Liz stands, horrified, and stares numbly into emotionless eyes.

“No. You’re not –”

“I am.”

Then she is being pulled from the dream. Only one last moment, and she is not ready, can’t leave until she understands why and how.

Darkness and light war to dominate her field of vision. There is ringing in her ears and the faint sound of footsteps. She feels detached from this, a heavy and painful knot at the top of her neck the only proof that it is happening at all.

In one final moment of desperation Liz grips the edges of the dream and pulls it toward her. Her sight clears once more, leaving her with one last, perfect view of her own face.

-

Then she is in her room once more, bleeding and breathing heavily and not completely herself.

Her grasp on the situation flickers in and out, and as the thudding of near-identical footfalls grows closer something ugly and foreign wipes out all emotion.

There is only the unforgiving knowledge of the White Room and of green edging her arms and that, somewhere out there, two people will die if she does.

Think. Thinkthinkthinkthink think, dammit!

A terrifyingly prominent voice suggests that she kill the intruders upon entrance.

Liz recognizes Serena’s high-pitched gasp and rails. Tries to extract herself from the nightmare that seemed so much farther away when she was in it.

She is safe. She is safe and they are friends and she is not Tess, not that other her. She won’t kill them.

Energy is already racing unbidden to her palm.

Panic overwhelms her.

Oh God no.

She flinches with each inch they gain.

The second skin wraps around her in an insidious stranglehold.

The door swings open.

I won’t do it. I won’t, I won’t, I –

In one last, futile attempt, Liz folds in on herself completely.

A/N: Okay, first of all, many thanks to Christina, nibbles2, keepsmiling7, bella_svetlana and tequathisy for convincing me that there are actually people out there who give two flying frogs if this story is out there. Secondly, a HUGE round of thanks and wows for this:


for "Best Use of a Supporting Character" for Eileen

for "Favorite Portrayal of Serena"

Honestly, it was such an honor to be nominated, and I'm crazy humbled that I got runner-up for Serena, who is such a huge deal in fanfic and who has become such an endearing character to me. Never did I think that I would get this attached to a character who came to be in this story only because one night when I was trying to write a random drabble I decided it wouldn't do well in Liz's perspective and needed someone else. She is such a joy to write, and you guys can't begin to know how much it means to me that even on of ya'll like her enough to nominate. So thank you to everyone who nominated or voted for me. You rock.

Now here [FINALLY] is chapter fourteen. It's still not as perfect as I'd like, but the end finally came to me tonight and after checking and editing like crazy I knew I had to give it to you guys as soon as possible. So sorry for the undoubtedly numerous typos. And to all English readers: please don't come after me with a pitchfork for undoubtedly skewering your vernacular. I tried to make it sound natural, I swear! Now that that's done with, let's get on with it, shall we?

Part Fourteen

When Maria finally stops crying, Kevin gets out of the car, moves around to her side, and helps her up to her flat. Hangs up her purse and coat. Pours her a drink, cringing when she knocks it straight back; and then goes to draw her a bath.

He isn’t an effeminate gay man. He doesn’t have a crew of women he hangs out with and calls his bitches, and he doesn’t wear bright colors or ridiculous hats. Actually, aside from Ria, most of his closest mates are the guys in his football club.

But while he’s not ‘one of the girls’, Kevin is an only child who watched his single mum get her heart broken more times than he could count growing up. He was the one to comfort her, to tuck her in and tell her that she was worthy and that everything would be alright. He still has the drill memorized, and figures it should do fine here as well.

While Maria’s in the shower he calls his boss and takes today and tomorrow off. He feels weird about it, as if the scratchiness in his voice should give away that there’s something worse than a stomach bug going on. The journalist he’s working under seems oblivious, though, and Kevin says a silent prayer of thanks for his great immune system.

After that he orders Indian food and flips on the telly. He moves around restlessly for awhile, just waiting for Ria to get out and tell him what the fuck is going on. (Maybe ‘hopes’ is a better word than ‘waits’ – he’s been waiting quite a long time, after all.)

His back muscles spasm. His fingers tap out the chorus of every song on the Top 20. He gets up from the couch and decides to make tea.

Kevin’s somewhat nervous. A little afraid, a little relieved. Concerned that whatever’s happening now is going to hurt Maria. But, surprisingly, the predominant feeling in this last hour before the shyte hits the fan is boredom.

This crazy, unconvincing game of charades that Ria and Lizzie and Lee and Rena have been playing for the past three years is close, so close, to ending, and Kevin really just wants to deal with this already so they can all finally get on with their lives.

It’s getting old to never get a straight answer from any of them. That quiet pang of sadness he feels every time that God-awful look enters Maria’s eyes for a moment has been getting sharper lately. And he’s sick of pretending that he never saw Liz lighting up like a Christmas tree in that four-star motel room, sick of pretending that Maria doesn’t slip up with phrases like ‘glowing hickeys’ and ‘exploding croutons’ on the rare occasion that she gets sloshed.

Maria finally comes out of the bathroom. She’s nearly swallowed up in her lime green bathrobe, her towel wrapped turban-style over her hair. Her nose wrinkles up, sniffing experimentally, and some of the remaining tension around her eyes fades. “Indian food? You’re a god, Kevin Sawyer.”

He smiles softly. “Not quite.”

They move to the kitchen, sitting on her modern chrome barstools and eating straight from the boxes with the good silver. Kevin has the odd conviction that they are only playing at being grown-ups.

For a long time there is only companionable silence. Then Ria lets out a shuddering sigh. “Chicken curry is my chicken noodle soup equivalent.”

Kevin peeks over into the box, frowning when he sees how close to empty it’s gotten. He barely got a bite before she snatched it away. “Save a little for me, yeah?” he grouses.

The rise of her eyebrows creates one, two, three small lines across her forehead, her eyes incredulous as she looks at him. “You only got one box?”

“It’s a huge box, Maria.”

She looks down. Hums in assent. After frowning intensely for a moment she slides it over to him.

Kevin sighs. “It’s fine, love. Take the rest of it.” He almost says, you probably need it more than I do, but he doesn’t want to make her freeze. Or run.

His fork scrapes the paper bottom of the box and Maria makes loud, thoughtful chewing noises. He keeps his eyes trained carefully on the countertop. Doesn’t look up when she speaks. “Isabel is a friend from Roswell. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding – so was Liz. That was back when Liz was dating Max. Max and Isabel are siblings.”

Kevin understands Maria-speak well enough to follow her without the halting pauses and considers telling her as much, but when he risks a glance at her face he understands that they’re just as much for her as they are for him.

“Isabel also… Isabel also dated Alex. Briefly the spring of our sophomore year. Then they went to junior prom together… God, they both looked so happy that night. We all thought that that was it. They were finally going to be happy together, you know? And then Alex… got into the accident.” On the last word Maria’s voice shifts to something in between a choking sound and a hiss.

Kevin keeps his face diplomatically blank. He knows the generic details of Alex Whitman’s death. He knows about the crash and the tire tracks and that Maria swears on her mother’s grave that Alex didn’t kill himself. Aside from that, there isn’t much to be known. A particularly mean-spirited rag printed the whole thing up as a cover story a few years back when she appeared at a suicide prevention concert and her agent wrote up a vague public statement, but that’s one of only two or three mentions she’s made regarding him.

After a brief conversation with Liz a few years back he formed his own opinions on the death of their childhood friend, filling in as many blanks as he could. When it comes to Maria he generally tries to stay away from the subject altogether. Kevin suspects that in the shock and denial she’s never been able to look past the surface of the event that took his life. He also suspects he reminds her of the dead boy a little. He isn’t willing to push to get explanations, though, and his usually open best friend isn’t willing to share.

He hates that there’s nothing he can do about the tears in her eyes.

“She thinks that there’s something wrong with Liz.”

The sides of the fork cut into his palm as his grip on the silverware tightens. Kevin remembers that part of the conversation well.

Please, be safe, Liz. The thought straddles the thin border between a plea and a prayer.

“Did she run into Liz’s mum? Has she talked to Liz recently?” he asks calmly. He turns to look at her, unflinching in the face of her exhausted eyes.

“No. Isabel just gets feelings about things sometimes.” Maria laughs shortly. “We learned a long time ago not to question them.”

His heart pounds loudly in his chest as he recalls the numerous times that Liz has called, e-mailed, or texted with a small hint to check in on Maria or to free up his schedule a bit only days or hours before he finds out that something’s wrong.

Stomach clenching and sweat forming on his brow.

“I can’t tell you,” he hears Serena saying to him, “but it’s not bad, I swear to you. Liz isn’t involved in anything illegal and she’s not hurting anyone. Please, Kevin, I’m so sick of all the secrets. Don’t force me into another one.”

So Isabel and Max are a part of this, then. He suspected as much.

“Maybe you should call her, oi?” he questions. His voice is gentle, and he lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Find out if something’s wrong one way or the other before you go tearing yourself to shreds over this feeling of Isabel’s.”

Ria sniffs loudly. “You’re right. I’m being silly,” she says. He squeezes the shoulder he’s holding, ignoring the lie in her voice as she tries to reassure him.

“Not silly.” Kevin leans over, kisses her forehead. Gets up and throws the empty takeout boxes into the rubbish bin. As he turns back and heads toward her he snatches the phone from its cradle and places it in her hands. She turns it a few times unseeingly before punching in the long string of digits needed to make an overseas call.

He drifts away, trying to stay close enough to hear but not so close that he smothers her with his anxiousness.

She’s still. Her voice, when she speaks, is all wrong. “Hey, Lee.”

He can’t hear Eileen’s reply.

Maria crosses her free arm over her chest, trying to protect all her vulnerable parts. “I – I just… I got a call from Isabel today. She said that she dreamwalked Max, and that Liz got pulled into it, and she’s worried about her. And she said these things to me, and I just can’t… I don’t…”

She’s heaving dry sobs now.

It’s this, not wondering what the fuck a ‘dreamwalk’ is or how Isabel knows to do it, that demands Kevin’s attention. He wishes he could move toward her and wrap his arms about her in a big-brother hug.

But if he did that she’d hang up. Never get the reassurance that she needs. After all, she’s only talking so freely because she’s forgotten that he’s here. And he wonders how often that happens, how often she’s right in front of him but truly living somewhere else entirely.

Whatever Eileen says doesn’t satisfy Maria. “No, it’s not. Because she thinks that I would just leave Liz to deal with this on her own instead of coming to them if she needed help, and I would never do that. Not even after Michael. God, why would she even think that?”

Her voice changes. The shrillness leaves, the broken little girl shining through. “I just…” Faltering, floundering, and the knife in his chest is twisting as he watches her grapple for some wonderful, solid reassurance she can use to gain purchase. “Please tell me that she’s alright. That if she wasn’t, one of you would tell me.”

Her head is cocked to the side, as if by leaning far enough into the phone line she can coax a response out of their friend. Kevin waits, breath baited.

The silence shatters with Maria’s short sob. “Just give me a few days to get everything with the album wrapped up. I’ll see if the Idol deal is still on the table and if I can pass the whole thing off as a business trip.”

He can already see the wheels in her head turning. Her free hand is moving, the fingers snapping restlessly as she mentally makes a list of people to call and things to pack and publicity events that need to be blown off.

His heart sinks.

Walking up, loud enough that she’ll hear him coming. She and Lee are ironing out travel arrangements now, babbling about what tourist attractions they should visit when she arrives – and, of course, which beach they’ll spend the most time at. “Ria,” he says, voice cheerful and loud, “can you hand me the phone for a sec? I need to talk to Lee about the book I’m shipping out. It’s going to take longer than we expected.”

She tilts her head to look at him, her face frantic and relieved. She nods vigorously. “Lee, I’ve gotta go. But Kevin wants to talk to you. Something about a book he was going to ship you?” There’s a minute of silence; then a fond, shaky smile covers her face. “Give Liz and Rena my love. And I love you, too.”

Then the phone is being handed off to him and Maria is rushing down the hall toward her bedroom and the empty suitcase she always keeps on hand. Eileen’s voice filters through the phone line. “Hey, Kev!”

He clenches his teeth, jaw throbbing. His head pounds and he has to remind himself that he’s not the only one who’s just in this for someone else. Striding across the apartment until he gets to the guest room, he goes inside and shuts the door firmly.

Then he lets go. “What the hell is going on?”

“W-what?”

Pictures of burnt sheets and Liz’s eyes rolled back into her head flash through his mind like a bad imitation of a news report. Her innocence, however unpracticed it may be, aggravates his already enflamed nerves. “I’d just like to know if my best friend’s going to be coming back to me in a body bag, hey? Bloody hell, what exactly is she going to find when she gets out there?”

“What are you talking about?!”

Suspicion and accusation and still with that faked naïveté, and Kevin’s head is about to explode. His voice is a low hiss. “You know what I’m talking about Eileen. Don’t fuck around with me. Is this about the – the thing that happened when the three of you came to visit?” A moment of hesitation, then the fear is closing his throat until he has to struggle to make his voice come out. “Is Liz sick?” His eyelids fall, whole body stumbling into the wall.

Little Lizzie, who Ria chatters about nonstop on some days. Who he remembers meeting for the first time and thinking must have been beautiful once. (Understanding that she still is, really, came later.)

She can’t be sick. Can’t be dying from whatever it is that’s been done to her.

And for a moment, just a moment, he allows himself to wonder how you make someone that way; what needs to be done so that a person so small and passive can generate such terrifying force. Because it can’t be natural, and it can’t be good, and the hand that did it is about to turn the tide of Maria’s life once again.

Crackling as the phone lines switch hands. Serena’s voice now. “Listen, Kevin, Liz is having trouble with the – with what we talked about before. I don’t really feel comfortable talking about it over the phone.”

But what is it, exactly, that they talked about? He doesn’t remember ever getting clarification. These girls, he thinks with a faint touch of bitterness, are excellent at talking a mile around the heart of the issue.

“I thought that we were supposed to be keeping Maria out of all this,” he says tightly. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? That that’s how Liz wanted it – that whatever’s going on could be dangerous? So why the hell are you just sending her blindfolded into the middle of this?” His voice and blood pressure are both rising again.

“Yes, I know. But Eileen already told her to come, and it’s too late to change that now. When she gets here we’ll see how she’s feeling about it and then decide where to go from there.”

She’s trying to placate him. She’s trying to bloody placate him.

“And what then, huh? Isabel called her, d’you know that? Just got her cell phone number and called without warning, then started going on about Liz. If you’re getting involved with that lot again, and she’s going to have to deal with Michael…” His hand tightens around the phone as he thinks about the pathetic fuck who used his best friend and then threw her aside like she was nothing.

“Don’t talk to me about Michael. You have no idea, and neither does Maria. And frankly, I couldn’t give two shits about what he has to say, either. Maria is a big girl, and if the two of them want to hash everything out then that’s her decision to make.”

Kevin senses the creaking floorboard before he hears it. He whips around. Bites back a groan as he sees a cagey, flight-ready Maria.

“I can’t talk anymore. But this conversation isn’t over,” he promises.

“Goodbye,” Serena says, and her voice is so tired that for a moment he feels bad for lashing out at them. They don’t deserve this mess anymore than Maria and Liz.

But there are more important matters at hand right now than his guilt over a few waspish comments or Serena’s emotional state. He disconnects the call. Takes a careful step toward Maria.

She flinches back. “What – what was that?”

“How long have you been standing there?” Kevin asks instead of answering directly.

She snorts. The action makes her face twist into something ugly. “Long enough. So, what exactly are we keeping me out of the loop on? What is it that you know? Actually, forget that. First why don’t you tell me exactly who the hell you are and why you’ve been pretending to be my best friend?”

The barb lands true, right above his heart. It doesn’t leave the wound she intended – he isn’t a member of some government conspiracy who’s trying to cover his arse and shoot up a bunch of genetic anomalies, or some imposter who’s spent years exerting largely thankless efforts so he can implicate himself into her life.

He’s just her friend. Just someone who cares.

And that’s exactly what makes her hurt and suspicion so effective as they tear the earth from beneath his feet.

Kevin considers drawing this out, trying to salvage the situation with misdirects and half-truths. In the end he’s simply too tired of hiding things from her. Out with it, then. He drags in a deep breath. “Love, it’s not like that,” he begins. “That person on the phone? That was Serena. We were talking about you… and about Liz.”

“So I’ve gathered,” she retorts. A small suitcase swings from her grip.

She’s not going to make this easy.

“I know there’s something different about Liz, alright? I’ve seen –” But he doesn’t want to tell her what he’s seen, so he steamrolls right on through. “There’s just something different about her. And I think it probably has to do with Max and Isabel and – and with Michael.” He pauses. “Maybe even with whatever happened to Alex.”

She sways on her feet as she tries to decide whether to run or attack. In the blink of an eye she is a hair’s breadth from him, her hands trying to shove him backward and her eyes blazing. “Don’t you talk to me about Alex! You know nothing about him! Nothing!”

Kevin tries to keep his hands gentle as he wraps them around her wrists, stills her flailing arms. “I know, Ria, I know! That’s not what I meant. Just – will you just listen to me? I saw Liz, when they came to visit. What she was doing wasn’t possible. It wasn’t human.” Maria stills, trembling like a frightened fawn. He draws her into his chest and hugs her tightly. “That’s all. No big conspiracy, no violent plans. I’m just worried. I’m so worried about you.”

The words are raw. He feels them scraping over her flesh/heart/mind and settling somewhere in her chest as her breathing quickens and her muscles relax. Her reply is muffled by his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?”

Because I don’t. Because Serena said not to. Because Liz begged me to let you have just one person who was yours, all yours, and not hers or theirs in some way that, however unimportant, might mean everything to you.

Instead, the small, throbbing truth that he’s been shoving down deep for so long comes up and out in a thin whisper. “I wanted you to tell me.”

Silence. Secondsminuteshours stretching on until he’s not sure of his own name, home, life.

Then she disentangles herself. Steps back and affords them both some much-needed distance. Their eyes lock, his words reverberating between them like some bleeding and unholy admission as it enters a church confessional.

The thud of his pulse. The nauseating, steady pounding in his head.

Her eyes, so green as they reflect his plea, voiced for her comfort and his sanity:

Tell. Me.

And he’s no idea why – suspects she doesn’t, either – but that final wall that she’s held up between them is coming down and she is slowly, unsurely, finally opening her mouth to speak.

-

Maria tells him about all of them.

About Alex, who was her best friend and the author of exactly one hundred and thirteen songs. She says that he was bright and funny and the foundation that she and Liz clung to, and that she will never in a million years forget that his funeral was the first time that singing deepened the hole inside her instead of filling it.

She explains how he was murdered by someone he trusted. That Max never wanted to heal anyone after he saw Alex’s body, and that Liz stopped believing in God when he died.

She speaks of Isabel, the girl who once walked into her nightmares looking for a heart-to-heart and created a virtual Antarctica in her car. She says that Isabel is maybe the strongest woman she’s ever known, but that she didn’t learn how to let herself need someone until Alex was already dead and it was too late.

She tells him about Kyle, her step-brother, and Jim, her step-father. How they are both suspicious and brave and unwaveringly loyal. She tells him about their separate quests to expose Max, Michael, and Isabel, and how the truth of what they were made Kyle and Jim into a family again.

And, he suspects because she knows that she won’t ever say it if she doesn’t say it now, Maria finally makes herself talk about someone named Tess.

She tells him how Tess put pictures in Michael’s and Isabel’s minds and made Max do things he didn’t want to – and how even though Liz and Maria had never done anything remotely that bad, it was Tess that Isabel felt guilty for pushing away.

She remembers the way that Tess always seemed to have all the answers. How in control she was, and how Maria thinks maybe it was that – not the alien DNA or the listening ear or the perfect figure, but the illusion of control – that attracted Max to her.

Maria does her best to paint a picture of Max and Liz, who have always been so selfless that they swing right back into selfishness. She tries to explain the odd magnetism of their relationship: how they made everyone a part of their love story, and how it was impossible to be in the room with them without feeling like you were intruding on something private and sacred. She says that they were forever walking the fine line between healing and destruction and that she lost some of her faith in love when they stopped putting each other back together.

Then Michael.

Michael, who fought with her and questioned her and was forever leaving her behind and saying he didn’t have time for her. Michael, who read Joyce and Milton and Faulkner but only used about ten words in his everyday conversations.

Who made her see stars long before they found out the hybrids could give flashes as well as receive them. Who stared so far into her eyes he must have glimpsed her brain once or twice. Who said “I don’t need you” and meant “please don’t leave”, or “yeah, thanks” and meant “I love you.”

Michael, who was her first love. (Her only love.) Who she still wishes she could slap, but given the opportunity would only really apologize to.

And when her voice is hoarse and their tea is cold and they both have migraines, he reaches across the few inches of kitchen floor separating them and takes her hand. “I’m glad you told me, Maria. I am.” He stops and stares into her eyes, earnest and also a tiny bit afraid. “But the person I really wanted to hear about was you.”

He watches her go from tired incomprehension to frightened recognition. Feels bad for even asking.

He doesn’t know if she’ll tell him the truth. He isn’t sure if either of them have the strength to hear it. But Kevin knows she’s stronger than he can guess and has probably been waiting for someone to ask this question for a long time.

If Maria won’t let Liz or Lee or Rena and Michael is too far gone and her mother doesn’t know to ask, he’ll be the person who does. He’ll be that for her.

She deserves that much.

She crawls across the tiles in her black suede boots, mascara smeared and hair a mess, and begins another story altogether.

Choco chip cookies to...

Christina: Thank you so much. I always get extremely mushy and, on hormonal days, teary-eyed when I read your feedback. Writers (even ff ones) always say that we write for ourselves and don’t care about fb, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to get such wonderful support from readers.
begonia9508
nibbles2: So no feather boas yet, but my mind is now nagging at me to work them in somehow. I think this definitely needs to be part of my fic’s cannon… just give me some time to work out the details.
Natalie36
keepsmiling7
b4thestorm
destinyc
Timelord31
Doublestuf: This review seriously staggered me. I have been lurking in the ‘Ghost’ thread for over a year, and to get any kind of praise, much less so generous at that, from a writer as awesome as you is really humbling and heart-warming and just all-over great. I know a lot of the fanfic greats have left or drifted away from Rosfic in the last year or so, so if I somehow manage to keep you here a little longer, I’ll be happy. Sorry for getting you interested and then disappearing!

I was leery of writing two OCs, since Serena and Eileen are basically OCs anyway, but Aaron and Kevin have been such sweethearts. I’m always happy when I get to include them at all, and Aaron, as you said, is very easy to fall for. As for the sisters – I’m not sure when, exactly, they decided to take the story over. They just did, and now everyone else is along for the ride. They’ve convinced me Liz and Max get center stage once the dust settles, though, so until then I’m just enjoying the grey area they bring up constantly.

And speaking of the Liz/Drew connection…

Smac: Thanks for all the kind words! I’m glad you found the story.
bella_svetlana: I’m glad this is keeping you at the edge of your seat! This plot is seriously insane, so it keeps me flying by the seat of my pants just trying to keep track of everything. No real-life M/L or Drew/Liz encounters yet, but we get preeetttty close here. Hopefully it will help tide you over.
paper:

You, my dear, are a master.

This is making me blush and stutter like crazy. Gah, I am definitely blessed with awesome reviewers.

A/N: This part was going to be fluffy, I swear. Aaron and I were planning to double-team Drew and sneak up on him with banter and snuggles and all of the sweetness a little Czech deserves. Drew had other plans, though. And, because he is irresistible and just as stubborn as his biological father and wants everyone to know that he is A Serious Character just like all the big people, he won. I think this part is growing on me anyway, though. I’m not as hysterically convinced that it will ruin Drew for everyone, or make him seem massively uneven when done in other character’s POVs, as I was before. (Seriously, there were some real talk-me-off-the-ledge moments yesterday.) So, I hope ya’ll enjoy! I’m going to shoot for two week realistically, optimistically one week, for the next update. I leave you now with Drew, in all of his run-on sentence, empathic glory.

Oh! And a big shout-out to Raychel for looking this chapter over for me. Thanks so much for all the help, hon, and for putting up with me despite my semi-colon fetish.


"Here the highways cross. One heads north.
One heads east and west..."
- David Shumate

Part Fifteen

Ghosts, Drew believes, do exist. Not in the way most people think – he doesn’t believe there are real-life Caspers, for one, or that angry spirits torment the people unlucky enough to come across them – but he thinks that there are people who are less than real. More dead than they are alive.

(And whether this is because they are dead but cling to everyone else like cancer or because they are alive but have their hearts buried in the ground with others is another matter entirely.)

Right now Drew is a ghost.

His molecules are all in an odd, impossible state of stasis, and he’s using smoke-and-mirrors tricks to make all of the molecules around him show something else to everyone who crosses his path. The most alive parts of him are shut down and dismantled, folded into tiny little pockets of space somewhere (anywhere) away from here. Even breathing is ridiculously hard.

It’s worth it, though. It helps him focus. Plus, being able to be invisible for over an hour might come in handy in the future.

When he was younger, he used to do this to avoid school. Not during classes or anything; teachers would have gotten involved then, and Aaron would have been worried. But during recesses and P.E. sessions he would carefully hang back, fading out of everyone’s notice until he was almost invisible anyway. Then he would take a deep breath, reassemble a few million atoms, and be on his way. It was nice to have an escape from so many stray emotions.

(And thoughts. He doesn’t catch those as much, and it happens less often now that he tries so hard not to – but it still happens. It scares him and makes Aaron uncomfortable and it’s even worse when they’re around strangers and he lets it slip that he knows what they’re thinking or feeling or planning. He never can seem to distinguish everyone’s realities from actual reality. Someday that might be dangerous.)

There was that day, though, when he lost track of time and stayed out of sight for too long. Drew almost didn’t have the energy to snap back into place. His head hurt really bad and his stomach was rolling and he got lost trying to get back to class. When he fell down in the hallway someone saw it happen and took him to the nurse’s office, and while he was lying there he dreamed about being in a glass cage and people staring at him and woke up crying for his mom. Aaron got called to pick him up, and…

His face, when he saw Drew curled up on the leather-covered cot, sick on his shirt and sweat clinging to his skin and redness around his eyes, was wet.

(This is one of the few memories he has of his older brother crying. He’s not even sure if it’s a real memory, either. His head was still pounding, after all, and he was in and out of dreams for a long time that day. Drew’s always been too afraid to ask him.)

Once he was feeling better they had a talk and Aaron explained that it’s good to know his limits, good to get away from the noise sometimes, but that using powers is already dangerous and he shouldn’t do it so long that he gets sick. He doesn’t use them nearly as often anymore; now when he lets himself be less than real it’s just because everyone else’s feelings have been making him feel too real. (That’s actually called hyper reality, but he tries not to use big words and terms too much. It makes him sound weird.)

So something like this happens: Rachel Novak from second grade has a puppy who died last night and is crying by the monkey bars, and Timmy from fourth grade is angry because his best friend Eric called him stupid, and that big fifth grader is insecure and compensating with the excitement he gets from bullying the new kid with the big glasses, and Drew’s best friend Leon is being brave and standing up to him and, suddenly, everyone else’s feelings are a little too much for his control and the comfort provided by the faint presence in the back of his mind to deal with. So instead of clutching his head like a baby or crying like this morning, Drew wanders to the edge of the playground and disappears. Then he focuses on breathing, staying see-through, and reciting the multiplication table.

Math helps him think. Numbers are quieter than people.

People come with guns. People take parents away, want him locked up somewhere without light, want to hurt Aaron because he’s protecting Drew.

People might not like the answers they would get if they looked too closely at that strange little boy and his much-older brother who are always gone in the space of a year, so they try not to notice them at all.

He is a ghost, if he thinks about it.

She would agree with him if she was here, and she would be kind of sad about that. But she would also tell him that it’s okay because they can be ghosts together.

(She wouldn’t say it in that sugary sweet, super-excited tone adults use with little kids, either, because she knows that he’s smart and knows that, no, he doesn’t really think he’s a ghost, he’s just using a metaphor. She’s smart too, so she knows what a metaphor is. She’s also nice enough to go along with it.)

For a second Drew feels real sadness, sadness that’s his and not anyone else’s. Everything he knows about her is what he’s found out from his dreams, and he knows that the version of her he talks to there is just someone he’s imagined.

But –

(He knows that she’s the prettiest person in the whole world. He knows that she’s kind and hurting and that, like Aaron, she would defend him with everything she has.

He knows that in another life, he wouldn’t have been born somewhere besides earth and he wouldn’t have been a mistake. He would have been hers.)

There’s only this life, though; and he doesn’t really understand alternate realities and time travel because his mind isn’t mature enough, and he can’t comprehend reincarnation or “should have been”’s because his heart isn’t wise enough. In this life, she isn’t his mom. She doesn’t know he exists.

Drew only knows her because once when she was hurt he placed his hands on either side of her head and saw into her soul.

(It was beautiful. He knows now that they’re not as alone as Aaron thinks, and that there’s a reason things are the way they are. She gave him hope.)

The wind ruffles his see-through shirt and pants, numbing his cheeks and mussing his bangs so that they tickle his forehead. It whistles through the trees, rain falling in a soft drizzle too light for the teachers to announce an indoor recess. Drew inhales silently and shivers at the cold-good feeling of sharp air hitting his lungs.

He likes times like this. He likes getting a chance to think. Not about the date of the Continental Congress or how many liters go into a gallon, but about life and death and whether anyone will really care if he slips up and their family loses its last two members.

Aaron isn’t happy that his younger brother thinks about stuff like this, and that he has an “imaginary” friend who tells him she loves him without saying a word; but Aaron is sharp enough to know that Drew not being unhappy is a victory in and of itself. And if he’s kind of weird – well, that’s probably to be expected, and there isn’t a whole lot anyone can do about it now. (Aaron doesn’t really think that, though. He has this crazy idea that Drew is wonderful, and Drew’s never been able to make himself tell him otherwise.)

Sometimes Drew wants to be the adult, so that he can insist that he is happy and Aaron will have to believe it. His older brother just instinctively knows stuff about him, almost like a real parent, and he’s always spot on about when he needs to be reminded of mom and dad and when he wants a bedtime story way below his reading level and when he just needs a hug. He isn’t sure how, then, he can be so wrong about this one thing.

He’s still puzzling over this, trying to make connections between events and emotions and motivations so Aaron’s behavior will make sense, when the bell rings to signal the end of recess. Luckily he’s right by the tree line and Leon is nowhere in sight. With a shuddering breath, he calls back all the parts of himself he’s sent away and looses them from the neat boxes where they’re hidden, folding himself outward instead of inward. Gravity immediately becomes an issue. The force of the change sends him stumbling, feet screaming out in pain.

Drew’s eyes open immediately to make sure no one has seen him. His track record is spotless – but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. He’s one of the only kids not lined up outside the double doors of the lower elementary wing. He hobbles his way over, careful to look easier on his feet than he actually is. The teacher only gives him a distracted nod of acknowledgement when he slips into place at the back of the line. He feels a gentle flutter of approval at the back of his head and smiles.

He can almost imagine her smiling back.

-

Leon has scraped hands and scratch marks on his cheeks, and the back of his sweater is fuzzy with fraying yarn from where the older boy pushed him up against the building. He has been smiling cheerfully and telling the story of his fight to anyone who will listen ever since he came back from the nurse’s office.

Drew is just glad that he’s okay. Leon’s friendly and fair and caring, and sometimes he’s too much of all of those things. Sometimes Drew wants to tell his friend to be more careful. He isn’t always smart about incidents like the one today. Mostly, though, Drew admires him. He likes to think he would be brave, too, if he could risk it.

When the final bell rings and they all start putting their pencil boxes and books back in their desks he makes sure to hide the cover of the book he withdraws and carries to his backpack – it wouldn’t look good for someone to see him toting around a book from the sixth grade summer reading list. Leon’s coat hook is right next to his, and as they get ready to leave he starts talking about his new favorite movie. “It’s totally awesome, Drew! They fight for their freedom, and so no one can tell them what to do, and they win even though they don’t have a lot of people or a lot of weapons. They kill a bunch of bad guys.”

He frowns dubiously. “William Wallace started the war because they killed his wife.” He bites his tongue after he says this, because he shouldn’t even know who William Wallace is.

Leon merely huffs impatiently. “Well, yeah, but they were fighting against England.”

“Your mom really let you watch Braveheart?”

Red speedily rushes into Leon’s brown cheeks. “My dad said what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.” He stares at Drew defiantly, daring him to argue. For a moment Drew wonders if having just one parent, even if it is an older brother, doesn’t actually make him luckier than his friend.

Everyone’s anxiousness and eagerness to get home is thrumming through him, threatening to overwhelm his mental guards and leave him backing into a corner; but as Drew grins weakly he manages to latch onto Leon’s unwavering cheerfulness. Nothing, even small fights with classmates, ever seems to put a dent in it. “So it was really cool?”

His eyes light up. “The best. You should come over and watch it.”

He can’t come over to watch it, because Aaron doesn’t let him watch anything but Disney movies and documentaries or spend time at someone’s house unless he’s there, too. He wouldn’t want to watch it, anyway, because he’s seen enough people die and felt enough people’s thoughts as they fight that he doesn’t want to sit through imaginary deaths and battles for hours. But he just smiles at Leon and says, “I’ll ask Aaron.” Leon idolizes Aaron, and Drew might think it was funny if he didn’t feel the same way so much of the time.

They walk into the hallway, Leon telling some joke that’s really not funny. And he isn’t just happy now, he’s forgotten he has reason to be sad. A wave of love, calm and fierce all at once, washes over him immediately. It isn’t pushy or insistent; that’s not his big brother’s way. Instead it wraps around him softly, offering quiet comfort and promising a place to be. Like always, Drew has the awesome assurance that Aaron is genuinely pleased to see him.

The punch line is past and Leon is already looking around curiously, eager to see and hear everything that wasn’t here an hour ago, so Drew says a quick goodbye and then turns his attention back to Aaron.

And – he can’t help it – he runs to him.

The material of the white shirttails is stiff and just a little rough against Drew’s cheek. He breathes in wood and grass and Aaron and it reminds him of Texas, of home. (Of family.) His arms have to reach up to catch waist instead of legs, but it’s worth it as a strong hand tousles his hair and he feels the deep inhalation Aaron makes against his fingers and palms. He steps back, only to be hefted into the air. His backpack collides with Aaron’s cheek, but his brother’s dark eyes are only on him as he asks, “You ready to go, kid?”

Today has been a good day. Using his powers didn’t make him sick and Aaron is here and he is almost, finally, getting through to her. He smiles widely at the realization. “Yeah, let’s go home.” With one final squeeze Aaron sets him down, catching his hand, and they walk out to the car.

He’s already buckled into his carseat when a sudden wave of anxiousness and insecurity buffets him. His eyes flicker to Aaron, waiting for an explanation, but his brother merely turns around in the front seat, the corners of his lips turning up slightly, and says, “Let’s go to the park, okay?”

Drew puts his emotional feelers out and catches only protectiveness. “’Kay,” he replies quietly, and Aaron shifts the car into drive and pulls carefully out of the parking space. They spend the drive in silence, which Drew passes by looking out the window at the growing storm and the multitude of trees that never pass out of seeing distance.

When they turn into the entrance, marked only by a small wooden sign with nearly invisible white lettering, his thoughts turn to the past few days. He wonders if this is his brother being nice for no reason or a way to ease him into the necessity of yet another move. The park is a treat – somewhere they go when Aaron has a day off work or when they both need a break from nightmares. He’s not sure if it’s good or bad that they’re going there now.

He can feel the jolts and jerks as the car passes over the rocky trail, Aaron’s hands flexing ever so slightly as he tries to avoid the largest upsets. It is overcast outside, the light so dim it almost seems like twilight. The tops of the trees cover everything in distorted shadows. When they slow down they are nearing the beach.

It isn’t a pretty beachfront. The shore is all rocks and grainy, ugly sand that’s from bags instead of the ocean. The small lawn is muddy from the constant rain and the water is a blue grey that makes the world seem more violent than it is. It’s still one of Drew’s favorite places to be.

Aaron parks the car in the small parking lot. He turns around for a moment, and as if he’s sensed how much Drew needs it, he offers a reassuring smile. Drew has already managed to get himself out of the carseat by the time Aaron comes around to lift him out of the car – he might be good with straps and buckles, but he still has trouble reaching the ground on his own. Mud is spread over the asphalt in a thin layer. Like all parking lots near the beach, this one is constantly dusty and sandy, which means that sludge is unavoidable during the rainy Washington winters. His older brother holds his hand as they walk across so he has something to steady him if he slips.

After walking for what seems like hours they get to a small section of picnic tables. Aaron motions for Drew to join him after sitting down on one of the connected benches. He feels nervous as he does. He stares straight down at his hands as his ears prick at the rustle of fabric. There is a scraping sound as Aaron pulls something from his shirt pocket, and then he is smoothing out a sheet of loose leaf and handing it to Drew. It’s the math sheet his teacher took from him last week.

“She showed you that?” He asks, his stomach doing flips. Miss Pruett said it would be okay. That it would just be between the two of them. Adults lie a lot, though; he shouldn’t be surprised teachers do, too. He’s really only surprised he didn’t catch it.

“Yeah,” Aaron says slowly. A hard gust of wind beats at them and he takes the chance to lean over and make sure Drew’s jacket is secure. The weight of his hands is sure and comforting. “Mrs. Sharpe thinks maybe you would be better off at a magnet school or with a private tutor.”

“Because I’m smart?” Drew’s voice is petulant, but he can’t help it. First his teachers were upset because he was always so quiet, and then because he tried to score the same on tests as everyone else. Now he’s not allowed to do well either. What do they want from him?

His stomach hurts when he thinks of Leon. This is the first time that he’s had a real best friend, and it’s not fair that something other than life and death could take that from him.

Aaron inhales a laugh, wheezes on it. “That’s what I said. I don’t think being a few years ahead of the curriculum means you should be singled out. Unless that’s what you want.”

He’s silent. Guilt gnaws at him, because it’s partly his fault for getting cocky enough to do his own work in school. He just needs it sometimes – the quiet, the chance to get away from everyone’s dread of reading aloud and irritation at history lessons. Without those small breaks he might go crazy. It was lucky, he thinks, that he had the time and the privacy to pass his hand over his worksheet before his teacher walked by, and that Aaron thinks he still isn’t past multiplication and division. Who knows how much trouble he would’ve gotten into for doing simple algebra?

Something like a conscience flares up at this train of thought. He thinks that because you’re lying to him.

No. Drew doesn’t lie to people, and definitely not to his brother. He just… hides. He’s good at making all the bad things invisible – the same way he makes himself disappear.

Aaron coughs again. If Drew didn’t know first-hand that there’s nothing wrong with his lungs, he’d be getting worried. The subtle shift sends him looking hard at his brother’s face. It’s hesitant, but his eyes are earnest as he carefully shapes his words. “Listen, Andy, if that is what you want…”

“No!” He shouts. No no no no no. He’s not going to some special school where they put his name in even more files, bring in psychiatrists to talk to him about mom and dad and start telling Aaron what he needs when they don’t even have any idea what’s best for him. That’s not what he wants.

(It’s not what’s safest, either. Like always, “what’s safe?” is only a second behind “what do you want?” That’s just the way it has to be for them.)

Aaron’s hands are on his shoulders, calming and comforting and making it okay to be a kid. “Okay. Okay. That’s what I thought. Just calm down, little man. I’m not gonna let them put you anywhere you don’t want to go. It was just a meeting.”

He flings himself at Aaron, burrowing his head into the flat stomach and cuddling as close as he possibly can. He always loves him, always is grateful for him, but sometimes he forgets how much he needs him. Sometimes he mixes it up and convinces himself that if things get bad he can keep Aaron safe, when it’s been Aaron protecting him all along. Drew revels in the feel of strong arms banding around him and tries to forget how angry he was just seconds ago. Change shouldn’t scare him so much.

But Drew knows what change could mean. He’s seen the insides of laboratories and the guts of an agent’s mind and he is always, always afraid that one wrong step and they’ll be back in that park, only this time they won’t be getting away in one piece.

That’s a lie. It’s not really him and Aaron that he worries about.

“W-we can’t be too noticeable,” he stutters, the words getting twisted in his throat and then turning back in on themselves once they reach his tongue.

Aaron’s body rumbles with a sigh. “Andy, you let me worry about that. I wouldn’t have told you about it if I thought tutoring or a magnet school wouldn’t be safe.” A wave of righteous indignation grounded in quiet bitterness reaches him, and Drew realizes it’s not at him but for him. He wishes he could understand what it means.

Suddenly truth is tumbling out of his faster than he can stop it. “Aaron,” he whispers, voice soft half because he’s scared and half because he’s hoping not to be heard, “i-ittt… it-t-t was m-my fffault…” Tears dripdripdrip from his eyes, outline the borders of his eyes, nose, and cheeks. He can’t believe he’s actually going to tell him, finally, but he’s just so tired of lying and maybe if he says it out loud it won’t feel so heavy on his chest.

A warm, work-roughened hand is swallowing up his shoulder even as he’s dipping his head and trying to hide. “What’re you talking about, Andy?”

And Aaron is the only one who ever calls him that and the only one who has ever stayed and protected him (because she is there in his mind but she isn’t really here) and if Aaron hates him, says he’s bad, there really isn’t anywhere else he has to go. There really isn’t any hope for him then.

“I – the m-man th-thhhat tried –” shoulders shake and sobs want to come out. But no, he won’t let them, he may not know how to deal with other people’s feelings but that’s no excuse to be a baby when it comes to his. His whisper-voice is scratchy and high-pitched but he talks through it. “H-he was g-g-g-g-going to hurt her. I h-had to d-do something. I d-d-didn’t mmm…”

The hand on his back is frozen. “What did you do?”

The same way any other six-year-old might grab onto their parent’s leg/arm/waist and refuse to let go, Drew once again throws his mind out and tries to find his big brother’s emotions. It’s Aaron he’s feeling, so that means no confusing jumbles and knots. There’s only orderly panic, concern, and guilt, all bathed in that ever-present bone-deep worry. No hate or disgust. He hangs on tight to those feelings and tries to be brave. “Sh-she was uncon-n-n-scious, and he was g-getting closer, a-and he h-had a gunnn…”

Maybe he can’t do this. Maybe it’s too much to say, and the words will choke him and cut Aaron and ruin everything. He couldn’t stand it if he hurt Aaron.

But then fingers are going under his chin, tilting his head up, and Aaron’s eyes are sadder than he’s ever seen them but still, somehow, full of love and forgiveness. “How did you do it?”

Tears spurt down his face. “I don’t know. I w-wasn’t trying to. B-but he hurt her and h-he was going to t-t-take her back there and I –” he hiccups, hardly able to catch his breath an stubbornly wanting to finish. “– I just wanted him to l-leave her alone.”

His suit was grey, instead of black like everyone else’s. His eyes weren’t surprised or angry or anything else as he fell – it was like he didn’t even realize what was happening. Drew didn’t realize, either. He needs Aaron to know that, to know that he didn’t mean it.

He wonders sometimes if not being sure whether he would take it back makes him even worse than the man he killed.

Aaron lifts him up, setting him in his lap and guiding his head into his shoulder. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He rocks them back and forth. The tears start to feel less like sadness and more like relief.

He’s scared of his own mind. He does things and knows things that he shouldn’t be able to – sometimes just by wishing something he can make it happen. But he’ll never lie to Aaron. Aaron is the one thing that he knows is real no matter what. “They took something from me.”

Pulling back, Aaron grasps his shoulders gently. “What do you mean?”

Drew can’t bring himself to look at him. “Where I was before… before I was here. They went inside my head and took something. It’s why I’m broken now.” He bites his lip against the anguish, not from him but paralyzing all the same.

“Andy, where were you before you came to us? I know you remember, and I… I don’t want to make you think about it. But if you know where we can get answers, where we can find help…” Aaron trails off and all Drew can see is her face, her smile, her anger when they tried to take him. She can help.

She doesn’t even know who he is.

He looks into Aaron’s eyes and lifts his right arm, whole body trembling as he extends his forearm, fist balled, and points his index finger at the sky. It takes him five tries to speak. “Not here. Not… earth.”

His whole body goes rigid with shock, the motions carrying over and making Drew stiffen instinctively. His eyes are shut, the faintest wince tugging at his features. Then there is a long exhale and a soft nod right before his eyes open and a small grin graces his features. The lines around his eyes seem deeper as he addresses Drew. “Well, that explains a lot.”

That’s it. Just like that, he knows and doesn’t care one way or the other. He can’t even imagine how lucky he must be.

Just as his emotions have reached a fever pitch, his brain knowing it’s time to be relieved but the rest of him not quite as quick, he feels it happen.

A wall is crumbling somewhere inside his mind (but maybe it’s not his mind at all) and she is there, all around him, just as upset and threatened and worn as he is, but she is alright, and she loves him, and she is telling him that it will be okay, that she will find him. And Drew doesn’t care what he thought he knew, because she is family; she is telling him without saying a word.

Aaron knows and loves him anyway. She’s closer than she’s ever been.

Drew feels a tiny ember of something he thinks might be hope ignite in his heart.

-

Sometime in the night Drew feels himself shot into waking, uncertain and a little jittery. His whole body is buzzing with sensation. The sheets are damp with sweat around his legs. He squeezes his eyes shut, sees her face. He has to make sure that he’s not just imaging or hoping it into reality or tricking himself.

He’s pretty sure he’s not, though. He remembers her face in the dream, can clearly note all the differences between it there and in his memory. A jolt of excitement spears him.

This isn’t the first time he’s dreamed of her. It’s just the first time the dream hasn’t been his.

The connection has grown stronger by a thousand fold since this afternoon, and he is sure, positive, that she’s close.

She’s close, and she’s coming for them. It’s only a matter of time.