Author's note/Disclaimer/All that jazz: Yeah, we all know who Roswell really belongs to, and it's not me (Hi, WB, Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, etc!), so don't bother suing me. It's not worth it.

(takes place one year after "Confessions" and "Belonging")

*************

Maria heard the slam of the paint can hitting the wall in the studio and winced. It was followed by a soft splashing sound that could only be Michael hurling cans at the walls with his powers. He claimed that it helped him with his control, but she knew, even after all these years, that it was his way of unchaining the demons for a while.

It had been almost seventeen years since they married, but the dark Michael still came out to play sometimes. He hid it well. Most people thought that age and a family had finally erased all of Michael Guerin's inner demons, but she knew the truth. After sharing his bed for twenty years, it was hard not to. He still had nightmares sometimes--nightmares that Nikki had somehow inherited. And he still had his rare fits of rage and frustration, when the lost little boy needed to scream for a while, to keep everything from building up inside of him. He still carried around baggage, but it had gotten lighter over the years.

But at least he didn't lash out at her or the kids when it happened. And he didn't hit walls anymore either. He just threw paint cans around in the studio, and splashed paint about. Yeah, the walls were dented in places, but if it kept the peace in her house, she was happy. Happy that those beatings Hank had given him never stuck. Happy that his inner demons managed to stay tamed for 90% of the time. Happy that, somehow, in everything, he'd managed to find some degree of inner peace.

There were still nights when he cried in her arms for hours and hours, great hiccuping sobs as he buried his face against her chest, like the children used to do when they were little. And there were still nights when he woke up screaming, the memory of burning ozone and a huge crash imbedded deep into his memories. But there was a brightness to her husband now that she wouldn't have expected, years and years ago. He had an odd serenity about him at times, though he was still the same irrepressible, obstinate, and impulsive cheesehead. But she loved him. And she never got tired of telling him that.

Finally, the crashes ceased. Michael walked out of the studio, his spiky hair smeared with a rainbow of paint, and she suddenly thought of that day when they had drawn on each other with markers when they were small. There was a sheepish look on his face, but the demon had left his eyes.

"Feeling better?" She wrapped both arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest.

She felt his chin come to rest on the top of her head. "Yeah, a little. I just got...y'know. The old way."

Maria remembered the old way. She had no problem recalling the fights they'd gotten in, first with fists when they were eleven, and then with words, all the way up until the day Nicole was born. Somehow, Nicole had brought them closer together. It was as if Michael finally had what he needed--a family. Something they both needed.

He leaned down, kissing her gently, and it reminded her of how being in his arms somehow always managed to put the world back on track. His lips still ignited the same sparkiness as he trailed kisses to her neck, and began to nuzzle it affectionately. She ran her fingers through his hair, trying not to grin as she thought of the paint trail that his lips were probably leaving...

"Where are the kids?" His voice was muffled against her neck.

"Out. Nik's out with Jamie, and the twins and Moll went with Mattie and Anna...Mmmmm, just stay right there..."

He looked up at her, eyebrows cocked at a suggestive angle, that relaxed smirk twitching at his lips. "So we're all alone?"

"Of course." She stroked the hair off of his forehead, tipping her face up to kiss him lightly back. "It's February 16th. I made sure that all the kids were busy tonight."

His face softened. "It is already? I'd almost forgotten..." He tightened his arms around her, drawing her closer to him for both his comfort and hers. "It's been twenty-four years... Twenty-four years."

She reached up to wipe the tiny tears that danced on his high cheekbones. "Happy Independence Day, cheesehead."

**************

"It's been a whole year. Can you believe it? A whole year ." Jamie slipped his arm around Nicole's waist as they walked towards the Crashdown. "A whole year, and your dad hasn't killed me yet."

Nikki made a half-smile for his sake. "A whole year."

He stopped suddenly, drawing her to him. "What's wrong, Nik? Something happen with your dad?"

He'd grown in the past year, and she'd suddenly stopped. Being 5' 9 was tall enough, in her opinion. And Jamie was still an inch taller. Her brothers had suddenly shot up, so they were getting closer and closer...

Nicole wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder for a while. "Daddy's just getting moody again. He always does. It's the time of the year."

Jamie stroked her back gently. "Is this when he...y'know...hatched?"

"It's when he was emancipated from Hank."

His arms tightened around her in a brief, strong hug. "So it's memories then."

Memories that she in part seemed to have inherited. "Daddy always dreams about the Crash when he's scared. And he always gets that old fear right around now. That's why we're out tonight. Because Mama doesn't want us to see it."

But they all knew it happened. It hurt them more than it scared them, because she and Molly and the twins knew that their dad would never do anything to hurt them. "He projects sometimes, when he's angry... And he makes the paint fly everywhere... It's easier for Mama to deal with alone. She's the only one he really lets in."

Would Jamie stay when she got into that mood? She was her father's daughter in every aspect, and along with his tortured artist's soul, she'd also inherited his tendency to rage. Auntie Izzy always thought it had something to do with unchannelled power, so it was better in Nikki. And since she grew up in an actual home with real parents, she could handle her emotions. She was still as high-strung as her dad, but not as volatile.

"Nik?" Jamie's gentle hand began to stroke her back again. "You okay?"

She closed her eyes, letting her tears dribble onto his shirt. "Yeah..."

"I'm not gonna leave. No matter how many times your head explodes or a little alien rips out of your chest, or you make lightbulbs short out." She felt a light kiss on the top of her head. "I won't leave. I promise."

Promises. When her parents were she and Jamie's age, a Valenti's promise would've been scorned. But this was Jamie, and he literally knew her inside and out. And if he promised...

Nicole looked up at him, placing her hand to his cheek. Looking deep into his eyes, she opened up the connection that bound them, effortlessly sending him the wash of emotions those words made her feel: relief, gratitude, comfort. Love.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers in a gesture he'd stolen from watching Uncle Max and Auntie Liz. "It's you and me, Nik. Happy Anniversary."

And as they kissed, Nicole felt the streetlight above them sizzle out and scatter sparks, and for once, she didn't care.

*************

Maria chuckled at Michael as they got out of the shower and struggled into their worn bathrobes. He looked different with his hair plastered down against his skull. Younger, somehow. More vulnerable. His spikes were his way of shouting his rebellion to the world, and sometimes, she thought he just kept them as an adult as a symbol as everything that had been, and the man he'd become.

"What?" He gave her a suspicious look. "Are you laughing at my hair?" He reached out and wrung water out of one of her tangled curls. "You look like a drowned cheesehead."

Maria grabbed a towel and began to rub it over his hair. "Like you can talk, Mr. Wet Porcupine."

But from the look in his eyes, she could tell he remembered another wet night, when she'd done the same thing. She dropped the towel, wrapping her arms around him. "You're so cold right now that you're shaking. What's wrong?"

This time, his arms drew her closer to his body, and she buried her face in the worn terrycloth of his paint-splattered robe. "Memories," he whispered to her hair. "How close I came to killing him. How close he came to hurting Max and Izzy..." And in his voice, she heard a little boy, denying that the black eye he wore came from someone's fist, instead of a door, like he said.

She stroked his back, the same way that she'd done with their babies when each of the children got that strange Czechoslovakian childhood fever that struck when they hit two years old. "Shh, it's all right...he's not here anymore...he's gone..."

His body began to shake against hers. "But that darkness...that awful darkness in me...I still hear his voice..." He called out in his dreams some nights, screaming for Hank to stop. She knew that one of the reasons why they were so passionate still was because Michael was a very physical person. Words had never been able to express the depth of his feelings, so he needed that constant reminder of her love--not that she minded...

She slipped out of his arms and took both of his hands in hers. "C'mere." She led him to their bed and pulled him down beside her. Instead of turning away, like he had that first night, he burrowed his face in the hollow between her chin and her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her neck. She ran her hand through his wet hair, letting him cry. It meant the world to her that night he had first come to her. That had been the first time he ever let his wall completely down.

His crying spent, they laid there for a long time, cuddled close. When his breathing deepened, and his arms relaxed their grip about her shoulders, she dropped a gentle kiss against his temple, just as she had that night, twenty-four years before. Looking back, she would've never guessed that the road to independence led here. But she was glad it did. Not only did it bring four beautiful children to life, but somehow, it managed to set them both free.

"I love you, Michael Guerin."

And his sleepy response. "The dove too, cheesehead."

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