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.

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They drove home in silence, but that was nothing unusual. Maria's silence in itself was unusual, but she wasn't completely the jabberjaw she'd been when they were younger. Michael stole glances at her, every now and then, just to make sure she was still alive. For the most part, she huddled up in the seat, staring out the window at the darkness. He wanted more than ever to stop the car and cradle her in his lap against his heart, so he settled for taking his hand off the gear shift, and warming her cold one with it.

They drove up to her small house, but she made no move to unlock the door or get out. They sat in her driveway for a while, letting the car run, some cheesy pop crap playing softly in the background.

"Wanna stay over?" This time, he did reach out to take her hand. It was cold as ice. Frigid. And it shook like a butterfly in his.

And the way she snuggled up against him, in spite of the seatbelt, and the gear shift between them, was all the answer he needed.

They drove back to his place, his hand still holding hers. He held her hand as the entered his apartment building, stepping over the motorcycle that lay in pieces near his door. And when they walked into his room, he pulled her into his arms, cradling her against his heart, and kissed her forehead. Just like she'd done for him, that night. Only neither of them were wet. And she wasn't crying--yet.

He watched her as she unsnapped her uniform and slipped into the Property of Megadeth T-shirt and sweats he'd found for her. And he smirked a little as she instinctively sniffed them to make sure they weren't too dirty. And as soon as she was comfortable, she turned to look at him, her eyes red and welling up with tears.

"Cheesehead..."

And this time it was her turn to be comforted, to be cradled close and have her face wiped. He held her against his heart as her shoulders shook, cuddled her in his lap, running his fingers through her short silky hair and remembering another night, years before, when he'd done the same thing, stroking long golden curls in a dream. Had it only been a few weeks since he last slept next to her?

Her arms hooked around his neck, her tears wetting the shoulder of his T-shirt. Now it smelled like grease and Maria, the worst and best parts of his life. And she'd clung to him tonight, refusing to leave him. She'd cried. For him. Maria DeLuca didn't beat her fists against the walls of life in a hurricane of fury anymore, but she still yelled as passionately. And cried as passionately. And...loved.

And he didn't deserve her.

But for tonight, as he laid her down on the squishy brown couch that was somehow big enough for both of them, he would try his hardest to be the boyfriend Maximillian kinda guy that she wanted.

Tonight, as she curled her body up against his, as he'd always imagined she would, and as he covered her with the rainbow afghan and the faded comforter, he would let her depend on him. He would catch her if she fell.

And maybe someday, he'd let himself be dependent on the cheesehead who'd somehow always been by his side. When he could tell her the words he meant to say earlier today. The words that she already knew.

"Thanks, Michael." Her lips sought his, with the salty taste of tears.

"Night, Cheesehead." His Maria--for tonight, anyway.

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