Rating: PG (?)

Disclaimer: The usual. The characters and Roswell don't belong to me, but to WB, etc. I'm only borrowing them for a while!

Notes: This is a response to EmilyluvsRoswell's challenge for fanfic based on the 30-second promo for the season premiere. It's a short one; Michael's POV.

Feedback appreciated. Oh, and may contain spoilers for the season premiere "Skin and Bones", so don't read if you want to remain spoiler-free (thanks Lawgirl for mentioning it, I completely didn't realize).

***

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not one of you!" Michael heard Isabel say to both he and Max as she turned her back towards them. He couldn't see her face but he knew that she was talking more to herself than to either of them. Izzy was referring, as she had done all summer whenever they had one of these arguments, to the strained relations between Max and Liz, Michael and Maria, since Destiny had descended on them. But it was denial rather than destiny that Izzy had brandished all summer, while Max pined for Liz, and he tried not to pine for Maria.

Izzy had continued to see Alex over the summer. They weren't romantically involved; too much had happened for them to pursue that avenue now. But they remained fast friends and continued to order their orange sodas and Saturn Rings at the Crashdown, determined to restore some normalcy in their lives which had seen so much confusion lately. Normalcy was important to Izzy; look at the trouble she went to to fit in with those airheads in school. She wasn't ignoring what he and she were supposed to have, but as she'd screamed at him once in a particularly bad argument, she didn't need to acknowledge it either.

They shouted at each other a lot these days. Izzy shouted at him, he shouted at Max, Max shouted at them both. They couldn't seem to regain the easy companionship that they'd grown over the years, a companionship forged by common bonds, common questions. The answers to those questions made sure of that. He couldn't deny that "Destiny" had brought the three of them closer than ever, but in so doing, had also destroyed the innocence of their earlier friendship. They wanted so much to know where they belonged, but now that they knew, they didn't belong anywhere. Part alien, part human, of this earth--and not, not really.

What had Cheesehead called them once? "The pod squad." That's right. They were in his apartment mock-fighting--as they always did over everything--over whose turn it was to cook, and whose it was to clean that evening. She came over for dinner whenever her mom was away and he--wonder of wonders--enjoyed, even looked forward to, the comforting domesticity of their simple routine. Like everything else between them, they didn't need to articulate the terms of the arrangement--he knew and she knew and that was enough. But all that had been before Nasedo, before Pierce, before when all they'd been afraid of was Valenti and the FBI. Maria was chattering away about something or other and then she'd called them the "pod squad." His only response had been to call her a "stupid cheesehead" as usual, and all she'd done was stick her tongue out at him. Well, she did other things with her tongue after he'd growled and lunged at her, but as the recovered memory began to arouse familiar stirrings of longing from within him, he quashed it quickly, as he had done everyday for the past few months.

It was all because Pierce had appeared, because Pierce had taken Max away, because Pierce had died at his hand. And nothing would ever be the same again. He always knew the day would come; that the one time he articulated his feelings for Maria was the day it had to end. What he hadn't realized was that until that moment he said he loved her, he hadn't known just quite how much. Max wouldn't agree with him, but their fearless leader didn't know how lucky he was that Liz had gone away to Florida. He had to see Cheesehead DeLuca everyday for his double shift at the Crashdown, and he could tell it wasn't easy for her either.

She'd grown her hair over the summer, grown back the long blonde curls that used to taunt him in grade school. He'd let his hair grow over the summer too, and endured the merciless teasing Izzy and Whitman sometimes directed at him, when they were in one of their "normal" phases, because he was sure she'd hate it, and because the spikes belonged to a different Michael, a Michael whose worst fears were discovery and persecution. The new shaggier look belonged to the Michael whose worst fears were realized. She looked older with her new hairstyle, but he knew the curls belonged to a new Maria, too. A Maria that despaired from loving him.

It was funny because she still called everyday and left messages to which he never replied--it was funny because he always knew when it was her, when he shouldn't pick up--but they never spoke at work. Except for the occasional "Will Smith, Table 6" the tiny ding! of the bell on the counter was the only link between them. He dinged and she'd come, pick up the order and look at him with expressionless eyes. For all her unreturned phone calls, she never said one word about "Destiny" in the Parkers' restaurant. It was as if she didn't trust herself to discuss it at the one place where it all began, where all their destinies had met and interwoven until one Destiny had come to drive them apart. He understood Izzy's need for normalcy; he just wished his version of normal didn't have to be this gaping silence that stretched between them, broken only by the ding of the bell on the counter or the shrill jangling of the phone in his lifeless apartment.

"All I can think about is: what if I'm not strong enough," he had admitted once to Izzy. Not strong enough to stay and fight their enemies. Not strong enough to run. Not strong enough to stay away from Maria. Not strong enough to go back. Not strong enough to thumb his nose at Destiny, but not strong enough to embrace it either. He had despised Nasedo once, for not having a human soul. But now he wondered if Nasedo was in fact the luckier than either of them after all.

Max had come to his apartment the night before and announced, shocked, "He died in my arms." Nasedo the shape-shifter, the one that couldn't die, the one he once thought was his father, had died protecting them, and all he could see was Destiny's ugly head leering at him in triumph.

"We still have our enemies to deal with," Isabel had said. And he recalled thinking how inane that statement sounded. Their enemies? He wished they were all. Their enemies were among them now, Nasedo had said just before he died, and all three were in training to destroy them. But he couldn't help but feel that Destiny was the true enemy, the first and the last, couldn't help but wish he could direct a blast at Destiny as easily as he had shattered those rocks. Destiny awaits? No, Destiny had already arrived. The protracted silence between his kitchen and the blonde waitress beyond, despite the noisy restaurant, was proof of that.

Instinctively, he did the only thing he could--he dinged the little bell.

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