For Em, as always.

In response to my version of Emily’s challenge, to prove you can turn an M&M fic into a Dreamgirl fic

Her arms were around him, her sweet-tasting lips on his, and he could even feel her breasts heaving against him, as if they were in some sweaty-passionate romance novel. It felt good to be in her arms again. Not that he’d ever admit that to her. Not that he’d actually tell her he could feel his stone wall crumbling with each beat of her heart against his.

But it was in the name of science, right? It was okay, because Maxwell was doing it with Liz. And if Maximillian, the great heroic selfless Max could sacrifice the love of his life like that, then it was definitely okay for Michael.

But what he didn’t expect, as he nibbled his way down Maria’s golden neck, burying his face in her soft golden hair, was the flash of light and the force of emotions that suddenly hit him. The race of pictures as he literally flew through Maria’s most powerful memories.

A pair of red sneakers with bright blue laces, a faded green Kermit patch covering the hole on the right toe.

Golden curls hanging like a curtain, the nose of a spotted dog trying to find his face to lick it.

The heat of the pavement as feet ran after an old blue Toyota pick-up truck, and a voice howling with all its terrible seven year old might. “If you leave now, Daddy, never come back! I hate you! I hate you! Never ever ever come back, Daddy! Dadd-eeeeeeee! Come back!”

And then there were images of Liz. And with those images of Liz came images of…Max.

Max watching Liz that first day on the playground in third grade, even though an irate Izzy tugged at his hand, dragging him away.

Maria watching Liz giggle and blush when Nora Wells pointed out that Max Evans was watching her from the other side of the playground in fourth grade.

Fifth grade, the burning sensation in Maria’s stomach as Max leaned in for a shy kiss on the cheek during the school play. Feeling Maria wonder why fairy tales couldn’t exist in real life, or if they did, they’d happen to Liz.

Watching Liz grow up over the years, having a daddy to pick her up and swing her around. The Fathers Weekend campout in January, watching Mr. Parker show Liz how to perfectly roast a marshmallow on a sharpened stick. The Father-Daughter Dance, Mr. Parker picking up his princess and whirling her about, the identical smiles and laughter on Liz and her dad’s faces. And as he moved through the years, Michael always saw Max hovering in the background. If Liz was there, there were always a pair of amber-brown eyes following in silent devotion. And a Hurricane blond that always noticed.

Eighth grade, after the disaster with Doug Sohn, wondering why no nice boys ever fell for Maria DeLuca. After a storm of tears, wondering why someone shy and sweet couldn’t come into her life, like some dark-haired fairy tale prince. Watching Roswell’s only equivalent of that prince follow after her best friend, already devoted.

Ninth grade, a new haircut. A new Maria who didn’t try to beat anyone up. Talking with Liz in the hallway, and hearing her chatter about how Kyle Valenti seemed to have finally grown up. And always seeing a pair of amber-brown eyes, hovering in the background, looking like some sort of addict. And the constant wonder of why Liz, who wasn’t beautiful like Isabel Evans or her fashion cohorts. Why the quiet little science girl had to be everyone’s darling, and have everything in her happily ever after life.

And the beginning of 10th grade, that day in late September. Watching Max watch Liz as usual and wonder why Michael Guerin bothered to come in. He was always there. Always staring at her. But it wasn’t the good staring. It was the “Oh my god, it’s a bug!” staring. Not disgust, but something else. Something that wasn’t pining. Fairytales were a dream, and only for dreamgirls like Liz Parker.

And the shot that still echoed through Maria’s head, the sight of all that blood, and how red and not like ketchup it looked, and how real and big the world suddenly seemed as she watched her friend fade--the only thing she had that was constant and good and wonderful in her life. And watching Max, Liz’s fairytale prince, come riding to her rescue. Yeah, he was an alien, but there was still something noble and human about him, as if some great destiny awaited him.

And the rush of images, of kisses in the Crashdown, in the Eraser Room, of that fatal day at the soap factory, watching the lame top she’d worn fall to the ground in a crumbled glittery heap on her floor. Feeling her dreams crumble, because Maria DeLuca shouldn’t live in a dreamer’s world. That was for princesses like Elizabeth Ann Parker.

And the kiss on the dreamplane--that promise that he’d managed to @#%$ up again. Maria holding Liz close as they both cried their hearts out over ice cream and bashing alien guys, and how human they really were. The napkin holder that still sat on top of her dresser, the original napkins still in it, unused. Each object a talisman of a life she could never have, a life she clung to, just in case. That kiss at the convention, when Michael had come to her rescue. Watching Max at the concert, drunk on the alcohol of love, sweeping Liz up into a kiss that no one ever saw anymore--a kiss like Cupid and Psyche, or Orpheus and Eurydice--something out of myth and legend. Everyone could see the love that burned between them that night. And where was Michael?

The final memory, cradling a soft, spiky head to her shoulder, and hoping for once that she could be what he needed. That Hurricane DeLuca could rescue him from whatever dragon it was that hurt him. That she could be Max for a night, protecting him with a love that burned as bright as Max’s for Liz.

He saw Maria’s life, and her wish for something better. The wonder of why she was never good enough. Why she was second banana to someone she loved dearly, but didn’t she deserve something good too? And now Liz was having galactic visions. Some higher force wanted her and Max together.

Liz didn’t have to dream. Her fairytales came true when she was awake.

Michael broke away from Maria, severing the connection. Felt himself flood his body, as if he were an empty shell.

Maria breathed against his lips. “This feels good. This feels really good.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, wanting more of her, yet not knowing if he could be the prince she wanted.

“Oh, God. Oh, my God. Michael,” she moaned softly.

“What?” He pushed back from her, cupping her face in his hands.

“I can't believe it.” There was almost a look of awe on her face, like a dreamer waking up.

He rested his forehead against hers, trying to peer into eyes. “What? What did you see?”

Her face was lost in thought, as if she were trying to remember. Had it been as incredible as what he saw? “I saw...a cluster of stars...like shooting through space. Um...this, like, incredible sunset, like near the rings of Saturn.” And then, her eyes met his again, almost hopeful. “Did you see anything?”

He saw her life, her dreams, everything she’d ever wanted. But how could he tell her all that? Start at the beginning, like all fairytales do. “Yeah, I saw you...as a little girl...trying to tie her shoelaces on her red sneakers.”

And just the look on her face made it worth it, as if maybe, he might get this fairytale right--Guerin-style, of course. “You're kidding. The red sneakers?” She gave that amazed Maria smile, pure beauty, his own fairy gold.

He wasn’t Max, but maybe a scruffy fry cook could pretend to be a prince for a while.

And his lips found hers again. It only took a kiss, after all, for even a short order cook to awaken the dreamer from her fairytale world.

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