“Thank you so much for the ride home, Beth,” Maria said as the car pulled into the DeLuca driveway. “If I’d had to spend the whole weekend at that ‘empowerment’ retreat with my mom one of us wasn’t going to make it home alive.”

“No problem,” the young woman replied. “I had to leave tonight anyway and I enjoyed the company. It’s a long drive back by yourself.” She gave Maria a sympathetic smile. “You know she means well.”

“I know. I know,” Maria sighed. “But I can only take so much mother-daughter bonding.”

Beth laughed softly. “Me, too. Well, the boss-employee bonding anyway,” she amended. “You didn’t think it was pure altruism on my part to volunteer to run the shop by myself this weekend, did you? One day of that retreat is about all I can take either.”

“To the two escapees, then,” Maria grinned and toasted with an imaginary glass.

“To the escapees,” Beth replied. Then her tone turned a bit serious. “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself tonight?” she asked.

“Please,” Maria rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, be sure to lock up tight. I don’t want to have to explain to your mother that I let you get abducted by aliens or anything.”

“I wish.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Maria said hastily. She grinned and gave Beth a quick hug before getting out of the car. “Thanks again.”

“Take care.”

Beth stayed in the driveway shining her headlights on the front door until Maria unlocked it. Maria waved cheerfully and then closed the door behind her. Twenty-four hours completely to herself, she thought as she headed upstairs. It was going to be great. No work. No school. No mom. Just peace and quiet. She could sleep until mid-afternoon tomorrow if she felt like it. And right now that definitely sounded like a great idea. She was beat. Who knew that sitting on the floor listening to some lady yak about ‘the goddess within’ could be so exhausting? She was almost tired enough to drop into her bed fully dressed when she made a shocking discovery. Her bed was already occupied.

So, this is how the three bears felt, she thought when her heart started beating again. The intruder certainly wasn’t Goldilocks, but the hair was unquestionably his defining characteristic. Trust Michael to completely screw up and misunderstand things, she thought. When she had told him that he was always welcome here, she had meant that he was welcome when she was actually home. Sometimes she just couldn’t understand what went on in that convoluted little brain of his. She sighed wearily and sat down on the edge of the bed unsure of whether she should be annoyed or amused.

Amusement won out. He looked so out of place nestled beneath her flowery comforter and the pink sheets were so decidedly un-Michael that she couldn’t help smiling. She was still ticked, of course. He’d broken into her house. He’d nearly given her a heart attack. He’d probably even gone through her things. At least I don’t keep a journal like Liz does, she thought ruefully.

She was a little surprised to realize as she watched him that she had never really seen him sleep before. On the few occasions when he had taken her up on her “open window” policy she had always fallen asleep first while he sprawled in the floor contentedly devouring every paperback book she owned. He could go through two or three of them in a night. And in the morning, when she woke to find him curled up beside her bed like a ridiculously overgrown guard dog his eyes always flickered open at her first move.

The Michael that she knew would have been awake as soon as she walked through the front door. At the very least he would have woken when she entered the bedroom. It was almost unthinkable that he was still asleep after she had actually sat down on the bed. Unless he was faking…

“You awake, space-boy?” she whispered.

Not even a sigh answered her. He was still breathing, wasn’t he? She reached cautiously to touch his face. He turned his head slightly, pushing his cheek against her palm. She let her hand rest there in her astonishment. The difference between his waking and sleeping features was remarkable. It occurred to her that he always seemed slightly ill at ease when he was awake, as if he found every situation vaguely unsettling. As he slept, however, his perpetual scowl faded. She couldn’t see the haunted, hunted look that always hovered at the back of his eyes. He looked... peaceful.

She smiled again. Peaceful wasn’t exactly a word she had ever ascribed to the wild-haired, quick-tempered alien before. Since he was so obviously content where he was and showed no indication of waking soon Maria carefully snagged the extra pillow from the far side of the bed and got another blanket from the hall closet. She could have slept in her mom’s room or even on the sofa downstairs, but she settled quietly into her makeshift pallet on the floor and laughed softly to herself at the irony.

When she woke in the morning, however, she was no longer lying on the floor. She was lying instead in the soft, warm comfort of her own bed. Sitting up abruptly her first observation was that Michael was nowhere to be found. Her extra pillow was back on the bed and the extra blanket was folded neatly over the back of her desk chair. She flopped back with a weary sigh and rolled on her side to wrap her arms around the pillow.

When something caught her eye.

Michael’s big, black, muddy, ugly shoes were still sitting beside her dresser.

She sat up again quickly and headed straight for the kitchen.

Michael gave her a crooked, sheepish smile as he looked up from the cup of coffee he was making. There was a bottle of honey on the table in front of him and a bottle of Tabasco sauce in his hand. She shuddered mentally as she imagined how horrible his breakfast would taste to a human.

“Make yourself at home, space-boy,” she said.

His smile faded for an instant, then he caught her teasing tone and his grin broadened.

“I would,” he replied, “but you don’t have any food.”

She rolled her eyes. “We weren’t exactly expecting to have houseguests while we were gone.”

“You weren’t expecting to be back until Sunday night, either,” he pointed out.

“I couldn’t take it any more.”

He nodded almost as if he understood. He glanced down at the mug in his hand then offered it to her. “I haven’t put any sauce in it yet.”

She looked at it for a moment then accepted. A wary sip revealed that he may not have poured any Tabasco sauce into the coffee, but he had apparently been quite generous with the honey. The coffee was more nearly a gel than a liquid, she thought as it slid down her throat.

“So, what brought you to casa de DeLuca last night?” she asked as she watched him take another mug out of the cabinet. He stiffened a little then shrugged.

“Hank got paid yesterday and went… ‘grocery’ shopping,” he said without turning to look at her. “I figured it would be quieter here. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“It’s cool,” she said. “Just a little unnerving at midnight, though, Goldilocks.”

“Sorry,” he grinned then.

She smiled back. “Can you heat this just a little?” she asked, holding the mug toward him.

He shrugged noncommittally. It was clear that he wasn’t anymore certain about his abilities than she was. He placed his fingertips against the side of the mug and frowned. With a loud crack the mug shattered in Maria’s hand. Shards of stoneware crashed to the floor as the coffee splattered the room.

“Way to go, Einstein. I always knew you were the genius of the bunch. Get some paper towels,” she told him, pointing at the roll beside the sink.

He blinked at her. “You’re in shock,” he said. He pushed her back into a chair and knelt before her. As he took her left hand into his own she realized with a jolt that he was probably right. A deep gash that looked like it should hurt much more than it did was bleeding profusely.

“Well, fix it,” she said. “If Max can heal a bullet wound, surely you can fix this.” She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, but the sheer volume of blood pooling in her palm was beginning to frighten her.

Michael looked at her with wide, worried eyes. “I’m not Max,” he said softly. “I don’t know how.”

“Then what good are you?” she snapped, the growing pain and fear sharpening her words. “This hurts, Michael,” she said more gently. “Please try.”

She could see the muscles jumping in his jaw as he clenched his teeth and nodded tightly. He shifted his grip on her hand to place his thumbs on either side of the cut. She tried to focus on his face and not the pain that was beginning to shoot through her hand. She stared at his eyes as they darkened from their usual brown to almost black. The look of concentration that settled over his features made him seem unfamiliar. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him focused so intently on anything in all the years that she had known him. Her gaze was unwillingly drawn to the gash that he was slowly knitting back together. As she watched the flesh of her own hand meld and mend she could feel the strange, unearthly power rippling through Michael.

In that instant she could feel how different, how alien… how truly not-human he was. She could feel the raw, dangerous energy that swirled within him. She could feel the unfathomable distance between his world and her own. In that instant an instinctive terror at his undeniable otherness roared in her mind.

She wrenched her half-healed hand from his grasp.

She didn’t know if they were sharing some sort of psychic link but suddenly she could see her own fear reflected in his eyes. Her terror evaporated as quickly as it had risen. She could see the pain in his face and knew that the connection was broken. In that one brief moment of her weakness he had seen himself as she had seen him. But now he couldn’t see how unintentional, how far from her true feelings her reaction had been. The guilt and self-loathing that filled his expression tore at her heart. In a gesture even more instinctive than her fear her good hand rose to touch his face.

Instead of feeling his cheek beneath her fingers, however, she felt a rush of emotions, of memories not her own…

…a small boy alone in the dark emptiness of the desert, a car’s receding taillights, and a feeling that a terrible mistake has just been made…

…a bewildering whirl of official-looking grown-ups who shuffle a speechless, terrified child through an impersonal bureaucracy…

…a string of stilted, awkward good-byes to one foster family after another, an ever-growing sense of failure and abandonment…

…a sharp stab of jealousy as another boy and small girl are picked up from school by their mother…

…a wave of unimaginable sorrow as a cardboard and aluminum saucer crashes and burns to the cheers of a mindless crowd…

…a boy huddles in the corner of a dim trailer trying futilely to shut out the shouting…

…an image of Maria, herself, walking away and one last chance slipping through desperate fingers…

Michael shook his head, breaking the connection. His dark eyes shone as the muscles in his jaw tightened and twitched under her hand. He had spent years building up his defenses one small piece at a time. Maria had no such protection as the full force of all his pain and fear and loneliness crashed into her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. Her body shook with the sobs that Michael had never allowed himself. She was barely aware that his arms folded around her gently and that he held her as she cried. Eventually her mind cleared and at last she was able to separate Michael’s memories from her own. She sniffled miserably as she tried to steady her breathing.

“Sorry,” Michael said abruptly as he pulled away from her. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Through blurry eyes Maria could see his defenses slamming back into place. She knew that he had never shared those emotions with anyone. Ever. And it terrified him that she had seen.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Call Max,” he said curtly as he began moving toward the door. “He’ll be able to heal you.”

“I don’t want Max.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I want you.”

“Max is better at...”

“No,” she shook her head although he wasn’t looking at her. “He isn’t better and I don’t want him,” she repeated. “I want you.”

“Then you’re dumber than you look,” he snapped.

She blinked back her tears and swallowed hard. She knew he didn’t mean it, that he was just trying to protect himself. She had felt his most deeply guarded emotions. She had felt how flawed and inadequate and unwanted he believed himself to be. He clung to those beliefs so fiercely that she knew mere words would never be enough to explain to him how wrong he was.

“Do it the other way,” she said, taking a sudden step toward him.

“Do what?”

She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her cheek. “Make it work the other way. I want to show you something.”

“I don’t... I don’t even know how I did it the first time,” he said in frustration. “It was an accident.”

“I *have* to show you something. It’s only fair,” she pleaded, pressing his hand hard against her face.

“I can’t...” His words trailed off as she threw her emotions at him with all the intensity that she could muster.

She focused on the first time she had ever looked at him and seen a real person - that night in the stupid hotel room. She focused on how grateful she’d been for his small act of kindness in trying to provide a meal of sorts, how privileged she’d felt that he had finally opened up even a little to show her something of his life, his mind, his hopes. She focused on how she’d really felt standing nose to nose with him before she’d snapped out that quick quip.

Her memories flowed from that almost-kiss to the memory of the kiss that hadn’t calmed her down at all. Memories of other kisses came rushing after - their instinctive passion that one strange night at the Crashdown, the numerous eraser room encounters, every kiss that she could remember. With great effort she pulled her thoughts away from the purely physical attraction she felt for him. There was more that he needed to see.

She reminded him of how much confidence she had in his abilities as they had stood in Atherton’s house looking for his secret room. She showed him how impressed she had been with the talent he had displayed in that painting for his art class project. She drew up her memories of the heart-lifting thrill she’d gotten when she saw the napkin holder he’d made for her and his note. She revealed how proud of him she’d been as she sat beside him in that wrestling ring, knowing how much he had done for her and her mom.

She hated to show him the negative emotions, too, but she knew that he needed to see *all* of how he made her feel. She let him see her confusion at his “stone wall” speech. She showed him the pain she’d felt when he pushed her away at the old soap factory. She concentrated on how utterly terrified she’d been when she’d thought that he was dying. Her emotions threatened to rage out of control then, but she needed to make him see how she felt when she was afraid of losing him.

She let her anxieties slip away and replaced them with pure feeling. How much she worried about him. How much she wanted to protect him. How much she wanted to be the one that he turned to. How deeply she cared about him. How he was the only person who could make her feel anything so intensely. She pushed the emotions at him, willing him to understand. When she didn’t have the strength left to send anything else she stopped.

He stood staring at her with wide, astonished eyes, his hand still cradling her face. His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment as he struggled for words that wouldn’t come.

“Is that what it’s like?” he whispered at last. She could hear the awe in his voice.

“To be loved?” she said as she reached to touch his cheek. Her fingers brushed gently at his unconscious tears. “Yeah. It is.”

Although she desperately wanted him to say something, anything, she wasn’t surprised when he simply continued to stare at her silently. Slowly he pulled her wounded hand from his face and sank to his knees in front of her. Her hand tingled as he began trying to heal it again. She ran her other hand through his already disheveled hair and then sat down on the floor, too. This time, instead of feeling the unearthly power that flowed between them she could feel him focusing on vision he’d seen in the cave.

He showed her the stars, some sort of map. She didn’t know what it meant, but they were beautiful nonetheless. She stood with him on the desert plain with the constellation above them and symbols spread around them on the ground. She knew that it was their connection that made the strange markings seem familiar to her. The vision-Michael squeezed her hand and gave her a small, hopeful smile. She squeezed back and gave him a brilliant smile in return. The dreamscape faded and the kitchen solidified.

“I’m not Max,” Michael said softly. “This is the best I can do.”

She looked down at her hand as it lay in his. He was running his finger along the thin white scar. The faint line was barely noticeable between the two silvery thumbprints. She smiled. How could she explain, she wondered? How could she tell him that she didn’t mind having the tiny reminder of this bizarre morning? A reminder of their connection.

“I told you,” she said. “I don’t want Max. I want you.”

He looked up with the same hopeful expression that she’d seen in the vision. “I… I almost believe that.”

She fixed a serious stare on him. “You’d *better* believe that, Michael Guerin.” She put her hands on both sides of his face and pressed her forehead against his. “Don’t make me come in there and straighten you out again.”

He blinked at her, their eyelashes almost touching. Then, to her surprise and delight, he laughed. Her heart leapt as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. “Maria,” he whispered against her hair. “My Maria.”

Another girl might have wished for him to say more, but Maria was thrilled. She snuggled contentedly into his embrace. It was a first step.

***

Back to Area 51 (Section III)