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.

In a world where they never left this place for another, but found home closer than they thought, in each other. (meaning not the same universe as "Resting Here" etc )

She sat up in their attic, digging through a box for some of the baby clothes her mom had sent. She knew she still had two months left to find them, but something had drawn her up to the attic of their old, crazy house. It was crowded up under the eaves, the remainders of six childhoods stuffed into the small space. But it was a quiet place where she could be alone to think about her birthday that had just passed, and the years that laid ahead.

She was twenty-five now. It was almost nine years since the secret erupted. Five since she and Michael's last breakup. And three since they'd all come back to each other after college, buying their huge old house with what money they had left, and settled in lower suburbia to a life of almost...normalcy.

Mr. and Mrs. Evans were sleeping in their room, recovering from a long week of finals. They were just about to begin their fourth year of medical school, and considering which hospitals to do their residency at. Their one year anniversary was coming up soon. Michael hoped they got out of the honeymoon year as soon as possible. Marriage hadn't changed Liz and Max--if anything, they both smiled more.

And from the sound of the labored footsteps on the second floor, Isabel, Mrs. Alex Whitman of three years, and aspiring lawyer, was in the middle of another attack of afternoon sickness. All she'd done for the past seven months was vomit every Thursday afternoon at three. None of them could explain it. Max figured it might have something to do with their species and the home planet cycle. Michael said it was just like Izzy to throw up on a routine basis.

Michael was out somewhere, painting a mural on a wall across town. She and he were the only ones who didn't commute into the city for work or for classes. The restaurant she managed, Little Dante's, was halfway across town. It wasn't quite as chintzy as the Crashdown, but it was close...enough Christmas lights and shrines to Ol' Blue Eyes to make her feel right at home--especially the bust of the pope on a lazy susan on the head table.

But they were happy. For the first time in their lives, they didn't worry about FBI agents, or Roswell, or Czechoslovakians without passports.

It's true that Isabel's pregnancy had upset their happy world. None of them were using birth control. Liz had done some tests and decided that chances of any of them getting pregnant were slim to none, yet five months ago, after two missed periods and the first weight gain she'd had in years, Isabel figured out that the impossible had happened.

And yet, they were all still happy. No one had voiced fears of whether Izzy would give birth to a pod or a baby, and they were still trying to figure a way around blood tests after the birth, but she and Alex were almost giddy at the thought of their unborn child. The nursery on the second floor was already waiting for its occupant. No baby was ever more anticipated, by parents or aunts and uncles..

There was no doubt that there was enough sex in the house to spawn an entire new generation of Czechoslovakian-human hybrids. That was one reason why Max and Liz decided on medicine over biological research. As doctors, they could actually watch their children grow without suspicion. Even here and now, nine years and almost 2000 miles from high school and Roswell, Max was still thinking of safety.

And she didn't know what to think. She loved Michael, and she loved lying next to him every night, his arm across her stomach, and his head buried in her neck. She knew he'd never leave her, and that she'd never leave him. They still fought weekly, but it was different now. It was like they were finally old enough to deal with what their love had become.

It was almost nine years since that kiss at the Crashdown. Nine years since he awoke every passion in her body. Now the question was whether or not she'd have the courage to ask him to take that next step, to share their lives forever.

In the box, an envelope caught on her hand. It was old, and worn, and stuffed full of something crumbly. "To Maria, at 25" was scrawled on it. With trembling hands, she opened the crackling envelope, suddenly surrounded by the pungent scent of lavender. The alien-print stationary was faded, but she could still read the words.

"To Maria at 25,

Hi, remember me? Duh, since I'm you, or I was you, or you will be me, or...but yeah, I was you ten years ago, when we were fifteen. Or you were. Or...anyway.

I'm starting high school soon, and now Mr. Parker's actually letting me and Liz work at the Crashdown, but we have to wear those stupid little antennas. Remember those? If you still wear those, please go sniff some Cyprus oil, thank you.

So did you actually go to college? I know Liz went and has probably won the Nobel Peace Prize by now. And Alex went and is overthrowing Bill Gates as the King of software. Or he's a famous rockstar. Take your pic. But you...did you leave Roswell yet? How the hell did you manage that? And do you ever look back and wonder?

Are you married, engaged, pregnant, shacking up with some guy? And did you ever meet anyone to replace that ass, Doug? Are Liz and Alex involved too, and do you still keep in touch? I have so many questions.

And your dad (our dad)? Did you ever hear from him? I guess he probably didn't come riding up in a limo to take you and mom away. And I hope mom didn't o.d. on any of that psychic crap yet. Is she still making those tacky alien souvenirs?

Give her a hug and a kiss for me, and tell her I say hi. And to Liz and Alex too. Give them my love and my hope, from all of us here in 1998.

I hope that the guy you finally found takes care of you, and if by some remote chance that Michael Guerin is still alive, give him a good smack and call him cheesehead for me. Do you ever remember that kiss from fifth grade? Not the dare one...the real one, in the desert that night...and did he ever kiss you again?

Here's a handful of lavender to reduce stress, and some rosepetals from the rose that Doug gave you in 8th grade. And a thousand kisses from me and Liz of now, to you and Liz of tomorrow. Take care, older and wiser Maria. And always remember me, your high school self.

With all my love,

you"

She sat there, holding the paper for a very long time. Their other halves were married and happy, and even starting to settle domestically. She and Michael didn't even own a set of dishes that belonged to them and them alone. She knew that he wouldn't leave her, but she wondered why he hadn't chosen to ask her to marry him yet.

She'd always thought that Liz and Max would be the first, but somehow Izzy and Alex managed to beat them at everything. And since they knew it was possible for children now, she wanted to assure her unborn babies both a mother and a father.

She didn't know how much time had passed until she felt a light kiss on her neck, and strong arms encircling her waist. "You've turned to dust up here."

She leaned back in his embrace, turning her face to kiss him. "And you've got paint in your hair." She ran her hands through his paint-streaked spiked hair. "Here's some pink, and some orange...another sunset?" She kissed him gently, grinning. "You look like we did after that paint fight..."

His patented Guerin grin lit up his face. "The play in fifth grade, when you called me dorkbutt."

"And you called me cheesehead, and Mr. Raddish had a heart-attack." She rested her head against his chest, snuggling closer.

"What's that?" He reached for the paper, scanning it quickly. "Doug? Doug Sohn? You dated Doug Sohn?"

She reached up and stroked his hair, something that calmed him, for some odd reason. "We were fourteen. And he gave me my first french kiss. And my first flower. But you came along and blew him away. Spoiled me for anyone else." She looked up, gave him her old grin. "Thanks, spaceboy."

He leaned down to kiss her again. "I'm just glad it didn't take being the last alien on earth."

And that was all that needed to be said.

After work, she stood in the jewelry store across from Little Dante's, still wearing her bobbing antennae on her head. After years of wearing them to work, they became habit. And at Dante's, she was known as the Roswell Chick. Luckily, no one had made any jokes about her alien lover yet.

The owner of the Treasure Chest held up a simple wide silver band. "So you want it engraved like what?"

Maria held up the drawing. "Just like this. Five stars. Not too hard. But it has to be in this pattern."

The lady gave her a smile. "No problem. We can have it done by Friday."

Friday? Would she be ready then? Sometimes, she thought she'd been ready for her entire life.

Friday night, everyone was actually able to sit down at eat dinner together. Maria liked it when they were able to do that. Living in the same house as her best friends was the closest she'd ever come to having a big family and brothers and sisters. She dreamed about filling their large house from basement to attic with Czechoslovakian children who loved to paint and call each other names--children with unruly hair and beautiful eyes...

And as usual, no one said anything when Isabel mixed the Tuna Helper with the potatoes au gratin, and poured Tabasco and Maple Syrup all over it. Even Alex didn't say anything, though he did turn an interesting shade of pale.

Max and Liz were discussing some new midwiving book that she'd picked up at the bookstore across from Columbia, since it was agreed that it would be best if Liz did Isabel's delivery, and not Max, being Izzy's twin brother. And Michael sat silently, with that thoughtful look on his face. He was probably planning out a new mural. He had a gob of red paint on his cheekbone. But she was used to finding paint in odd places, from where he'd wiped his hands at work. They'd even had fun with fingerpaint one night in the studio, while everyone else slept...

She felt in her pocket for the tiny silver circle, lying next to her perpetual bottle of cedar oil. Would she have the strength tonight?

And then they were walking under the stars, as had become their habit. She could feel the perpetual paint splotches that stained his knuckles, and the tiny scars from past knicks from working with heavy canvas. His hand was a quiet strength in hers, something she drew on unconsciously and constantly. In some ways, he had become her salvation, and she his. As if they were born for each other.

Ex astra. From the stars. Liz told her about that quote that someone had scratched on the Crashdown wall years before, and how she and Max had found it when they were eleven, not realizing the significance. Ex astra, everything. Ex astra, vita. From the stars came life.

"Michael--"

"Maria--"

And laughter.

"Cheesehead."

"Dorkbutt."

He gave her that wise-ass grin. "So, what's up, Earth-girl?"

She smacked him lightly, something she knew they'd never grow out of. "Just wanted to ask you a question, spaceboy."

And his impudent look got shy. "Really?"

And she gave him her Michael smile in return. "Yeah."

He turned to her, putting his hands in his pockets. "Ask away." His tone was light, but he was twitching his foot--a classic Guerin sign of nervousness.

Could he know?

So she reached into her pocket, quickly inhaled a calming sniff of cedar, and before she could chicken out, held up the ring.

"Will you?"

He took the ring in his hand, fingering the engraving of his constellation. He didn't say anything for a long time.

"It's so you can find your way home," she said softly.

And when he looked at her again, there were tears in his eyes. "I am home," he whispered.

And brought his hand out of his pocket. And handed her something silver, a thin band of stars, woven about each other.

"Look on the inside." His voice was rough.

And on the inside, the inscribed words, "Ex astra, amor." From the stars comes love.

And he smiled, that heartbreakingly beautiful smile of his, the one that promised a future as well as remembered a past shared.

"I think the question is, Cheesehead," he whispered as he drew her closer, "will you?"

And a single shooting star fell from its dance in the sky--heaven's tear of joy.

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