Author: Aelita

Disclaimer: Michael is mine. You can have the others. I hold no responsibility for tears or anger this fic might inflict.

Summary: What if Max and Isabel didn't survive?

Spoilers: Up to Chant Down Babylon but with different ending--Max and Isabel didn't survive.

AN: This fic is heavily influenced by Caitlin Kiernan's "Escape Artist". The lady has an amazing poetic dark style that makes you wanna curl into a ball and weep.

***

The steady, powerful roar of the engine, somewhere beneath him, isn't enough to keep him anchored in this world anymore. He's been hurling his bike top-speed through unfit roads for hours, days, weeks. His nerves are jaded and gone near dead, and not even this deliberate danger generates enough adrenaline to jab them back to life anymore. The thoughts, memories rise and collect at the top of his head, pinned down by his helmet, attacking his mind, sanity, withering his already weakened will to survive. He realizes that the next time the resistant wind coming of the passing vehicle pushes him sideways, he might not hold on. Not because he's too tired, though he is; not because the sharp constant pain in his back might affect his concentration, though it might; and not because the roads are slick from the rain, though they are; but simply because he doesn't want to hold on.

The thought doesn't scare him as much as it should, hell, it doesn't scare him at all, but he pulls over at the next exit, slowing down as he drives up to some shitty diner in the middle of some small shitty town.

He pulls out a cigarette he bummed of some wierdo at his previous stop and lights it up. He had never smoked before he started on this God-forsaken journey but it's something to do that requires no thinking, no reminiscence, and the routine of lending, borrowing and lighting cigarettes is a fair substitute for insignificant conversations. The stale taste of tobacco invades his system as he takes a drag. The rain changes to light drizzle, pelting his skin as he lifts his face up to look at the black sky. He exhales, watching with strange fascination as the smoke mixes with cold air.

*Michael, what are you doing?* Max's voice is patient, with a tiny hint of exasperation, and patronizing. *You don't know how nicotine might affect our bodies. What if it's anything like alcohol? I don't think I need to remind you what happened when you got drunk.*

He bites the filter and ignores the wave of nausea as he sucks in another gulp of bitter smoke, defiant, forgetful, and holds it in until his lungs start to ache and the distant thrum in his ears fills his head. *As if it's not enough I had to get used to the taste of Tabasco in your mouth, now you gonna mix that with cigarettes? I don't think so.* Sneer twists beautiful full lips before changing into soft seductive smile. *You wouldn't want stop kissing me, now would you, Spaceboy?*

The smoke feels heavier, more solid and he can swear it scratches his throat as he inhales it again and again. *God, Michael, that's disgusting. You smell like an ashtray.* Large brown eyes are warm and loving despite the harsh words.

And he shakes his head and swears, vicious, hoarse and loud.

The cigarette makes a tiny red falling star as it arches from his fingers, over his bike and sizzles quietly as it hits the puddle. His vision swims slightly as he turns around sharply but he ignores it and starts inside the diner.

***

The diner is too warm, stuffy and smells like grease, coffee, fried eggs and burned bacon. He orders coffee and chooses a booth next to a dirty window.

He tries hard not to notice that there are other people in the diner-the handful of men in their overalls and John Deer caps, scattered along the counter, filling other booths-tries not to feel their eyes or hear their conversations. *Well, isn't this a grease spoon extraordinaire.* He can almost see her sitting across from him. Appalled snort and impatient tapping of long manicured fingers would follow painfully familiar rolling of emerald green eyes.

He turns away and stares into the dark glass at his twin, transparent but solid enough to see the bruise-like bags under his bloodshot eyes, wild unkempt hair, too thin face and he is no longer sure how long it's been since he took a shower or slept, really slept. The taste of the cigarette is still haunting his mouth but he doesn't look away from the window, looking through his reflection but there is nothing there. All the rest, all the earth is darkness and rain.

"You sure you don't want anything to eat?" The waitress startles him as she slides the cup with hot liquid before him. He glares at her and shakes his head, almost feeling guilty when he notices a flash of distress on her face. He must look worse than he thinks because she sounded genuinely concerned and she didn't look the type to do give a damn without a good reason. She skulks off and for another blissful moment he is alone. He tears open a packet of sugar and dumps it into the cup and then adds another two and pours Tabasco from a small bottle he dragged out of his pocket. Takes a tiny sip, cringes, and pours the rest of spicy liquid until most of the acid taste is hidden beneath the spicy/syrupy mixture.

*Evil alien concoction,* Isabel would've said, because there was one thing in which Isabel and Max never added Tabasco-coffee-and hated when he did it. Isabel used to say that only evil aliens would ruin probably the only good-tasting thing on this forsaken rock. And then she would've stolen a peace of Max' chocolate cake as soon as he was finished poring half-the-bottle of Tabasco on it, laughing when he would've tried to take it away from her. The three of them had always 'shared' Max' chocolate cake-he because he rarely could afford buying one and Isabel because it was against her 'future-supermodel status' to eat sweets in public.

He can't even look at chocolate cake now.

He sips, scalds his tongue and sets the cup back down, wondering if it's always going to be like that, they will be everywhere he looked, sneaking into everything he did. And the tears are very close, hot and heavy behind his bloodshot eyes. He squeezes them tightly, his jaws tight, and breathes through his nose heavily to clear his head.

The table shifts slightly under his hands, and he knows that someone just sat across from him. His senses are running on overload and he can smell the sweat and the dust and the chewing tabacco. No guesses are really needed-he knows who just joined him even if he'd never met him before and probably will never see again. Another string of curses forms in his mouth but he stifles it, knowing it will only make things worse.

Finally, he opens his eyes and not surprised to see a Sheriff's badge lie next to his cup. He figures it should intimidate him and almost laughs; the point, where symbols of law or power scared him, passed the night he lost his family. Whatever happens to him doesn't matter, it never really did.

He takes another scorching sip and looks up, calmly, smirking just a little. The older man is surprised at lack of reaction but hides it well, only his eyes squint suspiciously.

"What are you doing here, boy?" The patronizing, threatening tone angers him somewhat but it passes quickly. This is the third time he's having this same conversation in the last week, only the face of the asker changes.

"Passing by." Tired, just so very tired and he fights to keep his lids up.

"Going where exactly?"

How very original. He scoffs and shrugs, because the man in front of him doesn't really give a damn as long as he won't stay in this shithole, and for a moment he contemplates telling the truth that is dancing in his mind just for the shock value. But that will also make things worse and he drowns it in another swallow of coffee.

"Where are you from, son?" *Would you treat your son this way?* God. And the adrenaline, then, hammering through his veins, heartdrum in his ears. He wraps his hands, tight around the cup, too hot to hold, but the pain calms, almost as soothing as the little white pills he stole from Valenti's cabinet. Too bad he ran out of those.

"Roswell." The word rolls of his lips before he can stop it and he tenses.

"Ah, the home of the little green man." *Don't let me die. I don't want to die.* Voice that he loved so much filled with pain, delirium and fear, rips into his mind and it is all he can do from crying out loud. And now the coffee cup isn't enough and he bites down hard on the tip end of his tongue, and he can taste his own blood, blood and coffee, rich and faintly metallic.

"And women." His voice is dead as he shifts his gaze up to stare into sheriff's eyes, as he drops all the walls and defenses and lets the darkness that has been eating at him bleed through. "Don't forget the little green women." Whatever the older man sees, scares the shit out of him and he almost falls in his hasty attempt to get out of the booth.

Pause and he can hear the clock, ticking insect sound and someone chewing loudly.

A tiniest tremble surges through his body but he knows that in another second there'll be tears, salty wet weakness, stigmata. He feels them close, so close and so acid he can swear they'll burn through his lids and roll down his cheek red, eating at his skin.

There are more heavy, curious gazes on him now and he can't, he won't let them see him weak. He doesn't really know why it matters to him but it does and he gets up and walks past them as slowly as he can, his face hard as stone.

He pushes one of the doors open and he is alone in the rest room. Alone with the stink of Lysol and piss and little blue cakes of toilet cleanser, he bends over the sink and splashes his face with icy cold water. His body shakes as he leans on the wall and wills himself not to fall, not to fall...

He misses Maria. She fucked with his mind and heart and pride. But she left him by choice and he learned to accept that choice, as bitter as it was. He sometimes wonders where he'd be right now if she didn't leave to New York, if she was the one to hold him when his sisters body turned to ashes right in front of his eyes. It's not fair to blame her for not being there, she couldn't have known, but he still does it because that way he can hate her, hate her for not being with him when he needed her the most. And it makes it easier.

He misses his brother. Max who always had a streak of martyr in him, ready to give up anything for the role, even his life. And he can almost hate Max for that too. Max wanted this to happen. It was Max's choice. *I can't do this anymore, Michael. I'm so tired. I'll never be able to save my child. And Liz, oh, god, Liz. No matter what I try to do, I always end up hurting her. I don't think I can...* and Michael understood the unfinished thought because he's been there before, too tired and too hurt to go on. But he did because he loved his family, his sister and his brother; he loved them enough to wanting to spare them the pain of losing him. Obviously Max didn't love Michael and Isabel enough and he can hate Max for that too. And it makes it easier.

"Mea culpa." The whisper is still too screeching in the silence of the restroom. He can still remember the blind, seething rage that enveloped him as they took off after the bastards that killed their brother. She was standing right next to him. He was so wrapped up in pain and revenge, he forgot that she was still alive and needed his protection. He failed to protect her. And then he failed to save her. He failed her.

"Mea culpa. Mea fucking culpa." Spasms hit his body and he falls in his knees, on the dirty, reeking floor, retching the few gulps of coffee, not surprised to see it laced with red.

The next two days are a blur. Frantic attempts to save her, laced with fear and tears. Her unseeing eyes staring up at him and delirious begging. *Please don't let me die.* Kyle, sobbing Kyle, trying to rip him away from the pile of ashes, and finally collapsing next to him in tears. Insanity filling his mind as the air itself reminded him of his loss. Suddenly finding himself on a road to nowhere going 90 miles per hour.

*Please don't let me die... You can have my lunch...I will come for you... Whenever you need me... Michael, your opinion means as much to me as Max's. You're like a brother to me, too... We still have each other, isn't that enough?*

A soft caress of cool air against his skin suddenly soothes him. He slowly looks up and into the big mirror bolted above the sink, almost expecting to see them standing next to him. And there is no one and nothing else. Just the empty stalls, his too-thin, too-exhausted reflection, greenish, almost cadaver skin and dark, burning with madness eyes. There is no Maria or Kyle to drag him back to Roswell. And no zombie Max dripping last minute wisdom. And no ghost Isabel touching him, comforting him.

"All the ghosts you're ever gonna need," and he makes a pistol of his index finger and thumb and presses it firmly against his right temple. "Crammed right in there."

He stands up straight and almost collapses as the room and darkness swirl around him. Trying to ride a bike in this condition is suicidal. He needs to eat.

He starts laughing, bitter, harsh sound that echoes off the walls, and digs into his pocket to see if he can have another cigarette before he hits the road.

***