Author: AuroraDawn

Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe)

Spoilers: Post invasion fic, set several years after Departure, so no Season 3

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still a good thing.

Improv: Angst with an unhappy ending

Distribution: Kingdom of Tula, Roswell Desert Skies, all others just ask!

Summary: In a world of illusions, Maria struggles to hold on to reality.

There is a haze around the moon tonight, making the full yellow orb appear larger than it really is. I watch it hang suspended in the dark sky above the desert as I hover near my small window, desperately hoping for a cooling breeze. Instead, the hot night air sneaks in through the bars and brings with it the nearly invisible dust that coats everything. I wipe at the grittiness on my cheek and sigh. At least it's a dry heat.

I've always loved the quiet stillness of nights like this. In those idyllic days after high school, Michael and I would drag his mattress out to the small patch of grass behind his apartment on these nights. We'd lay there in boxers and a t-shirt and stare up at the starry sky. Sometimes he'd talk to me about Antar, about what he remembered from his life before. Usually, though, we'd just mess around, Michael's hand covering my mouth and stifling my cries so that we didn't wake the neighbors.

But that was before the invasion, before Khivar descended on our world and began trying to destroy it. All we have left of those happier days are memories. The mattress was used as protection during the attacks and the apartment building burned down when somebody's fire got out of control. I'm pretty sure that was before Liz was killed, but I can't be positive. The months of fighting are all a blur.

There is an abbreviated knock at my door, and only a split second pause before it is opened with no regard to my privacy. It doesn't bother me anymore. Privacy is one of the first rights we lost. There is no room for it in a cave you share with five other people, no place for it when you are up to your knees in blood and mud and desperately need a change of clothes. We've learned to be blasé about it, learned to look away at the appropriate moment.

And if you catch someone watching, nothing is ever said. Isabel pretended I hadn't found her wailing and sobbing in a dark hallway one morning, and I pretended not to see the way Max watched Michael and I at night. Especially after Liz was gone. We've also learned to hide our emotions, and so the man in the doorway gets only a blank look from me.

Knowing why he is here, I rise from my hard wooden chair near the window and pull on a pair of worn jeans before tucking my feet into scarred leather sandals. Stripping off Michael's faded black t-shirt, I set it aside for a moment to pull on something else. Fully clothed, I gather up the too large t-shirt I was wearing and carefully fold it into a small bundle. I had it on when I left the others and it is one of the few tangible things I have from the past. Letting my eyes fall shut, I rub the worn cotton softly against my cheek, pretending I can still smell Michael on it. There was this cologne I got him one year for Christmas, he hardly ever wore it, but it smelled so good on him.

Pulling myself out of the memory, I slide the bundle under my thin pillow, knowing it won't be long till I get to see Michael's face again. Blowing out the candle that is setting on the floor next to my mattress, I stand and walk past the man into the small courtyard. My room faces the southwest and from this vantage point it seems the desert stretches on forever. I stop and stare into the night, straining to find some sign of life beyond Roswell.

There is nothing to see. The desert is dark and empty. I turn around to face the town, the man beside me doing the same thing. The open freedom of the courtyard is just an illusion. If I take a step forward, the man with me does too. A step to the left, he follows. If I run he'll grab me, even though touching me is forbidden. He knows that the punishment for letting me is escape is greater.

There are few lights on the horizon to break the darkness. Electricity has been spotty at best and few people have generators which means winter is going to be tough this year. As I study the sky, I can almost swear I smell the faint hint of wood smoke on the air. Our people light fires in the streets and in abandoned buildings, not so much for heat or cooking, but for comfort from the darkness of the night and the terror it can hold. It's funny that such an advanced race like Khivar's could thrust us back into such primitive times.

When we hid out on the Mesaliko Reservation, there were times we couldn't have fires because the risk of discovery was too great. So instead, the six of us all huddled together for warmth and relief from the fear. Michael always laughed and said it was like an orgy, except nobody got naked. My smile fades as I wonder how many of them are up there right now. It's been five months since I left. Have they all moved on? Moved on and left me behind?

Absently, I rub at the jagged scar on my forearm and try to reign in my anger and sorrow, knowing I can't go to him upset. Several minutes pass before I turn my back on Roswell and begin walking towards the squat stucco building at the far end of the courtyard. The nameless man beside me finally quits fidgeting and walks at my side, neither of us speaking.

The front lobby door of the Tumbleweed Motel is hanging half off its hinges and sticks open after we walk through it. Because of the generator locked in a storage shed out back, there is just enough dim, buzzing light in the hallway for me to see Tess sitting in an open doorway. She scrambles to her feet as we approach and pushes back the tangled blond curls that hang halfway to her waist.

All that long, twisting hair makes my stomach clench in automatic recognition. It's like looking in a mirror and seeing a shadow of myself. Her hair was shorter and darker two days ago, but when I see the fresh bruise on her cheek, I understand why she changed it to look more like mine. I don't acknowledge that, though. Don't acknowledge her as I walk within arms reach of an old friend and enemy. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the hate flash over her delicate features.

"Whore."

The hissed insult stings, momentarily, but I don't falter in my slow steps. I don't admit to hearing her. From behind me there is the sounds of an abbreviated struggle, then the slamming of a door and the turning of a key in a lock. I close my ears to the muffled sounds of crying, my gaze trained on the double doors at the end of the hallway.

My escort sounds a little out of breath as he catches up with me, but he quickly calms himself. Swallowing hard and smoothing back his tousled hair, he raises his hand and raps firmly on the wooden doors.

We wait patiently, until from inside the suite of rooms comes a deep voice granting us entrance. My escort doesn't follow me inside, only opens the door and allows me to pass him before shutting it behind me. It doesn't lock, but it doesn't need to, I'm not going anywhere. Slowly, I look around the room, smiling a little at the profusion of lit candles. We always had to use tons of candles when Michael would lose power in the apartment. Sometimes I could even convince myself it was romantic. Through an open doorway I can see the bedroom, the sheets on the big bed already turned back.

The chink of ice settling in a glass brings my attention around to the left and I pivot, my gaze automatically drawn to the tall man standing near the bare window. My heart stutters, tripping over itself at the sight of Michael's rugged face. It's been nearly a week since he's called for me, and I drink in the sight of him as he leans nonchalantly against the wall and sips slowly at a glass of something clear.

Only a large white towel covers him, wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. His hair is damp, and my fingers itch with the need to run through its long length. Michael's hair hasn't been cut since we were first invaded. It lies dark and full against his broad shoulders. Sometimes when he calls for me, he is disheveled and covered with the sweat and dirt of battle. Occasionally there is blood, and I refuse to guess at its origin. Those nights, I bathe him, washing away the sting of the fight and cleansing his wounds. Then I take him to bed and try to heal his warrior's soul.

Other nights he's already washed, already distanced himself from the things he does during the day. Nights like tonight I know there won't be tenderness, I know I won't see the quiet side of Michael. He doesn't want my love, only my body and the pleasure it brings him. So I stay by the door and watch his body language, his expression, to plan my moves.

For several long minutes, we stare at each other. My throat grows dry as he sips at the cool liquid. I can't remember the last time I had an iced drink, it's as much a luxury as hot running water and reliable phone service. The Michael I knew would have offered me my own glass. He might have even served me before himself.

Not now. War has made Michael hard. It's reinforced those damn stonewalls he used to hide behind. He's lost too many people he's cared for, too many people he's been responsible for. Once, he kept me there with him behind the walls and trusted me to protect his vulnerable side. Not anymore. The only time I see the Michael I love is when he thrusts into me and drops his guard enough to actually feel something resembling human emotion.

"Come here."

The quiet command in the familiar voice is unmistakable, and violent arousal rushes through me, flaring and sparking like lit dynamite. This is the voice that controls troops and demands obedience. Men have died following his voice, but I can't make myself move. Can't make myself obey. Michael has always said he loves my stubbornness, the way I dig my heels in and fight. This hardened version of him doesn't seem as amused. But I hear the challenge in his voice and I know that what happens between us in this room tonight will be about power, about proving who has it and who doesn't.

"Maria, now."

I hold his dark gaze for another long moment and then slowly slip out of my sandals. The carpet under my feet is worn, but still soft as I pad over to him with measured steps. When I am within arms reach of him, I stop, my nostrils flaring slightly as I breathe in the clean, soapy scent of his body. He mimics the action, and I know it is because he can smell my arousal, even through my clothes.

With one hand, he reaches forward and brushes his fingertips over the curling edges of my hair. It's bleached from working in the sun, and pale against his tanned skin. When it slides out of his grasp, he takes another thick strand and winds it around his finger, tugging me closer. I hold his intent stare as the two of us engage in a silent battle for dominance, even though the outcome has already been decided.

There is a soft thud as his glass is set down on the wooden table. He doesn't look away from me as his large hand reaches out and curves around my hip, finding its way from memory. The bones there jut out, prominent even through my denim. We're all thin these days. He doesn't seem to mind, though, only caresses the flaring curve of it and makes a nearly silent hum deep in his throat as he slides his hand around the swell of my ass.

Michael has always said he likes my ass. There was a time when I couldn't walk past him without him taking a grab or two. I always pretended to hate it, but he never believed me. Only gave me that cocky grin that dared me to walk past him again.

He doesn't linger there this time. Only slides his hand along the gaping waistband of my jeans, his fingers dipping inside for a teasing stroke against the small of my back. The quiet room echoes with my gasp, and I sway slightly at the feel of Michael's skin against mine. His lips turn up in a cruel, victorious smile that is all too brief.

The hand in my hair tangles further, entrapping me, but I don't try to escape. My reward is the return of his touch. This time he loiters, his long fingers brushing back and forth against the soft skin of my stomach. After a moment, he pulls back slightly, but only to work free the tight button at the top of my jeans. With a loud rasp, my zipper slides halfway down, giving him the freedom he seeks.

I expect him to be impartial, especially with the cold look in his eyes, but he's unhurried, almost gentle as he strokes against my skin. Each movement takes him further down my body, closer to the territory he knows so well. There's no fabric blocking his access, and I note the surprise in his eyes. Going commando is not a choice. Things wear out and can't be replaced. Eventually you quit trying to make do and just accept it.

He still hasn't looked away and I try my best to hide my emotions, try to mask the way he makes me feel. But with his eyes trained on mine, there's no way to hide my involuntary reactions to his touch. He can feel me tremble under his control, can feel my stomach quiver with need. The scent of my arousal hangs in the air and I know it is damp against Michael's fingertips. My knees are locked to keep me from buckling, but when he flicks one slick finger against me I can't suppress the low moan that escapes my lips.

He pulls out immediately, triumphantly breaking our stare as he wipes his fingers absently on the towel that covers him. One swallow finishes his drink and he strides towards the bedroom without a backward glance. I can't move, can only listen to the steady sound of his footsteps moving away. Slowly I close my eyes and try to relax the fists I've made. Taking a deep breath doesn't stop the fine tremors that shake me.

"Maria, don't make me come back out there."

Michael's voice, his demand, breaks the heavy silence in the room and opens my eyes. There is no hesitation as I turn and walk slowly towards the candlelit bedroom. Candlelight for energy conservation, not romance. I don't fight my obsessive need for Michael's touch, the feel of his body against mine, the sound of his voice. It would be like fighting my need for food. I know what its like to be hungry, and I won't go without. This keeps me strong.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter the room, his towel discarded on an upholstered chair that leans drunkenly against the wall. It only takes a few steps before I am standing between his legs. Because of my dominant position, he is forced to lean back on his hands and tilt his head up to meet my gaze. Despite this, there's really no question of who is in charge.

I reach forward and smooth one finger over the arch of his eyebrow, feeling the nearly invisible scar there. The one left behind from the fight he and Max had in Vegas. My hand slides down over the smooth skin of his cheek to the bristles covering the stubborn line of Michael's jaw. There will be marks on my body tomorrow morning from that stubble. Unexpectedly, my mind flashes back to the bruise on Tess' cheek. None of us leave this room untouched.

Refusing to let those thoughts come to light, I drop my gaze to Michael's bare chest, my fingertips tracing over the line of his collarbone, then trailing down his breastbone. He's lost any softness he might have once carried. The muscles beneath my touch are tight, honed by fighting and hard, physical labor. Just over his heart is another scar, a deliberate set of intersecting white lines. Right after the invasion, before we knew the truth about Khivar, he captured Michael. Took him right out from under our noses. He held Michael for a day and a night and did things that left my lover with nightmares and hatred in his heart. When he was returned, the only marks on Michael were those narrow lines. Nothing Max did could heal them.

"I miss you Spaceboy."

The soft words escape me before I consciously form them. He stiffens at the sound of my voice, or maybe the words, but I'm used to it. My longing for the Michael I used to know is not something he is comfortable hearing, but tonight I refuse to censor myself.

He leans forward suddenly, grabbing a fistful of the faded t-shirt I'm wearing. When I look up and meet his gaze, his eyes are dark again, cold. Alien.

"Take it off."

Like it always does, the authoritative tone in his voice makes me ache. I've played power games with Michael before, sexual games of control and release. The memories make my breasts heavy, and they throb as my nipples press against the thin fabric. Reaching down, I brush aside his hand. There is no tease in the way I pull the shirt over my head, or in the way I carelessly drop it to the floor. It's just clothes, he already knows what's under them.

His gaze drops to my breasts, and I can see his chest rise with a sudden intake of breath. It hisses out slowly, but he doesn't reach for them. Instead, he tugs the zipper on my jeans down the rest of the way.

"The pants, too."

I slide the tattered denim down over my long legs, stepping out of them with as much grace as I can manage. Then I kick them to the side and stand naked in front of him. I'm not embarrassed, not afflicted with false modesty. Michael's eyes have seen me more naked than this. So I only stare down at the man before me with cool green eyes that hide my emotions. But my body can't hide its response and I can feel the renewed dampness between my legs, the shaking in my thighs.

He watches me for several minutes, his eyes wandering over my flesh, as though cataloging its imperfections and scars. As he does, he absently strokes his erection, his touch light and fleeting. I know he won't get anywhere with that kind of caress, and I swallow hard, knowing exactly what it will take for him to be satisfied.

"Kneel."

"No."

The surprise on his face is evident, and I can see in his frown that he was sure he had me. But I can't submit like that. Not tonight. Not when the memory of Tess's pain reminds me too much of the past and threatens to rip the tenuous fabric of this reality. After a moment, he reaches forward to grip my forearm, his thumb brushing over the long scar there.

"I can force you."

It's said nonchalantly, with no obvious menace. But the menace is evident in the way he's touching me and reminding me of the battle I lost.

"You'll have to."

I mean it. We engage in another long stare, fighting for control over the moment. Finally, he laughs softly, making my heart turn over involuntarily in my chest. I so rarely get to hear Michael's laugh. Caught as I am by that sound, I miss the quick tensing of his muscles and am unprepared when he tightens his grip and yanks me forward, tumbling us both backwards onto the bed.

It's a swift fight to be on top, and it ends when he pins me beneath his body, his weight nearly driving the air from my lungs. I always forget how heavy he really is. He manacles my wrists with one of his hands, holding them above my head with a bruising grip. It's the pain as much as the position we're in that makes me arch against his body. Michael's grin surfaces, that cocky one I love so much.

"Christ, I love the way you fight me."

He lowers his head to place a hard, sucking kiss against my neck, drawing up the skin there and nipping it none too gently with his sharp teeth. By now, I'm used to the way he marks me his, and a low moan rises from inside me at the feel of my blood welling up just under the skin. Through half closed eyes, I can see his head move lower, can feel the softness of Michael's hair brushing against my heated flesh.

The room spins dizzily and the bed seems to tilt sharply when I feel his warm breath blowing over my breasts. For a long moment, he just hovers there, breathing and nuzzling with the rough, bristly edge of his jaw. Dimly, I'm aware of his free hand sliding down my body and curving over my hip, the calloused palm rasping like fine grain sandpaper against my already sensitized skin. A soft whimper escapes me, only to be pulled back in when Michael's mouth fastens hungrily over my breast. He suckles at it fiercely, his tongue laving the hot flesh and his teeth worrying my erect nipple.

Before I can recover my breath, I feel his dampened fingers gliding over my sex, teasing me with the barest of touches. He shifts ever so slightly, then without warning thrusts two of his long fingers into me. My keening cry is shattering in the small room. I try to free one of my hands, not knowing if my intent is to stop him or to hold him there. But he only tightens his grip and continues to thrust himself into me, driving me closer to the ever-shifting line that separates pleasure and pain.

I try to keep my eyes open, to focus on something other than the way he's controlling my body, but it's no use. They fall closed and I can hear the victorious growl that emanates from deep within his chest. Time draws out and becomes immeasurable as his mouth moves over my breasts, alternating between too much pressure and not nearly enough. The steady motion of his fingers inside me never changes, though, and soon my heart is beating in time with his thrusts.

"Michael, please."

The desperation in my voice is obvious, but I am beyond caring, beyond pretending that I have any control over what is happening. I'll admit defeat. I'll surrender. All I want is for him to quench the fire that dances beneath my skin, to let me have the mind shattering climax that he is holding just out of reach.

He stills, and I open my eyes just enough to see him lift his head from my breast, his mouth reddened, his lips moist. Michael's blunt fingers pull out of my body, dragging over my swollen folds and making my back arch impossibly high. When he lays his wet fingers against my lips, I automatically open for him and take him into me again, wrapping my tongue around his length and laving the skin there. Unconsciously mimicking the very thing I refused him earlier, I taste the salt of Michael's skin under the lingering trace of my arousal.

The bed creaks almost silently as he leans hard against my wrists, giving me his weight and shifting just enough to slide the tip of his hard erection into my body. My cheeks hollow out as I suck in a deep breath at his implied invasion. Pulling his fingers out of my mouth, he reaches down to adjust himself, to open me further. Slowly, he lowers his weight onto my body and drives himself deep within me.

Our eyes meet and in those golden brown depths, I see the boy I feel in love with all those years ago staring back at me. Caught up in the moment, in the illusion, I break all my own rules and kiss him, parting my lips and drawing him into my mouth as my eyes fall shut. His tongue tangles against mine and the flashing, black and gray images crash over me.

Fire sweeping through a glass fronted building, devouring the blinking spaceship sticking out from the wall. Bodies strewn across a dry creek bed, men and women stacked two and three deep.

A spiraling twist of stars and darkness that disappears into nothing.

A dark haired girl, blood oozing from her mouth, a light colored palm print on her chest. Tess on her knees, pleading even as she is struck again. Michael bound, tears streaking down his grimacing face as Khivar holds his hands on either side of my lover's head, a thin silver glow separating the two men as the memories pass from one to the other.

"No!"

I wrench my mouth away from him with a pained cry. When I open my eyes, the ones that gaze back at me aren't golden brown. Instead, they are black and hard and alien.

Khivar.

"You bitch. I was enjoying that."

Adrenaline surges through my body, killing my arousal as I struggle against him and try to free myself from his hold, even knowing my strength is nothing compared to his. He flattens me instantly, a cruel smile on his face as he tightens his grip on my wrists. I've destroyed his illusion, but not his determination.

"We're not finished yet."

He bends his head and licks away the tear that escapes and runs over my temple, his body surging against mine. His neck is within reach of my teeth, but as I lift my head to savage him, he tightens his grip on my wrist, his thumb pressing hard on my scar. Like a cold shower, it makes me freeze. Turning my head away, I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend I don't see him. I pretend its still Michael's hands on me, Michael's breath that's hot against my neck. But I can't block out the feel of his body slamming against mine with none of Michael's grace, or the hot rush as he comes inside me after a few strokes.

For a moment, the room is silent except for his harsh breathing. When he lifts his head, he's slipped on Michael's face again, as though knowing it will only hurt me more.

"Get out."

As if the words weren't enough, he shoves me away from him, sending me over the edge of the bed in a single movement. I land hard and can only lie there gasping for a second, trying my best not to panic. Once I have my breath back, I scramble into my clothes, ignoring the ripping sound as I yank the t-shirt over my head.

"Maria."

He calls to me with Michael's voice, and I stop in the bedroom doorway, cursing the weakness that makes me want to automatically run back to him. Fighting the compulsion, I bite down hard on my lower lip, using the pain and the metallic taste of my blood, as a focus. He isn't deterred, though, and the bed creaks loudly as he rises. I don't startle at the feel of his hands on my shoulders, only curse my rebellious body when my breasts swell at the feel of Michael's hands sliding seductively over them.

"It'll hurt the next time you forget."

I know it's not an empty threat. Khivar needs the illusion of willingness as much as I need the illusion of Michael. When this happens, it reminds him that the only way he can have me is by being someone else. He shoves me away from him again, and I stumble out of the bedroom. As I pause to turn the knob on the main door, a glint of metal to my right catches my eye. On instinct, I grab the object and shove it into my pocket, out of sight.

My escort is waiting just outside the double doors, and he comes alert as I step out of the suite. We retrace our steps back down the hall, and I spare a moment of thanks that Tess's door remains closed as we pass. The courtyard is still dark, but when I pause and look up, I realize the haze has lifted and left the moon bare. Exposed and small. When we reach my room, I refuse the light and shut the door firmly.

Alone in the dark, I disrobe quickly and pull on Michael's old shirt before crawling onto the mattress. The washbasin and pitcher of water near the window are ignored. There's no way I'm washing away the scent of Michael that clings to me, it will be gone too soon anyway. Curling up on myself, I stare at the bars of moonlight that fall on my floor and play absently with the thick metal object I've pulled from my pocket.

Tess calls me a whore for doing this, for letting Khivar use my body. Her bitter anger, her jealousy at my favored status, is almost tangible. She doesn't know that he wears Michael's face, or has Michael's memories of us together. Sometimes I consider telling her, consider explaining it to her. Of all of us, I think Tess would best understand the difference between living and being alive.

When he first came to Earth, we didn't know Khivar was a shape shifter like Nacedo had been. Liz tried to tell us about him, when she was returned to us the first time, but we couldn't trust what she said. The things he had done to her had turned her scientists brain to mush and she spouted nonsense in the same breath as truth. We should have listened to her. At least then we might have been prepared.

Michael came back early one night from a raid. With a finger on my lips to guarantee my silence, we slipped out into the desert, intent on stealing some time together away from everyone else. We made love under the stars, and when he shuddered against me with his release, I saw the change start in his eyes. He couldn't hold the illusion and I watched the man I love transform into my enemy.

The months of war had taught me to be quick and to be merciless, so I grabbed for the hunting knife Michael insisted I carry and stabbed him with it, driving the blade deep into his body. Khivar shook me off like a fly and slammed me hard into the rock wall behind us with a surge of power. The rest of our encounter is lost in a fog of pain and darkness.

I woke up bruised and sore from a beating I still don't remember, the crude bandage on my arm stained with blood. I assume I cut it on the rocks. The jagged wound was never stitched shut and healed with an ugly scar. Khivar touches it often, using the gesture to remind both of us who's really in charge. Not that I could forget, my position as a prisoner was obvious from the start. Regular guards, locked doors, denied demands. The two times I managed to escape, I was brought back and beaten. I'm not a masochist, nor am I stupid, so I've quit being obvious about my attempts.

Each time Khivar has me sent to his room, or his tent, or wherever, he always does it as Michael. In the beginning, I tried to stay distant, tried to remember who it really was that was touching me. But he said all the right things, caressed me in all the familiar places, and made me believe he was the man I'd left behind. I bought into the illusion. I needed to; it was the only way to survive. Then one night as we lay together afterwards, I realized that being with him made me feel alive, made me feel something other than dead.

When he touches me with Michael's hands, covers me with Michael's body, it feeds the hunger inside of me and makes me strong. Strong enough to take my revenge. I've been planning, gathering my supplies whenever I can. Tonight it was a utility knife that had been left on a table near the door. It will be shoved into the mattress with the other things I've stolen.

There have been chances to escape. Windows of opportunity that I saw open and yet I passed them by. I'm not a fool for staying here, staying a prisoner. I haven't forgotten what he's done to us. The way he killed Liz, the way he hurt Michael, the way he's trying to destroy us all. I remember everything. I also know that Khivar won't kill me, not if I keep up our illusions. Not if I play his games. I'm going to kill him, though.

I can get closer to Khivar than anyone. Even Tess. I sleep in his bed. I touch him when he's naked and defenseless. At times I think he almost trusts me. I can catch him off guard, and if I play my cards right, I can escape before they know what I've done.

Smiling just a little at my dreams, I draw my knees up closer to my chest, tenting Michael's shirt over them and rubbing my cheek against the soft fabric. Soon I'll be able to sleep with my lover's arms around me instead of this substitute. Soon I'll be able to feel his lips against mine and experience only love. Soon I'll take my revenge.

Soon.

TBC with Realities- Michael's half of the story