THIS IS ALMOST A LOVE STORY

By Shelbecat

Rating: R
Summary: Maria examines the devastation of her life during Michael's visit to New York.
Author's Notes: The fourth installment in the Love Story series.

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I pull my legs tighter to my chest as I retreat further into the uncomfortable wing chair adorning the corner of my expansive bedroom. For all its discomfort, it doubtlessly costs more than the entire contents of the dingy apartment back in Roswell that plagues my thoughts, the occupant of said apartment the only focus of my tortured mind at the moment.

He came to me—I only had to make the barest suggestion and he dropped everything to fly across the country for me. As much as I wanted him here, his selfless act despises me, knowing that if it had been him who called for me, I would have been incapable of making the return trip to the tiny town I had fled from a year before. The self-loathing I feel doesn't allow me to search within myself for the shred of goodwill that must still lie there somewhere; the tiny piece of myself that may have actually been able to reach out to him if asked. Instead, I sit shivering in the corner of my bedroom, watching him sleep on the bed we have never shared; the one person that I know can save me from my worst enemy—myself.

The moonlight streaming in through the lone window softly illuminates his figure. He is lying on his left side facing me, his arms curled tight to his chest, the thin blanket he covered himself with having fallen to the floor nearly an hour ago. My brain continuously tells me to place it back on his body but I cannot bring myself to do so; the sight of his bare torso bathed in silvery streaks from the night sky is too glorious to hide beneath a covering. Cursing my selfish actions, I rise from my chair to adjust the heat another notch, fooling myself into believing that if I make it warm enough he will think that he is back in the sweltering desert, not here in the icy city where I have summoned him.

I return to the stiff chair of my self-punishment. Instead of lying beside him on the bed where we started the night, I have departed the comforting lie of that depiction for the harsh truth of my situation—I am alone. We were not together tonight, it was just his kindness that permitted me to believe that, for a moment, the sight of us sharing the same mattress was a return to our former ways. It was not… he did not come to this city to fall back into a relationship with me; he came only because I begged him to do so, even if my words said "Would you?" the message beneath was "You have to" and he knew it.

I called for his saving graces because I was lost in the world I so readily created for myself after our parting. It may have been my words that started our ending, but it was his that sent me running from the world we inhabited together. His true-to-the-core message that we were draining the life from each other as we struggled to make our broken relationship work, opened my eyes to the agony residing in his. Suddenly, I was aware that instead of easing his pain like I thought I had been doing for years, I was actually adding to it by pouring my heartache on top of his. That realization left me reeling, the anguish of my newfound knowledge leaving me unable to remain in a place where I was responsible for his unhappiness.

My journey away from Roswell had taken me directly to New York where I set out on the proven path to success as Maria Deluca, pop princess. At first, the music had been a means of drowning out the voices in my head that condemned my every action; the part of me that scolded my childishness at running away from the love I knew I still needed, kidding myself into believing that if he needed distance then so did I. I was able to play the part of the uncaring robot as they molded and shaped the lyrics of another person to the tones of my voice, melding both together into an album fit to release for public consumption. It was never the music I wanted to create; the words and notes they placed before me pouring from my lips without any conscious thought on my part. My passage towards happiness, following my dream of finding fame and fortune on the strength of what musical talent I possessed, took place without me being present at all—I was just an unwilling participant in my life as my body ventured forth to the heights of popularity and my mind stayed behind, wondering what had happened to cause me such torment in the circle of happiness that was supposedly my existence.

The very cause that lay on the bed before me now.

A snaking tear wound its way down my cheek as I stared at his sleeping form lost in the blessed fragments of a dream. He was kind enough to recognize my need for him in our one phone call and caring enough to make the trip across the physical distance that separated us to be by my side. Now that he was here in my life, I supposed that I was expected to find some form of peace in his presence… the truth being that his arrival had only served to send me spiraling further into the confusion I inhabited. While the physical separation was no longer a factor, the emotional still existed and it was this crevasse that threatened me menacingly now—I did not know how to find happiness for myself through the memory of my relationship with Michael, was not even sure if I deserved to; I only hoped that if I was destined to live out the misery I had created for myself, he at least could be happy in his new life.

His suddenly restless body on the bed stirs me from my self-deprecating musings and I look up at his blinking eyes.

"Hey sleepy," I murmur.

His hand tiredly rubs his eyes, staring at me without focus in the darkness emcompassing the room. "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"Five," I answer.

"And you are up already because…"

'I am up already because sharing a bed with you where I lie beneath the covers while you sleep on top is torture,' I want to respond but don't.

"Couldn't sleep," I say softly, shrugging my suddenly chilled shoulders in the overheated room.

He yawns, stretching to his full length on the bed before repositioning himself on his left side, his body raised on one elbow as he directs his gaze towards me. "It's hot," he says simply, his eyes surely boring holes into the secrets of my soul as I hurriedly escape the prison of my chair to adjust the thermostat.

I am returning to the stuffed velvet sanctuary when the sound of his voice stops me.

"Here," he says, the simple suggestion loaded with unspoken undertones as I turn to see that 'here' means the bed beside him.

I cross the room slowly, unsteadily making my way around the king-sized bed to perch on the side I had been sleeping on. My legs immediately find their way to my chest again, my arms snaking around to pull them as tight to my body as possible, my bones a pitiful barrier between myself and him. My chin sinks into the curve between my knees, my eyes timidly seeking out his across the moon-tinged darkness separating us. I hold my breath as he shifts his weight, turning towards me to lean on his right arm, his head supported in his hand. The silence is heavy between us, the anticipatory pause before the inevitable sharing of information oppressing.

I have so many things I want to ask him, this trip was supposed to be for me, to help me, but right now I cannot even think about cheering myself into a state of normalcy until I uncover the reality that is his life now. He craved happiness more than I ever did; he deserved to have found it by now, but did he? And if he did, would I be able to make peace with the truth that he was happy while I was not?

"Tell me about your life," I whisper softly, my voice barely disturbing the still air of the room.

"My life?"

I nod, my eyes focusing in on his for a moment before retreating to stare at the mindless pattern of my duvet.

"You know about my life," he counters.

"Not anymore."

My words obviously strike a chord of truth within him as his own gaze drops to the bed, his left hand tracing a mindless pattern on the 400-count overpriced material.

"Well, there's not much to tell. I'm still in the apartment, I kicked Max out—him and Liz live just down the hall, well she technically lives in residence at university but for all the time she spends there you'd say they were roommates. She's studying…"

"Michael," I interrupt gently. "If I wanted to know about Max and Liz I'd call my mother."

"Or you could call Liz."

His words are a sliver of ice piercing my heart cleanly; I have not spoken to Liz since I left the western state so long ago, not returned one of her calls or responded to any of her countless e-mails. "Michael," I sigh breathily, willing him not to push this point with me.

"I'm just saying. You can't expect to run away from home and not have people wonder if you are okay. Every few months she breaks down and calls your mother to see if you're still alive. I always find out the updates from Max or Isabel whether I ask for them or not. Hell, most of the news she gets is from Teen People®!"

"That's not fair," I mumble.

"It's the truth," he counters evenly.

"It's not easy being out here," I retort sharply, my eyes hardening as I stare not at him but at the suddenly fascinating print on the wall above the bed. "Things are different now."

"They're only different if you want them to be Maria."

"Why are you being so mean?" I cry, fighting not to flee from the close quarters we occupy on my bed. It is only the large mattress size, the space separating us being over three feet, that keeps me in place, safely out of reach of any physical contact with him.

"I'm not being mean," he says softly but firmly. "You asked me out here to help you find yourself again. At least that's the message I got through your sobbing on the phone. I'm just saying that I don't think you can find yourself if you haven't got any roots to start from."

"Those roots were never solid anyway," I mutter defensively.

"Maybe, maybe not, but they were yours, the only ones you've got. Denying them doesn't make finding a future any easier."

"Oh right. This from the boy who would forsake every human he'd ever met for a chance to return to his home planet."

His eyes gloss over with a steely coldness as he pauses our conversation with his refusal to fight back at me. "That is not fair and you know it," he finally says quietly. "Going back to Antar now would be one of the hardest decisions I would ever have to make, but you are right; I probably would 'forsake every human I ever met' for a chance to go back… if only to see what I'm not missing. My life is on this planet now, I made my peace with that a long time ago."

"Last time I checked you were still angry with me for making you stay," I continue, his words penetrating my anger but not far enough to make me quiet my defense. He can't be this nice to me while I am trying to fight with him; it is not possible that it is Michael who is taking the high road. Without warning, the long repressed memory of his calmness on the last day we spoke floats to the surface of my mind and I recall how he proudly strode upon the higher path on that day as well. I am instantly shamed as I listen to him continue his gentle, if effective, counter to my argument.

"If that's the message you got from the last time we talked, then you are sorely mistaken. My roots may be in another universe but my feet are firmly planted on this ground now. And a lot of time has passed since you 'last checked' anything with me."

His words settle over me like a wet blanket, their weight pressing against my skin as I struggle to shrug off their implication. He is right, of course he is right, I do not know where his life sits today, where his loyalties lie, or if he would run off to Antar to escape the town I so readily shunned in my leaving. The truth of the matter is that a small part of me already recognizes that I do not know his intentions, the fundamental point behind his words being that I do not know who Michael Guerin is today; I do not know… but I want to.

"Tell me?" I ask timidly.

His queried gaze is enough to indicate that he doesn't know what I mean as I swallow heavily and fight for the words to ask him to share his new life with me. "I want… I want to know about your life… your life now," I stammer, my eyes locked on the bedspread between my toes, their tight grip on the material evident in the strained muscles of my feet as I fight to remain within reach of his acerbic rebuke, the inclination to bolt from the room nearly overwhelming.

My request goes unanswered for a long moment and I am sure that he deems me unworthy of knowing the life he has structured for himself without my presence. Finally, after an indeterminable amount of time has passed and I am beginning to doubt that I ever should have asked him here in the first place, he asks quietly, "What do you want to know?"

I sigh audibly, meeting his gaze again, just briefly, to check that he is not baiting me, that he really is ready to share the details of his new world in the pathetic excuse of one that I have created. "Everything," I gush, immediately regretting my enthusiastic approach to learning information he may still be reluctant to share.

He only smiles at my energy; I catch the sight of his lips upturning into his trademark, almost hidden grin out of the corner of my eye and I nod imperceptibly at his lingering ability to still appreciate some of my lesser qualities, not turned off by them as most people would be. At times, even I am turned off by the very traits that he always said he loved in me and I can't help but let my mind wonder now if he would still find all of them attractive in a newly-forged relationship.

The clearing of his throat brings my eyes back to his and I watch the obvious internal struggle play out on his face as he attempts to formulate his thoughts into a presentable order.

"Well, there's not that much to tell really," he begins and I can't stop the frown that falls across my features as I think that this is all of the information I will garner from him. He must notice, because he hurriedly continues, assuaging my fears with, "I got another job, nothing special, hard work, but honest. It wasn't something I took just so I could watch my girlfriend parade around in a skimpy uniform and that was all I was looking for at the time."

I smile at the thought that I was the reason he took his first job at the Crashdown when I know for a fact that he was beyond broke at the time and Max asked Liz if she thought her father would need another cook. I don't think he ever knew that it was his friends that made that job happen behind the scenes, and hearing now that in his mind he did it for me, brings happy memories of the Saturday nights we spent there together—cleaning up and then promptly disturbing the order with our heated make-out sessions.

"What's your job?" I ask.

"Driving a delivery truck."

"Oh Michael," I breathe quickly, the opposition leaving my mouth before I can stop myself.

"What?" he says without malice. "You were going to say I'm better than driving a delivery truck?"

"Something like that," I confirm quietly.

"I know I'm better than that," he says, again with a smile on his lips instead of the scolding I deserve. "And I am doing something better than that. Driving just guarantees that the bills get paid every month. Every spare moment I get I'm painting."

My eyes widen as I listen to the sudden rush of information from his mouth as he explains his rediscovered passion to me excitedly. I can barely remember seeing him get excited about anything when we were together except possibly finding out information about his home. To see him describe the way that painting makes him feel, the rush he derives from creating a piece of art from nothing more than an idea and paper is beyond satisfying—it is crushing.

I sit in silence on the bed as he continues his depiction of the wonder that is his new life. He is not bragging, just explaining, highlighting the aspects of the world he now loves to be a part of. And I can see that he is happy, I knew it the moment I looked into his eyes in the airport, I just waited to hear him speak the actual words to let myself believe it for sure. That happiness should spread to me, I should smile for my friend's good fortune, but I cannot. Beneath the empty smile that masks my features, an emotion that I am overwhelmingly ashamed of rolls through my body—jealousy. The initial stimulus to our breaking up was me wanting to find some happiness for myself, by myself; watching him achieve what I could not is devastating and while it may make me a small person, I can accept that as long as I do not have to compare my sorry life to his—I have all of the material possessions I could have ever asked for and the one missing piece to my jumbled puzzle of emotional happiness is sitting mere feet away from me now, his own life falling into place without me in it.

I am unable to remain on the bed, forcing an interesting look on my face when my heart is crying out for him to not be happy and still need something in me to complete his world. The emotion is belittling and it is that feeling more than the effort it takes to show interest in his story that sends me running from him now. I turn to slide my feet to the floor, my head tilting towards him just slightly as he looks up at me expectantly.

"I need a drink," I offer pathetically, leaning on my arms as I push my shaking body into a standing position.

Without warning, his hand breaks the invisible barrier that kept me so close to him for this long, and reaches out across the bed to grasp my arm. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Sure," I mumble, unable to meet the gaze that I know will be piercing as I continue moving away from him, tugging lightly against the grip he holds on me. "Just thirsty," I explain.

"Maria," he cautions.

"Really," I mumble, freeing my arm from his hold as I make it to a standing position and begin the slow trek across the suddenly too large room to the doorway and relative safety. Mercifully, he lets me go without another word, watching I am sure as I stumble once on my escape route away from him, gripping the door handle tightly in both hands as I fight for the strength to open it. It gives way, falling aside to reveal the hotel suite beckoning to me. My eyes fall on the glass doors of the balcony I have sought respite from on so many nights in recent weeks and I can barely formulate the command necessary to drive my feet in that direction, staggering against the antique furniture pieces as I make my way to the only salvation I can find in this world crafted not for the real Maria Deluca but for the girl that she once thought she wanted to be.

The glass gives way easier than the bedroom door, slipping away to let in a sharp blast of frigid air against my scantily clothed body. It is still early, pre-dawn, and the air retains the deep freeze of a subzero night in the winterized city. I take an eager step onto the ice-hard concrete, my body shivering without my permission as the cold sets into my muscles, seeping up through the soles of my feet, turning blood and sinew to icy replications as it makes its way steadily through my once living body. Slowly, deliberately, the cold hand of unfeeling takes over my desperate form, turning throbbing veins and pulsing muscles to ice sculptures of their former selves, all feeling ceasing to exist in the vessel that houses my spirit—the body that keeps just a vague memory of the girl that once lived here alive in the alien shell that now resides in her place.

Alien… I have never felt further removed from the love I once cherished and yet this is the first time that I have ever used that term to describe myself, comparing myself to him so perfectly, the word that depicted the way he had to feel through all of the years he fought to find a semblance of his true self in this foreign universe now applying itself to me without mercy, settling over my body as my new definition.

I am an alien in this world—I do not belong in the life I grew up in, I do not belong in the life I now own. I am not Maria Deluca, child of Roswell, New Mexico; I am not Maria Deluca, superstar of New York City, New York; I am Maria Deluca, nobody—unloved, unnoticed, unaccompanied… alone.

The freezing process is nearly complete when I sense rather than hear a presence behind me. Warm arms, burning my frosted skin with the sharp spike in temperature, wrap around me, the shivers beginning again as the thawing process starts immediately. No words are exchanged as I am lifted into the security of his embrace, my body moving unwillingly as I am transported back inside the heated apartment. His touch is delicate, tender, almost reverent as he positions me on the couch, not leaving even to retrieve a blanket to warm me, instead lifting the tank top covering my ice-chilled back and pulling me to his bare chest for defrosting.

"You should… you shouldn't stay here," I chatter between trembling lips, my brain as frozen as my lips as it struggles to formulate the proper words to say to my savior.

"Be quiet," he admonishes without the added effect of guilt.

I allow his pull to deepen against me, leaning back to almost enjoy the tingling in my skin as it meets and melts against his. Opposing hands grip my arms, rubbing them briskly as he fights to force circulation in the blue-tinged limbs. My eyes close as I relish the feel of his saving graces blessing the girl who does not deserve it, so removed from the situation that I barely recognize her as me.

"I forgot your nails turned blue," he remarks and I crash back into the land of reality, focusing my blurred gaze on his hand holding my own. Sure enough, my fingers are on display before us, the nail beds revealing their so far unrivaled ability to turn blue at the slightest sign of a chill. Exposing them to the frigid winds whipping across the balcony resulted in far more than a slight tinge, the delicate cuticles turning a deep shape of indigo at the penetrating freeze settling within them.

"They always did," I manage to stammer out, my body unable to remain upright as I lean heavily back against him again, sighing as I await the judgment that will now befall me as I hear about the stupidity of my actions. "Go ahead," I murmur, sleep clawing at my exhausted body as I steel myself for his scolding. "Yell at me or something, just make it quick."

"You want me to yell at you?" he asks, a note of surprising tickling his voice.

"I deserve it, don't I?"

"Well I'm not the judge of that," he says calmly. "If you need yelling, why don't you give it a go?"

I twist in his arms slightly to cast my eyes back at his. Narrowing them at the cryptic words falling from his lips, I mumble, "You want me to yell at myself?"

He smiles, the gesture so out of place in the situation that I almost catch myself doing the same. "You are weird," I mutter, turning around to cuddle back into his amazingly still warm chest again.

"And you are stupid," he counters. "But, I didn't know this was about trading insults."

At his statement, I leap into the escape act I have planned for when he would doubtlessly start in on me, pushing myself away from him rapidly, or rather trying, stopping as he grabs one arm in each of his hands firmly. He flips me over expertly as he tosses me flat on my back against the couch, vaulting through the air towards me. He stops, his body mere inches from mine as he balances above me, the look in his eyes luring me into a reaction, any reaction.

I open my mouth to speak but he stops me with a finger across my lips. Cautioning me with his eyes to remain quiet, he removes his hand, propping it back on the cushions to support his weight as he obviously prepares for the assault I have expected.

"You asked me out here because you said you were losing yourself, had already lost yourself in this crazy life. And I came, without question, not because I thought you needed finding, but because I thought you could use a friend, something you seem to be in short-supply of lately, all through your own doing I might add."

"Mic…"

"Shh," he silences me, the look in his eyes warning me that he will not tolerate another interruption. "This thing is that I've only been here for like 12 hours, and already I can see that you aren't lost at all—you're hiding. For whatever reason, you took off from Roswell on this mission to find fame and fortune, and instead of embracing what you've got, you are still living a lie somewhere 2000 miles west of here in your mind."

"I know that you were the one that wanted to end things between us, but I also think that you would have been ready to give it another try if I waited long enough. When I said I wouldn't… couldn't… I don't know for sure if you ever really thought we'd get back together, but I know it had to sting to hear me say the words. And the last thing that ending it was supposed to do was hurt you; in my mind you were already gone before you ever said you were leaving."

"That's not true," I hurriedly blurt out, shrinking away from him as his obvious displeasure at my speaking shows itself.

"Whether you realize it or not, you were ready to leave Roswell long before it was ready to let you go. All you needed was a ticket out of there and that's what I tried to give you." He stops as he sits back on his heels, freeing me from the cage that I didn't mind being trapped in. "I know it seemed like I was doing it for myself, and I was sort of… but I thought you needed to take some time to sort out what you really wanted too, find out who Maria Deluca really was. I never thought you'd forget the part you already had."

His statements weigh heavily on my still shivering body. He notices and moves to pull me to him again but I wave him away. I need to digest what he has just said, understand the implication of his words and attempt to formulate some response. I can't do that if he touches me… I fear I will lose the slight grip I still hold on reality if he touches me.

"So you… you think I need to be the girl I was with you?"

He sighs, and I know I've gotten it wrong already. "No, not be, just remember. You had all these fantastic dreams, and they're basically coming true, but you're still not happy. I think you need to remember why you wanted them in the first place to enjoy what you've got now."

"And what about you… did you remember who you were when you tried to be happy?"

"I did, and then I forgot all about him again. He didn’t have happy elements Maria, now I do. You… you're different. You always had all the pieces, you just need to figure out how to put them together."

I stare at his face for what seems like an eternity. I am not sure if I am trying to discern some trace of insincerity there, or if I am just committing it to memory for the long days ahead when I mount this battle he thinks I should and he is no longer here to support me. I close my eyes as my mind takes a snapshot of his features. I know that his words carry a great truth, but I am petrified at the thought of acting on a single suggestion. It all seems so simple when he lays it out before me, but in two days he is scheduled to get on a plane headed back to Roswell and then I will be alone again… any plan I start now obliterated when my once again solitary psyche is able to seize upon it.

"I can stay," comes the slight offer from the other end of the couch and I blink my eyes open slowly as I try to comprehend the words he has just produced.

"I can stay," he repeats, locking his gaze with mine as realization dawns on me that he really is an angel. "Not forever, not… not yet," he adds and I frown.

"Not yet?" I question, my breath catching in my throat as I decipher the hidden meaning behind his words.

"I want to help you," he rushes to explain. "But, I can't just give up the life I've got to save yours. I'll be the rock you need to hold on to while you do this, but after… if I give up what I've built I'll be right back where I started. You've got to get your own feet on solid ground before we can think about after."

"I don’t want you to give up anything for me," I say cautiously, my body beginning a slow retreat away from him as my legs curl towards my torso.

"Don't do that," he warns, placing a firm but gentle hand on my knee. "Don't hide… not from me."

"I'm not…" I start, stopping as I realize that I am doing just what he says, I am hiding—from him, from my memories, from my life. "I'm sorry," I mumble, my eyes tearing as I stare up at his nonjudgmental gaze. "Now you are being too nice to me," I moan softly, smiling slightly as I see him relax his too tense muscles, sinking back into the couch slowly.

"It's just the truth," he says simply.

"The truth," I echo, turning my head away from him as I stare out across the elegant hotel suite. This world, this life, has always been what I wanted, yet it never quite fit the way I thought it would. Now Michael suddenly reenters my life, and comes equipped with all this insight about why I feel the way I feel and act the way I act, you'd swear…

"How did you get so smart anyway?" I ask suddenly.

The blush creeping across his cheeks gives me my answer before he ever opens his mouth. "I have a lot of free TV time on my hands," he explains.

"And…" I prompt.

"And I watch Dr. Phil," he confirms.

"I knew it!" I exclaim, scrambling to sit up in front of him as my eyes light with the knowledge that I have learned another of his well-kept secrets. "You are a talk-show junkie, Mr. Guerin," I threaten.

"Oh yeah, and what are you going to do about it," he teases back.

My response to his taunting is instinctive; my body positioned so close to his that it would take just a small shift to see me tangled in his arms. I lick my lips slowly as a confident smile breaks across them. "Desensitize you," I snarl, leaning forward to close the remaining space between us.

He meets me in the sacred separation, his mouth seeking mine hungrily as we pour our pent-up sexual tension into each other. He was able to find his strength on his own but I know now that not everyone is capable of doing that. Needing him to lean on while I regain my footing isn't a weakness, it's just a support; his love required to see me through the approaching storm. I still have challenges to overcome, obstacles to climb, barriers to break as I uncover the lost Maria hiding somewhere beneath the rubble I have piled atop her memory. And I know I can do it now, with his love to guide me, I can do anything.

I smile as I break away from his kiss, gazing into the eyes that have always been my rock, just positioned a little more solidly now. "It's almost," I whisper.

"Almost what?" he asks softly.

"Nothing," I murmur in reply, unable to say the words aloud that now run through my head. It's almost a love story, I think, smiling as I bury my face in his chest, knowing that soon, very soon, it will be.



THE END