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Late for the Sky	By : ibshafer Category: M through R > Roswell Views: 1840 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Roswell, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Late for the Sky

Chapter: 2/4

Author: ibshafer

Category: Max/Liz (with some great Michael/Maria thrown in!)

Rating: R (light)

Summary: Heavy AU future fic. This story was written between seasons 1

and 2, before the Skins, before Tess's betrayal, before Michael and Isabel

lost respect for Max. It was written with Liz's sacrifice -- Max's destiny

over her own happiness -- in mind. Most of the characters are involved

(including Friggin' Eddie!), but I am a Dreamer first and foremost. . .

Though not originally intended, the story has a pretty strong Candy

storyline, as well. Maria just wouldn't be ignored or down played. <g>

Author's Note: This story appeared in the first issue of the Roswell

fanzine, Late for the Sky. [© 2000 MadSeasonPress]

*
Outside, the dance continued. Once the tribe had reason to celebrate, they usually didn’t stop until
the dawn.
Isabel had loaded a CD into the deck, one of Jackson Browne's earlier albums, a fondness for which
she'd absorbed from Eddie, but after the last strains of “Late for the Sky” had played out, the drums'
rhythmic insistence once again filled the room.
Which was fine with Michael. The beat had found its way into his blood, breathed life back into
his limbs, and made a start at cleansing away the poisonous psychic aftertaste the passing of
Marcus and his goons had left in his head.

Exhausted, but charged, the three had each found their way back to the little house they shared.
They spent the remainder of the night discussing the preparations for their departure.

Before he’d been killed, Nasedo, as Pierce, had been able to gain access to a secret hanger at
Area 51. Deep below the desert, far from the prying eyes of man and military, a ship now lay
waiting to return them home.

“So, then you’re sure those systems are working now?” Max asked quietly, rubbing at what
looked like a sore spot on his neck.

Michael watched him and sighed, knowing full well he was ticking items off that little mental list
he always had going.

“Maxwell,” he said gently, his lips turned in a smile. “Give it a rest, already. The support systems
are fine. And if they’re not, Randy and I will have them up and running in plenty of time.” He slid
off his boots, wincing as he uncramped his toes. “Are you still set on the date? January something-or-other, right?”
Max’s answering half-grin was gratifying. Only half, but he’d take what he could get.
Man, he was wound tight tonight. Tonight of all nights he should be loose.
“The 20^th, yeah.” Max nodded to Isabel, dozing lightly against his shoulder. “Iz’s research turned up
that week as the strongest, in terms of planetary alignments and gravitational forces and. . .” He
rubbed at his temple, as though chasing down a thought. “. . .and other . . . other things. . .”
Michael let out a low hoot. “Now who’s Mr. Imprecise?”
Max shrugged, which roused the sleeping Isabel. “Sorry, Izzy,” he soothed as she sat up with a long
stretch.
“S’Okay. I was up, anyway.” Reaching over, she put her arms around her brother, then kissed him
lightly on the cheek. “The ‘other things,’ Max, say that the sun spot activity expected for that week
ought to create ‘ghost’ blips all over the radar. We should be able to move right out of the
atmosphere without being noticed. And when the thrusters kick in, well . . . we won’t be around long
enough for anyone to track,” she finished with a grin. “Our technology kicks butt.”
Michael laughed softly at the tone of pride in her voice.
She smiled in return and he caught the warmth in her eyes, at once reminded how glad he was they’d
regained their sibling closeness after that failed attempt to comply with the dictates of their destiny.
He didn’t care what anyone’s mother said—he and Isabel were brother and sister. End of fairy story.
Max rose from the couch and stretched his legs, suddenly looking both exhausted, which was
understandable, and unsure of himself, which was not. “Why don’t we . . . um, pick this up in the
morning, okay?” His voice was even hesitant. Michael knew what was up, what was on Max’s mind,
and what he was about to do. He wished he could stop him. Or help him. Or something.

Instead Michael just watched him hug his sister, watched him hold on a little longer and a little
tighter than might have been necessary, offered his own hand to be shaken, felt the same reticence
in Max’s hand clasp, and then watched as the man retreated to his quarters.
After Max had gone, Michael glanced over at Isabel to see tears wet on her face.

“Iz, how can you let him do that? Every night.”

“He’s a grown man, Michael,” she said, grabbing a tissue from the box on the table. “He makes his
own decisions.”
“He’s killing himself, you know that?”
Michael was instantly sorry he’d said it as a fresh wave began to roll down her cheeks.
“C’mere,” he whispered, opening his arms to her. She moved across the couch to nestle against him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head.
She nodded and he could feel her hair brushing his chin as she did.
“I’m sorry I showed him how, Michael. I thought he could handle it.” She shuddered. “I just thought
if he could see, he could let go. I didn’t think it would go on for so long. I didn’t think. . .”
“I know you didn’t, Izzy,” he said as he rocked her. “I don’t know how to stop him either. It’s not
like he’d listen to either one of us, anyway.”
This wasn’t the first night they’d had this conversation. Michael knew it wouldn’t be the last. At
least not until January 20^th. He hated watching Max eat himself up over things he couldn’t change.
And their time on Earth was a done deal. They would soon be gone.
They each had their regrets, they each had names and faces that haunted them in their sleep, but
torturing themselves wouldn’t change the inevitable. Three months from now, they would pack up
their things and go home. And no amount of wishing would change the way things were.

For them or anyone else. . .

*

Max stripped out of his clothes, grabbed a pair of shorts from the top drawer of his dresser, fiddled
with his watch for a moment, then climbed into bed. There was a book on the night stand, one he’d
utterly failed to get into and he made another half-hearted attempt before tossing it onto the bed next
to him with a heavy sigh.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to know any more than he already did.
He just couldn’t help himself.
From the drawer in the night stand, he pulled out an old, worn copy of Stranger in a Strange Land,
carefully spreading its dog-eared pages until he’d found what he was looking for.
He studied the photo in his hands as if somehow expecting it to look different than it had every night
for the past year. As though it would speak to him and tell him the thing he most needed to hear. But
it didn’t. It just stared sadly back at him.
There was a look in those eyes that made his heart clutch in his chest every time he saw it. It’d been
a happy picture when he’d taken it, twelve years ago. Now all it did was torment him.
With a sigh of resignation, he ran a finger lightly over the photo, watched as Liz’s features rippled
like water in response, then let his head fall back onto the pillow. . .

He found himself amidst the chaos of a busy hospital emergency room. Outside, the sirens of
emergency vehicles wailed a constant accompaniment to the screaming children, ringing phones and
the clipped chatter of the doctors and nurses struggling to get the obvious crisis under control.
Pulling a pair of scrubs from a nearby cart, Max slipped into them, pausing for the briefest second
when he realized how familiar they felt. He ignored the sudden pounding in his chest, at the phantom
pain that flared to life over his breast bone (after all this time), and fixed his eyes on a nearby door.
He’d been here before. He knew what was about to happen.

As if on cue, a muted rhythmic tone sounded from behind it, followed by a groggy female voice
muttering,
“. . . I’m up! I’m up!”
Max backed out of the way and behind a cart of used linens just as the door swung open and a small
figure emerged, trying to hold a stethoscope while shrugging back into a white lab coat.
Liz. . .
As many times as he’d done this—stolen into her dreams, witnessed her nightmares—he would
never get used to seeing her this way. Tired. Gaunt. Pale. . . The Liz he knew, a million years ago,
had been vibrant and full of life, not jaded from it. Not worn down by it. Not struggling to make it
through it.
He barely had time to register the changes in her, or rather the changes in her perception of herself,
before she was off and down the hall at a run.
“Parker!” called a commanding voice from behind the main desk. “Pyromaniac in a school yard.
Check the kid in Exam 5. Burns and a chest wound.”
“On it!” She took off down the hall.

Keeping a good twenty feet behind her, he slipped through the exam room door only seconds after
she did. . . and found himself, not in a hospital ward, but on a playground.
Where were they? Liz’s hospital dreams always took place there, as she struggled in vain to save a
life, reliving the day’s failures again and again. Torturing herself. In the ER. In the lab. On the ward.
But not here on a playground.

A familiar playground. . .
It took him a moment to get acclimated and then he was spinning to find the bus, just in time to see
the young version of himself step down onto the pavement, his six year old sister Isabel right behind
him.

How odd that you would dream this, he thought. Had she seen the images in him? If so, she’d never
said.
Yet there he was, all eyes and fear and . . . yes, there she was, too, the young Liz, happy and laughing
with her friends, a special light dancing in her eyes—even then.
For a moment, his present self mirrored his younger self as he stared transfixed at this girl who
would, for a short time, become his entire life. Something in her, the joy in her voice, the care she
took with her friends, spoke to him. Resonated for him. Even at this early age, she was already the
person she was to become. He’d known it then. He could see it now.
Max shuddered, his heart beating quicker. This was the part that hurt the most, the point in her
dreams when the realization fell in on him. It felt like life, expanding and spinning in his chest, but
it hurt, too. It hurt like death.
He loved her.
The years had not dulled that, just found another place for it to rest in his memory. As hopeless as
it was, as beyond it as he should have been, he still loved her.

The dream Liz was wandering the crowded playground now, confused, searching for the “case” she
was supposed to be working on. The young burn victim. His eyes roamed to schoolyard, as if to help
her. There was a sharp cry to his right and when he turned, the present Liz was kneeling over a
child’s body.

His body.
Why are you dreaming this, Liz? he thought.
Seeing himself so young and so defenseless . . . it was hard not to feel fear. The way she was
working over him, though—a doctor and a patient; he stared at her in wonder and held his breath.
Her hands, sure of themselves, moved quickly as she checked his injuries and his vital signs. Livid,
red burns covered his arms and face, and he could see more in the spots where his clothing had been
burned away. There didn’t seem to be much blood, but somehow he could tell she thought she was
losing him. Her professional calm was holding, but it wouldn’t be long before it broke down. He
could see the desperation at the edges of her eyes, see the color of it splashed on her cheeks and the
way her breath was quickening.
She was scared.
As she worked over his motionless body, tears began to stream down her sweet face. “Not again!”
she was whispering. “I can do this. I can stop this from happening!”
Though he knew it was dangerous, he couldn’t stay away. He was drawn closer to this scene in spite
of his fear she would spot him, of the confusion it would cause. What would happen if she
“recognized” him?
“Max,” she exclaimed, oblivious to his advance. “Don’t. . . You can’t die. You can’t.” She worked
over him furiously, swabbing at the gash in his chest. It seemed to grow deeper as he watched. The
blood was flowing red, soaking his shirt, pooling on the ground beneath him.
Max had to fight the nausea as the realization hit him. He knew that wound. Had it bled this much
the fateful night that Pierce had ordered his “surgeons” to cut him? He felt a ghost pain flair to life
over his sternum and refocused on Liz instead of giving in to it.
Liz was frantic now, all common procedure seeming to have failed. She sat back on her heels for a
moment, breathing heavily, then with a soft cry, she leaned forward again, pulled some of the soaked
gauze away and placed her hand over the injury in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

“Come on, Max,” she whispered, teeth grit. “Please. . .”
The blood continued to flow, though, and his tiny body was pale and still. He couldn’t bear to watch
her struggle over him. He knew what she was trying to do. Knew it in an instant. She was trying to
raise him from the dead. Not this dream child, but him; she believed he was dead. She felt
responsible for that death.

Oh, God.
He was about to throw himself to the ground and pull her off the boy, off of him, when he noticed
something odd where her hand made contact with his blood-smeared chest.

A glow.
She winced as if in pain and fell forward, but never lost contact with the boy’s chest. Light began
to stream through her fingers and Max could make out the faint reddened pattern of bones
beneath her skin. Face contorted, the tears were flowing freely now as she bent over the boy and
he could tell she was holding her breath. Then both she and young Max gasped simultaneously,
the boy shuddered once and opened his eyes to look at her.

Beneath her hand, in the place where the ragged gash had been, spilling his life around them both
onto the pavement, there was nothing. Only fresh, clean, healed skin.
She was still bent toward him, taking in heavy, pained breaths, but there was a look of wonder in her
eyes. Recognition. And as she watched, hand still pressed into his pale flesh, he began to change,
to transform, and the glow began anew.
When it faded, it was no longer his younger self before her, but the self he had been when last she’d
seen him.

With a shuddering gasp, the older Max opened his eyes and breathed her name. “Liz. . .”
Her answering smile, and the joy and relief on her face, lit up her entire being, washing away the
fatigue and the fear and the desolation he’d seen there when he’d first entered her dream. It was more
than he could bear. Watching ten feet away, Max thought his heart would break. No longer thinking
clearly, or of the right and wrong, he moved to kneel beside them.
“Liz,” he said, his voice echoing that of his doppelganger.
She looked up from the dream Max and into his eyes, confusion clouding her features in an instant.
“Max?” Her eyes moved between the two, searching out the truth in this illusion, then with a
shaking hand, she reached up to touch his face.
He felt it as a jolt of electricity to his system, a shock sent through every nerve ending. It felt real,
indescribably real. Warm. Wonderful. He felt himself not wanting to fight the urge to return that
touch. To throw all remaining rules to the dogs and take her in his arms. And love her.
Then as he was watching her, hungry eyes taking in her sweet and now smiling face, the smooth skin
of her neck, the movement her breath caused beneath her cotton blouse, he saw a thing that did not
belong.

It was a tiny thing at first.
A small drop of red against the pale paisley of her blouse. She was clearly unaware of it, but he
stared at it, transfixed, as it grew from a drop to a line and then spread halfway down her chest,
soaking through the cotton fabric and into her lab coat.
“Liz,” he gasped out, but it was too late.
Her smile had faded into realization as the pain soaked through her body like the blood had her
clothing. There was no surprise in her expression, merely resignation. Acceptance. As though there
was a rightness to what was now happening. With his name on her lips, she fell back against the
pavement and before he could touch her, before he could say or do anything . . . he was awake and
back in his bed on the reservation, the dawn just starting to pinken the sky outside his window. He
was breathing heavily and his pillowcase was soaked through with sweat and tears.
This was why he dreamwalked, why he’d coerced his sister into teaching him how. This was what
he’d had to know.
And now he knew what he had to do.

tbc…
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Late for the Sky