FanFic - Max/Liz
"Uninvited"
Part 2
by CharlieJ
Disclaimer: Donít own Ďem, wish I did. Yada, yada. Donít own the song either.
Summary: 10 years laterÖ (There are a couple of possible spoilers.)
Category: Max/Liz
Rating: R
Authors Note: To Phil, who will probably never read this but without whom there would be no writing. To this websiteís very own Elizabeth, whose exemplary writing forced me to try (and who beta-read this for me). To Kevin Smith, who makes everything seem possible. To Alanis Morissette, whose voice touches me. And lastly to Kat, whoís always there when I need her. Even if sheís only a figment of my imagination. Feedback: Be gentle. Itís my first time since high school.
His eyes are closed, but heís awake. He stretches, hears the satisfying clicks and pops of his joints. He canít remember the last time he felt so rested. He wonders where he is. Maybe he can stay here awhile.

He opens his eyes slowly and the knowledge of where he is assaults him physically. He canít breathe. Waves of panic rush over him. What time is it? How long has he been asleep?

He forces himself to calm down. Itís still light outside. A glance at the clock shows him that itís ten a.m. Itís only been an hour. His breathing slows, the panic subsides.

But then there is a new feeling. A dim memory of holding her, clinging to her as he slept. Of the soft touch of her lips to his forehead, soothing him, keeping the pain at bay.

He shakes his head to clear it, runs a trembling hand through his hair. It was only a dream. He hasnít dreamt of anything else in years. Why would today be any different?

Standing up, he realizes that he is still holding her shirt. He knows he should leave it. But he canít let it go. He thinks if he has it, just this one small piece of her, he might finally be able to stop haunting her. Let her live in peace at last. But he knows it isnít true, can never be true. He will never have enough of her. Carefully, he lays the shirt back onto the pile of clothes where he found it.

He closes his eyes, his mind needing one more dream of her. Here, where he is closest to her. He imagines her arms around him. The sweet taste of her skin mixing with the slight spiciness of her hair. He hears her voice in the distance, mumbling something he canít quite make out. It doesnít matter. Her voice is music to him.

His eyes open reluctantly. He wants to linger in her essence just a little bit longer. He sighs, a harsh sound escaping his chest. He can still hear her voice. He follows the sound of it into the hallway, past the bathroom. Is he hallucinating or still dreaming? He canít tell. Everything seems so real.

"I know, Alex. I was looking forward to it, too, but I have to work."

He turns the corner into the kitchen to find her on the phone. So heís still dreaming. One of the calm, comforting dreams where they live together and have a normal life. These dreams are the only true happiness heís allowed, and he savors them. He sighs contentedly, settling into the fantasy. But as she spins around to face him, it suddenly hits him that itís all real. Heís wide awake and standing not two feet from her. Her eyes lock on his and he canít move. He is instantly paralyzed.

"No, no. Donít come up. Iíll be working, we wonít have any time together." Guilt washes over him as he realizes that sheís lying. For him. Again.

Great going, Maxwell. Three seconds back in her life and youíve already got her lying to Alex again.

Max cringes, but he still canít move away from her.

"Iíll call you as soon as I know my schedule. I promise. I have to go, Alex. Uh-huh. Okay. Bye." She reaches out to hang up the phone without looking, her eyes still locked on his.

He swallows hard, his mind racing. "Am IÖ dreaming?" His voice is low, halting.

A smile. His heart melts. She shakes her head slightly. "No." The memories flood him now.

"Last nightÖ?" She blushes, looks away. Heís still trying to comprehend the fact that he isnít dreaming. He actually touched her, held her. Oh, GodÖ

"Do youÖ want some coffee?" Now her voice is tentative. He feels his head move, hears himself say, "Yes," but his mind is still reeling at the idea of everything thatís happened. That he really felt her skin next to his.

She hands him a cup of coffee and they sit at the table. Max asks about Alex just to have something to say. She babbles on about Alexís life in D.C. - his success in the computer industry, the band he plays in on weekends. She moves onto Mariaís acting career. Neither one of them is really listening, but she keeps talking anyway. Her mind is swimming with the unreality of all of this, talking to Max as if she was just catching up with some old friend from high school.

She thinks of Roswell, of his parents. In the years since she left, sheís tried to stay away from Roswell as much as possible. There are just too many memories. Too many things that donít need stirring up. College in Chicago. Med School in Minneapolis. Her residency here in New York. Anything to stay away from home, from the memories of him. But her parents are still there and her father doesnít like big cities, so she tries to get home at least once a year.

It has gotten easier over the years; to go back. Nothing has really changed. The streets are all the same. There are very few new houses or shops. The video store has doubled in size. The shoe store she used to shop in is now a computer store. The restaurant on the corner of Main and Fifth is on itís sixth or seventh nationality. She canít recall exactly. But thatís it. Her parents still run The Crashdown. Itís still the most popular hangout in town. Valenti is still the sheriff. And the desert still stretches out into infinity in every direction.

As she thinks about it now, Liz supposes she is what has changed. People always say, "Time heals all wounds." She doesnít really believe that. But maybe it makes things a little easier to deal with. A little time, a little space. Some distance to make you see the forest instead of the trees.

But seeing the Evansí never gets any easier. They look so lost every time she sees them. As if their lives had stopped somehow and they canít quite figure out how or why or where it all went so wrong. Liz knows that feeling well. She lived in it, in that walking-through-Jell-O, going-through-the-motions existence. She lived in it for a long time after Max left.

She often wants to say something to them. To offer them some solace, some comfort. But what could she say? Your children are alive, they just donít want to see you? And so she says nothing. She stays away because it is better for them not to know. Itís safer. For them or for her, sheís never been quite sure.

She observes him as she would a patient now, her doctorís eye appraising him critically. She notes with disapproval the gauntness of his face, how his clothes hang from his body. Doesnít he eat? Why isnít he taking care of himself? She shudders at the memory of feeling his ribs through his shirt. Her eyes are drawn to his now, to the dark circles underneath them. When was the last time he slept? And then into his eyes and she is startled again. His eyes are so dead. Maxís rich brown eyes, the eyes that used to contain her soul, her life, her futureÖ She is choked by a sudden need to know him again, to know what happened to make him this way.

Sheís smiling at something sheís said, something about Mariaís first Hollywood party. He tries to smile, too, to show that heís listening, even though heís not. But the smile doesnít reach his eyes. It looks awkward on his face, as if heíd forgotten how.

Her eyes burn into him. Just being here, heís hurting her. Making her see him like this. He knows he should leave. But the heat radiating off her is driving away the coldness inside of him. He feels warm, safe for the first time in years. He canít make himself move.

She realizes that she isnít talking anymore. Theyíre just sitting there, staring at each other. "Whereís Michael?" she asks to fill the endless silence.

His eyes blaze with pain for a moment and then theyíre cold, sucking in the little bit of life that had been coloring his features. She shivers, wraps her arms around herself.

"I donít know." His voice is harsh. She canít bear it anymore. She stands, on the verge of tears. How in the world did he turn into this shadow of himself? When did his heart die?

His mind warns him ≠ screams at him ≠ to stop, to resist the pull of her. But his body knows what he wants, what he craves. He reaches his hand out and grabs her wrist as she walks past. He canít let her go, not again.

Just that small a gesture and she feels her whole body on fire. Little electric sparks run up her arm from the point where his skin touches hers. She thinks her knees might give out. She looks down at his face, searching for his eyes. She has to know, has to see what is in them now. How can he make her feel this way with eyes that have no life in them?

He canít look at her. He feels her other hand reach out and touch his cheek. He wants to melt. He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses the center gently. "Liz," he moans softly and she feels the tears start. She turns his face to hers. Her eyes find his then and her heart skips a beat. She gasps, overwhelmed by the passion that burns there. Passion for her.

Now his mind really is gone. Those eyes. Lizís eyes. How many times has he dreamed of being able to look into them one more time? Of being able to lose himself in those soft brown pools? How many days, weeks, years has he spent imagining what he mind find there? But he had never imagined this. He never dared to think that he might find the same hunger still burning in her.

Her eyes are locked on his. She doesnít even realize he has stood until she feels the heat of his body next to her. He is so close to her. Tantalizingly close. Dangerously close. Her hand is still on his face. She thinks of how wrong this is. She loves Sean. She thinks of Alex. Of her parents. Of Maria. Of the Evansí.

And then his mouth is on hers and the world falls away. She can think of nothing but Max. Her whole world is Max and she is in heaven. She runs her fingers through his hair, holding him to her. His tongue is inside her mouth, exploring every inch. She moves her tongue across his bottom lip, tasting the coffee. She wants to taste him. How can he taste the same after all this time? But he does. Exactly the same. As if the intervening ten years had never happened. They are in Roswell again, in her bed. She clutches him tighter, not willing to let him run away this time.

He wraps his arms around her, his hands immediately slipping underneath her shirt to caress to the skin of her back. Itís just as he remembered. Just as heíd imagined all those times since their one night together. Soft, silky. And so warm. He massages her flesh with his fingers. He wants all of her. Needs her in a way that he hadnít thought possible. He thinks if he could just get her closer, the coldness that has been his life for so long will finally disappear.

Her head is spinning. Heat spreads through her whole body from where his hands touch her. She remembers his hands. Remembers the things they did to her the last time they were together. The only time they were together. She moans softly at the recollection, moving her mouth away from his and to his neck. She needs to taste more of him. She canít get enough. She is desperate to feel his skin against hers. One hand leaves his hair and travels down over his shirt. Then under as he had done. He makes a noise and crushes her into him.

Her legs are between his, his hardness pressing into her stomach through his jeans. She gasps and tries to pull away, suddenly scared. But he wonít let her go. His mouth finds hers again. He is desperate, panicked. She wants him so much ≠ it is terrifying to her how much she wants him still.

They start moving towards the couch, neither one wanting to let go. Neither mouth wanting to disengage. His hands move to her sides and start dragging her t-shirt up her body. Her whole body trembles as his fingers pass lightly over her ribs and the sensitive skin of her stomach. She raises her arms to allow her shirt to come off. His follows quickly and they embrace again. Her breasts press into his chest, her nipples hard against him, making him crazy.

He collapses on top of her onto the couch. One hand moves between their bodies, to her breast. He plays with her nipple and she moans again at the exquisite pleasure of it. His mouth moves away from hers. To her cheek. Her chin. He seems to spend hours, unbelievable hours, on each inch of her neck. His tongue dances hungrily over the hollow of her neck, sending little shockwaves of pleasure through her whole body.

And then ≠ finally! ≠ his mouth finds her breast. He kisses it once lightly, teasing her. His tongue circles her nipple. Her hands are in his hair, on his shoulders. Her legs wrap automatically around his back, squeezing him. He changes the rhythm of his motions and she moans again. She arches her back, his left hand slipping under her, holding her close.

He can feel the connection building between them. He tries to resist the pull of it. He knows what sheíll see. He doesnít want to cause her this pain. But he canít pull away. He needs to share with her, be one with her again. He wants her to know his soul again. And for him to know hers. To be a single being once more, the way theyíd been that day heíd saved her life. Now maybe she can save his.

So he lets it go, lets her see, while he becomes absorbed in the images of her life.

Her pain as she watches him with Tess.

Tessí death in the cave. Power surging through her as he joins with Isabel and Michael to finally fight off Nasedo.

Concern filling her heart as she sees him the next day. The pain of not knowing.

Watching her in the halls at school, longing for her touch, her voice.

Feeling his eyes on her, turning to find him not there.

Equal parts joy and bitterness flowing through him at the sight of Isabel and Michael holding hands, happy together, in love.

The images come more quickly now, both of them almost overwhelmed by the intensity.

Valenti coming to them, warning them that he canít protect them this time.

Isabel in the cave, pleading with him not to go.

The unbearable pleasure of their one night together.

She sees herself again, sleeping in her bedroom in her parents house. Feels his almost crushing desire not to go, not to leave her. One hot tear burns a path down his cheek ≠ her cheek now.

He can feel her wake up, reach for him. Panic races through her at once when she finds him not there and then it hits her. Heís left. Heís nearly overcome by the breaking of her heart. The terrible pain that tears her soul.

And then his return to the cave, the destruction there. The screaming of his soul as he finds Michael, clutching Isabelís lifeless body.

Iíve killed Isabel!

The thought rings through her mind with such force and for a moment she doesnít know if itís his thought or hers. Terror rips through her then. What if he hadnít come to her that night? Would he be dead too? And then shame and wrenching guilt. If heíd been there, might he have saved her?

Liz in college, numb to the world. Buried in her work.

Max in some anonymous apartment. So lonely he canít speak, drowning in his own solitude.

And then heís clinging to her again, sobs racking his body. Sheís overcome by his sadness, by his need for her. She soothes him and tells itís going to be okay. For a while she even believes it. She wonders if he does, if he could possibly believe that things will ever be okay again.

o o o o o

The orange light of sunset is filtering in through the blinds when consciousness finally regains its hold on Lizís mind. She feels drained. His head is still on her chest, his face finally at peace.

She brushes some loose hairs from his eyes, kisses the top of his head gently, not wanting to disturb him. But he jerks awake suddenly, startling her. His eyes are wild for a moment and then they find hers. She sees the love he has for her, but itís mixed with pain, regret.

He looks away. How can he tell her? Where does he start? His mind searches for the words to explain, to apologize again. "Iím sorry," he says simply, his voice low.

Her hand goes immediately to his face, turning it to hers. His eyes are shining with newly formed tears. "No, Max. You let me see you. Itís nothing to be sorry for." A single tear slips down his cheek. She wipes it away gently.

He gazes into her eyes longingly. He can feel the warmth flowing through the bond between them. There is compassion there. And understanding. He wants to wrap himself up in it and never leave.

She leans forward, brushes her lips against his softly. "I love you, Max," she whispers, kissing him again. He pulls away slightly, his eyes finding hers and searching. He needs to know, to be sure that this is what she wants. He thinks heíll die if he hurts her again. But there is only love and desire in her now. The pain of all these years is gone. He kisses her, their passion deepeningly quickly.

His mouth still on hers, he slides his legs onto the floor. Her skin is alive with electricity as his hands roam over her body, past her breasts, past her stomach now, to the top of her jeans. He moves his head away, locks his eyes with hers. Somewhere in the distance, she can feel his hands unbuttoning her jeans, pulling the zipper down, sending little tingles of pleasure running through her whenever his fingers graze her skin. But her mind is wrapped around his, lost in everything that he is, everything they are together.

His hands are on her hips, sliding her jeans off. He hooks his thumb onto her panties and pull everything off in one motion. She watches him intently, relishing the desire on his face. The clothes are discarded in a corner now and he is staring at her, at her body, completely naked before him. He studies her, burning every pore into his memory. The savory caramel of her skin. The way her hair splays around her head as if she were a painting. The slight definition to her stomach. The sheer perfection of her breasts.

She doesnít move to cover herself. There is no embarrassment, no shame. To him, she is beautiful and she revels in the feel of his gaze on her body.

He bends his head to her stomach and begins to kiss her skin, his lips soft, his tongue barely tasting her. He exults in her slight intake of breath at each kiss. She tangles her fingers in his hair, willing him to come closer, desperate for his touch. But he refuses to move any faster. He wants to savor her taste, her smell.

A low moan escapes her as his mouth finally rediscovers her breast, suckling it gently as his hands continue to roam over her body. Her back arches involuntarily as he caresses her thigh. One hand on her face now and he pulls her forward for a kiss so deep that her head is swimming with the intensity of it. There is no thought except of Max, of the things he is doing to her, the things he is making her feel.

The fingers of his left hand gently move her legs apart, sliding slowly but insistently toward their goal. She whimpers slightly as his thumb brushes her clit. She pulls his tongue into her mouth as he circles the white hot center of her. Her hips raise up to meet his hand, needing to ease the throbbing ache between her legs. He slips one finger, then a second, inside her, gradually increasing the pace of his thumb at the same time.

Her fingers dig into the smooth skin of his back, pulling his body onto hers. His tongue is still dancing with hers, his other hand on her breast. Itís pure sensation now, flooding her mind from every cell of her being. She rips her mouth away from his as her orgasm explodes through her whole body. But even as she cries his name, his hands do not cease their skilled ministrations, pushing her further, beyond anything sheís ever known.

He feels it too, through their connection, and he marvels that he should be the one to make her feel this way. He returns his mouth to hers, wanting desperately to be inside of her ≠ but not here, not like this. She is still soaring when he lifts her up. Wrapping her arms around him, she begins to kneed the muscles of his neck and shoulders. But their mouths never discontinue their exploration of each other.

He lays her on the bed with the utmost of care, finally pulling his mouth away from hers so that he can look at her again. But she doesnít lay still this time. Her whole body is pulsing with her desire for him. She sits up, bringing her mouth to his chest, running her tongue along his stomach. His heart is racing, his skin like liquid metal wherever she touches him. He curls his fingers through her hair, leaning in to her.

Liz fumbles furiously with the zipper of his jeans. She knows heís been doing everything for her and sheís not going to let him deny himself. She wants him to know the rapture that sheís feeling. He hisses as her hand finds its way inside his boxers, rubbing his erection gently, applying just enough pressure to light his whole body on fire. Her mouth and tongue are still on his body, trailing white hot kisses from his chest to his navel.

He canít take it anymore. He has to have her, has to be inside her again. He grabs her shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. She slides his jeans and boxers over his rear and then kicks them the rest of the way off with her legs.

His mouth finds hers again as she guides him to her with her hand. He can feel his control slipping away as she continues to stroke him, more insistently now. He supports himself above her, disengaging his mouth from hers so that he can look into her eyes. He wants to see the look on her face as he slides into her, slowly at first, needing to be sure.

"Please, Max," she pleads softly, moving her arms around his lower back, pulling him further inside. She raises her hips until he is fully sheathed in her. He starts slowly using his lower body to push hers back onto the bed and into her. Then he withdraws slightly, pleased when her head arches back, exposing her neck to his hungry mouth. He increases the pace gradually, straining against his own needs, until she can feel nothing but the delicious friction theyíre creating.

Her eyes fly open, her hands gripping his backside and forcing him fully into her again. Her eyes lock onto his, not letting him look away. He pushes himself further into her, as if such a thing were physically possible. Their bodies are one, moving in rhythm. As if it was meant to be. He wonders how they can ever be separated again.

Her contractions around him are exquisite. He feels himself needing to release. But sheís not ready yet. Neither of them wants to let it end. They want to savor it. Remember every instant. Every moment. Every second of time they have together. He summons what little control he still has over himself and holds out. Not until sheís ready, he tells himself.

A series of quick images assault him now. Her first glimpse of Sean. The first time they made love. His utter joy whenever she says, "I love you." Sean proposing in bed one morning. Shock rippling through her. Followed by joy and love. It is the lack of second thoughts that gets to Max more than anything else. The realization that she truly loves Sean almost makes him stop. She has a good life now. Someone who loves her, someone she loves in return. He is just hurting her again. Doing everything he swore a thousand ≠ no, a million times that he would never do again.

He starts to pull away, but she clutches him tighter, unwilling, unable perhaps, to let him go again. Her wanton desire, the crushing pull of her need flowing through the connection between them overwhelms his doubts. He is lost in her now. He could no more have pulled away than he could have lived without oxygen. She is his air, his food, his everything.

They are one being now, each feeling the sensations of the other as the climax approaches. Their souls twine together as their bodies finally release, their love and desire melting together, enveloping them both in a sea of warmth and contentment.

o o o o o

He holds her now, absorbing the heat of her. Letting her scents wash over him. Luxuriating in the touch of her skin to his. The even sound of her breathing, tickling his chest as she exhales. Her chest rising and falling slowly, rocking him. He revels in the very essence of her. His eyes trace the line of her arm, draped absently across his body.

Liz fights the darkness that is threatening to carry her into sleep. She doesnít want to sleep now. She wants to be with him just a little while longer. A thought is circling her brain. But she doesnít want to say it, doesnít want to hear the pleading in her own voice. But the idea of waking up without him is too much.

"You could stay, Max," she whispers, losing her battle for consciousness. "You donít have to run anymore."

He hugs her to him, inhaling the cinnamon of her hair. She is his Liz, his love, his soulmate. His life. How could he even dream of leaving her?

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Part 3
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