Michael has an unsettling encounter with Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Roswell
Category: Michael/Pierce
Disclaimer: Do you even have to ask? Nope, don't own 'em. That distinction goes to Jason Katims and Co. No infringement intended.
Notes: Please do not archive elsewhere without permission. Spoilers for Destiny. The non-slashy Michael-centric version of this fic is under Five Nights. This one's for June, Vero and @nn#. Thanks for the challenge!
Archive Date: 8/27/2000
Dead eyes. That’s the first thing I see. A pair of cold, dead eyes against the backdrop of an acid-white room.
"Hello, Michael."
"Pierce."
A smirk crosses his face as he hears the surprise in my voice. He comes towards me slowly, savoring every step.
"What the hell do you want?" I yell.
An unnerving quiet stretches as he says nothing. I turn to walk away, to leave his unsettling eyes behind. And find myself shoved into and pinned up against the wall.
He locks my body into place with his and grabs my throat. His fingers press down hard, cutting off my oxygen. The air in my lungs trap and my warm breath comes out in short gasps, fanning his cold hands.
I lash out, trying to break free. Concentrating hard, I try and draw out those powers that once saved the lives of my friends. But it's useless as my powers desert me. His strength seems otherworldly, overpowering me. A cold darkness seeps through and I struggle against it but a chill invades my bones. No air passes through my nostrils. Nothing does.
It's almost inevitable now, the sound of death marching upon me. Just as oblivion beckons, the pressure drops and I fall down, gasping for air.
Pierce hovers above me, looking at my slowly recovering body on the floor. "No, that wouldn't have served my purpose." He extends a hand to help me up and raises an eyebrow as I look at his outstretched hand with suspicion.
"Still don’t trust anyone, do you?"
"No! Not you."
He bends down, seemingly to force me back up to my feet and I push myself off the floor and put some distance between us. He smiles again, cool and unaffected, and I stare. Keep on staring at a smile on a dead face. The face that last saw mine.
I jerk myself awake. "Water. I need some warm water."
Padding to the kitchen, I pause by the sink, turn on the taps and douse my face with the wet liquid. Quick swipe of a towel and my face is dry. I pad back to the living room, settling on the couch.
A long discarded pingpong ball by the edge of the couch becomes my focus as I fight sleep. Sleep and those dead eyes.
Minutes, maybe even hours pass and my eyelids feel heavy and start to droop. 'No! Don’t sleep.'
I'm back again. Back in that room.
"You can’t run away, Michael. Not from me."
"What the hell do you want from me?"
"You see this?" He motions to the room and the all-encompassing blackness surrounding it. "This is my world now. This is the world you sent me to." The sharp and bitter tang in his voice cuts. "That day, the day you killed me. All I found after that that was this, nothing else but this." He rages. "Do you what it’s like to feel trapped? To know that nothing you can do will bring you out of a cold prison?"
A slight pause and he continues icily. "No, you don’t. You have no idea what it’s like."
He moves closer to me, a grimace marring his face. I brace myself for another attack. But it doesn’t come.
"It’s so cold here. There is nothing but cold and dark here." A lament now.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as he saunters toward me and I brace myself. This time the attack comes in the form of ... a kiss.
He slams my back against the wall like before but no hands press down my throat. Instead, a pair of cold lips assault mine with a wet kiss. I jerk around helplessly, trying to avoid his mouth.
He doesn’t let go. He doesn't let up. He grabs my face, my chin, forcing my mouth to receive even more of his. As his tongue invades, a coldness shoots through me and warmth radiates back onto him. The warmth from my mouth.
It seems to spur him, to feed him. He enjoys my little struggles. Shots of ice crawls seep within me, scary and invigorating at the same time. A moan escapes. Was that from me or him?
Over and over again his lips slant over mine, his tongue pushing at mine, plunging it into submission.
The iciness invading my body starts to feel familiar, comforting, to a certain degree. Was this the chill he felt? It's hypnotic. Almost irresistible. Or is it him that is those things?
Fear strikes and I gather some remnants of strength and push him away. Our mouths part company and I breathe in raggedly. My tongue flicks out, unconsciously licking my suddenly dry lips. And finds the icy taste of him there.
Our eyes lock, mine with disbelief, his with a quiet burning.
I jerk awake again. And trace my fingers to the outline of my lips. A coldness has set in them.
It’s still dark outside. The dawn has not yet arrived. I don't want to sleep. I don't want those images -- or him -- again. Yet as much as I struggle against it, they come back.
The room echoes around him in silence.
"Go away!" I scream.
"I felt something, Michael. Didn’t you?"
All I felt was cold clamminess. A strange familiar. Hypnotic even. "No." Raspy and ineffective so I bring myself face to face with him to tell him that I felt nothing But no words come.
He looks at me and somehow his eyes don’t seem as cold anymore. They're mesmerizing.
Softly he places his lips next to mine. Hesitantly he nudges at my firmly pursed lips. My lips open slightly, almost involuntarily. He swoops in, gliding his tongue over my lips, my teeth.
Why am I letting him do this? Why am I letting this happen? Am I trying to get rid of the guilt I felt for killing him and consigning him to a cold prison by letting him to do this?
I know about cold prisons. I lived in one my whole life. I know about feeling trapped. I’ve felt that way my whole life. Warmth, any warmth at all was a welcome balm in that cruel world. Is that how he felt? Is that why he kissed me? Why he’s still kissing me? To feel something again, to feel human again, to feel alive again? In this, the most inhuman of rooms?
Despite the resonant cold seeping in my bones, my tongue actively duels with his now. I push all thoughts aside and simply revel in this moment. This one moment where the only real thing is him … and me.
Coldness and heat. Ice and fire.
The numbness wears me down. The only thing holding me up is the wetness of his mouth.
I sag onto him and he holds on tightly, trying to lend some of his strength to me.
His body feels like a raging inferno now. Mine feels like an iceberg. My legs give way and I fall onto the cold tile floor. He falls with me. A meager gasp escapes my lips as his form covers mine.
The tile floor no longer seems cold. It no longer feels like anything. I'm starting to become like it. No fire, no warmth fills me anymore. It’s all with him. I stare at him unblinking.
Panic fills his eyes. "No!" he screams. Frantically he opens my mouth, kissing me hard, trying to breathe life back into me.
Nothing, I feel nothing. No cold, no heat, just an emptiness.
He strips his shirt off and frantically rips mine away. He tucks his head under my chin and rubs his chest on mine, trying to merge back the heat. His head lifts, trying to see if his gyrations have any effect on me.
Still nothing. I feel myself floating away, almost cloudlike. I watch at him, noting his efforts from afar.
"No, dammit! You can’t do this to me!" Fear in his voice, not mine.
He slides his hands all over me, rubbing his palms over my arms, my chest, my legs, my thighs. Trying to bring back warmth in them.
I know this because I see it but can't feel it. I can't feel his hands, if they're rough or soft, strong or timid.
He lays his head down on my chest, trying to listen to a beat, any heart beat. Then places his palm over my heart. A slight rub here and there.
My heart, seemingly in a deep freeze, kick starts again. Feeling pours back into me. Heat. Fire.
He sees the warmth filling me. And smiles. Coldness creeps back into his eyes. He pushes himself away from me and stands slowly. I stand too.
"It’s not going to work." No bitterness, just defeat.
"What isn’t going to work?"
"I wanted vengeance. I wanted you to suffer."
An ironic quirk of the lips and he shakes his head. "Then I just wanted to be warm, to feel warm, to feel something, anything. I wanted to live again. But I can’t. Not without sacrificing you. And I can't do that. Without you, there would be no me."
I glance at him, trying to reconcile his last statement.
"If you die, then I disappear."
"Die? How can I die? This is all a dream."
"Is it?" He smiles, a bit ironically.
"Isn’t it?"
A sad look flits through his face. "Goodbye, Michael." And he vanishes.
I wake up and it’s light outside. The dawn finally gave way to the bright sun.
Yeah, it was all a dream.
End
HOME ROSWELL FAN FICTION FAN FICTION