By EmilyluvsRoswell

Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters or the concepts; just borrowing them! And the song belongs to Madonna.

Category: Michael and Maria

Summary: What would have happened if Michael showed up to hear Maria sing?

Spoilers: Possible references to shows through "Blind Date"

Rating: PG

Feedback: Sure! Just don’t be mean…

Michael slips through a side door and into the dark club. He is sure that he has missed it; Alex told Isabel that his band was opening for some mystery group, so surely by now their fifteen minutes of fame have come and gone. The idea of Alex having a band is, in itself, so utterly bizarre that Michael cannot seem to picture it. That, he tells himself, is the only reason he has made the effort to show up at all, late as it is. There is little enough humor in his life without missing the opportunity to see that geek Whitman suffer a little harmless public humiliation. The fact that Maria is supposed to sing, well, that has nothing to do with his decision.

Right, Michael tells himself as he makes his way through the hot press of bodies, humans lined up sardine-like, filling every inch of space. Deny, deny, he thinks. A way of life. A chance to laugh at Alex is such an acceptable motivation when compared to wanting to watch Maria without her knowing that he’s there. Only to himself can he admit – barely – that that is his real purpose. He needs to see Maria, especially after tonight’s failure. He needs desperately to look at her, drink her in, her face, her hair, her smile. He wants so badly to remember that, at least for a little while, there was someone there for him. Someone who did not shy away, who let him hold her, who helped him forget. What he really wants is to go to her and take her in his arms and feel hers close around him. But he cannot let himself get that close, cannot let her see how weak he is. He has to stay away from her, or that blasted stone wall will crumble and he hasn’t a clue how he will put it back together if it does.

A band is playing at the far end of the room. Michael cannot see them, but he can hear them easily over the murmured conversations that surround him, can hear someone singing, feels the steady drum beat reverberating beneath the soles of his shoes as he pushes through the crowd. It is a love song. Some happy, sappy eighties tune that ought to make his skin crawl, yet instead seems to be lightening his mood. He wonders idly who the group is, and whether Maria has stayed to hear them play. It seems like the kind of music she would like.

Suddenly the crowd opens up and Michael finds himself standing near the back of the club. He breathes deeply, relieved to have escaped the claustrophobic crush behind him. He leans against the wall and looks toward the stage. And then he sees her.

She stands beneath the hot lights, her smooth blond hair shining halo-like, a microphone clutched between her hands, her mellow voice filling the room. She is playing to the crowd, smiling, walking up and down on impossibly high heels, her flared thrift-store slacks swinging as she struts. Her hips dance back and forth to the beat and she crinkles up her nose, teasing the audience. Her voice soars and people start to applaud.

Michael cannot believe it. He has heard her hum while she cleans up the Crash Down, and she sang to the radio for a while when they drove to Marathon, before he had yelled at her to shut up for two minutes together and they had ended up fighting some more. Then the car had died and everything had spun out of control and there had been no more singing. But nothing he has heard has prepared him for the reality of her voice tonight. It is melodic, sweet, powerful even while belting out bubble gum pop. It floats across the club and seeps into his heart and squeezes. Michael can actually feel the notes sinking through his skin, through the layers of muscle and tissue, and becoming part of him. He is thankful for the support of the wall at his back. His eyes are glued to the stage.

* * * * *

Maria senses Michael the moment he walks into the room, though she cannot see him. The nervousness in her stomach that disappeared somewhere in the middle of her first number has suddenly returned, though it is not nearly as pronounced. She smiles and concentrates on her song, stringing words and notes together. She moves her hips to the music. She looks down and winks at a cute guy standing near the stage. And if her heart is beating a little faster, she tells herself it must just be the adrenaline pumping through her system.

And cows fly, she thinks as she bops across the stage. First Max, now Michael. Are these Czechoslovakians bound and determined to humiliate us whenever possible? she wonders, fully anticipating some sort of scene to serve as encore to Max’s kiss-and-run. Even now, she imagines Lizzie home in tears, and feels her own anger rising. Damn them for thinking they can play games with us this way! Her eyes dart briefly to Alex, his hands moving with practiced ease over his guitar, lovingly drawing music from the strings. His eyes are on the audience, and Maria knows he is watching for Isabel. Isabel Evans, who in all likelihood never even intended to show up.

Standing center stage, Maria sings the last few notes of her song, her emotions pouring out of her body, feeling as if she is giving off electric sparks in an effort to bank her fury. She is surprised at the sudden burst of clapping from the audience, and grins, an idea forming swiftly as she bows briefly and holds her hands out to indicate the band behind her. With a quick wink to the crowd that results in a roar and a series of whistles, she heads over to Alex and whispers quickly to him. He merely raises his eyebrows, but nods and huddles with the rest of the band.

Maria returns the microphone to its stand and tucks her hair behind her ears in a slightly nervous gesture. She licks her lips and smiles, then nods once to Alex. The band starts to play, the music quiet and low – a ballad. People start coupling up, bodies moving closer, hips swaying to the gentle beat. Someone yells, "All right!" and is quickly shushed. Maria stands motionless at the mike, head down, eyes focused on the floor. Then she looks up and stares across the room. The moment her gaze meets Michael’s, she realizes she knew he would be standing there. But there is no time to be surprised, no time to back down. She starts to sing.

I’m crazy for you.

* * * * *

Michael feels a jolt when Maria looks at him. How did she know he was there? How did she know he had come? Her eyes seem to hypnotize him. It feels as if she is singing right to him, only to him. Slowly her words begin to penetrate his fuzzy brain and he then knows. She is. And he knows she has gotten to him, even from across the room.

His first reaction is to run, despite his vow. He wants to run out the door and down the street and out of Roswell. He wants to run until his lungs stop working and his legs refuse to move and he collapses in the road. But he cannot. He can’t seem to move, let alone to run. Instead he stands perfectly still, watching Maria watching him. He sees nothing else. He’s unaware of people giving him curious looks, wanting to see who caught the cute singer’s eye. All he sees is Maria, all he hears is Maria. And what he feels – well – there’s this sensation in his chest, in his heart, that could only be compared to the result of one precariously perched stone sliding off a wall. It only leaves a small chink to slip through, but it’s a start.