|posted on 8-Oct-2002 3:42:34 PM by sugarplum17|
|Title: Refuge in Clouds|
Disclaimer: I do not own Roswell or the situations that it created.
Summary: I don't have one. Alex POV, if that helps any. Takes place after Cry Your Name.
Spoilers: Everything from CYN up to Departure. Nothing after that point though.
Author's Note: Alright, so I really don't know where this craziness popped out of, I'm sure it won't make a lot of people happy seeing as how a lot of people were upset by what happened on the show, but um . . . this is what came out.
Refuge in Clouds
I won't be the last man that will ever love her, and by those same standards I won't be the last man that she will ever love. I won't be the last man to hold her long slender hand in mine. My hand will not be the only hand that runs through her long blonde hair, and my brain will not be the last brain that registers the feel of it as pure silk. My arms will not be the only pair of arms that encircle her. The only arms that fold around her and offer her comfort when her feelings of sadness overtake her. My shoulder will not be the only shoulder that her head rests upon. My hand will not be the only hand to stroke her beautiful long hair in a comforting manner.
My hands will no longer be the only hands that cup her ample breasts and the calloused pad of my thumb will not be the only thumb that runs over the hardening nipple. I will no longer be the only one to slide into the honeyed depths of her. My ears will not be the only ears to hear her whisper in a breathy tone how much she loves me. That her love for me is like the ocean; so deep it's bottomless.
My tongue will never again be the only tongue that tastes her in places that are forbidden to others. My eyes will no longer be the only eyes that feast upon her body; her beauty. Her heart will no longer beat only for me. I know this because I now know everything. I know I will never be the last man to touch her in an intimate sort of way, or in an emotional sort of way, because I will never again have the chance to be with her the way that I was before.
It was a crisp May evening when that chance was lost to me forever. It was a crisp May evening when any chance to do anything I ever wanted to do was lost to me forever. It was a crisp evening in May that I, Alexander Charles Whitman, died.
I don't know why I went to her. I should have gone straight to the others. I should have asked Max to look me over. I could have single handedly exposed the traitor among us and saved myself in one fowl swoop. I could have been a victim and I could have been a hero. Instead I was just a victim.
I shouldn't have gone to her that night. But like so many up here say, shoulda, woulda, coulda's are inconsequential. They tell me, "You died. Accept it."
I've met some really nice people up here. It's a different place for all of us; Heaven. Grandma Claudia is up here and for her, its digging up new and exciting things. For her it's reliving some of her fondest moments. For her, it's being reunited with her dead husband, who has been up here for quite some time.
It's different for me. For me, it's sitting in my room. I see my own grandparents every now and then. I see my cousin Jill who was my age when she died in a car accident back in 1993. She was horribly disfigured in the accident, so much that she had to have a closed casket. I remember her brother and me, when no one was watching us, lifted up the casket and took a peak inside. I was too scared to look, so I was the lookout. Patrick later became a drug addict. Being ten, and looking at his dead sister's disfigured body, knowing that it was the last time he was ever going to see her fucked him up in ways that are unimaginable. He had been so close to Jill, he had loved her so much, that when he peaked inside and saw death's calling card laying out in his sister's best dress upon a satin pillow, he lost it. Jill will be eternally beautiful now; seventeen forever and ever.
For me, it's familiarity. For me, it's my blue patchwork comforter, and my blue walls. It's my hardwood floor and my wooden closet door. It's my blue-braided rug that my mother got me at some flea market and restored. It's my Weezer poster hanging my wall. The Blue Album was the best. It's my guitar sitting beside the open window. It's the curtains that blow gently in the breeze. It's the computer that sits on the desk, and the books that lay strewn about around it. It's the pictures that sit on the shelf. The smiling faces of Maria and Liz comfort me. For me it's my sanctuary. My refuge in the clouds. It smells of fresh laundry in my heaven, all the time. For others it's different.
There's a spot, a pond if you will, up in this place. A pond that is more like a window than anything else. Nobody swims in it, not that it's forbidden. I suppose that you could swim in it if you wanted to. I've never heard any rules about not swimming in it.
It's a window to the world that we've left behind. It's a window into the lives of the people that we love. What you see in it, much like Heaven itself, is different for everyone. Everyone up here, no matter if they're looking into it at the same time, sees something completely different from what the person next to them sees. Grandma Claudia sees her son. She sees Liz and Maria. She sees some of her friends. She sees what's happening in the world. Jill sees her family. She sees her brother Patrick and it makes her sad what he's done to himself. She sees all her old friends and the children that they have now. She sees her old boyfriend and watches him play with his own children. People see different parts of the world, but you're not limited to seeing just one thing or one place. If your desire is great enough, you can look in on random people, and see how they live their everyday lives.
I see my parents. I see the gang. When I first arrived here, I was shown this pond, this window, and I sank to my knees with the enormity of it. I kneeled beside the bank, so close that the knees on my khaki pants became soaked. I leaned over and looked into this clear water, and I spied with my little eye, the entire town of Roswell. I watched the people at school grieving for me. My eyes sought out Maria and Liz and I watched them walk around in a state of confusion. I peaked inside their heads and discovered they were confused by the way that everyone around them was acting. Maria felt like nobody else had a right to mourn for me. She believed that they didn't care enough to take the time and get to know me when I was with them, so why should they be sad and cry now because I'm not?
Liz was confused by the things that she knew and the way that other people were reacting to them. She knew I wouldn't kill myself. She found my concert tickets. She knew I wasn't in a car accident. She believed that I had been murdered. Every fiber of Liz Parker's being knew that I had met with foul play, and every fiber of my being knew it too. I concentrated on helping her in any way that I could. Here, if you desire something hard enough, and truly understand why you desire it, poof! It's there infront of you. I desired my murderess to be found. I desired the clues to be discovered, and I understood why.
Not for vengeance. Not for revenge. Not give my untimely death a reason, a purpose. But to ensure the safety of my girls. To make sure that Liz and Maria would be safe from her. To make sure that Kyle would be alright. To make sure that Max and Michael wouldn't get hurt. To make sure that Isabel wouldn't get stabbed in the back when she least expected it.
I didn't get to see Kyle's involvement. I found that out later, in the forgotten parts of his mind. I almost wish that I could have seen it, but by then my spirit was leaving my body and trying to find it's way here, to this Nirvana. I was the one who helped him remember it though. I desired it so much when Liz and Maria were in Tess' room that for the briefest moment, I appeared in the mirror and it startled him. Startled him so much that the wall of leaden crystal encasing that memory shattered into a thousand pieces. And I watched as the traitorous Tess took off with Max's son. Except I know something, they don't. He's not actually the son of a King, but the son of a champion. The Comets; SCC Champs, sophomore year. Kyle was on varsity back then.
From my spot beside the pond, I look down on her. The beautiful creature that for a night or two, I had the privilege of loving. The beautiful creature whom for a short while, I called mine. I desire nothing more for her than happiness. I don't want to look into this pond, watching her cry. I don't wish to see her own arms wrapped around herself. I don't want to see her trying to comfort herself, or crawling around the room trying to pick up pieces of herself that have been dropped onto the floor.
I want her happy. I want to look into this pond, and I want to see her smile. I want to hear her laugh. I don't want her going to my grave, dancing with a phantom; an image of me that her mind has created. I don't want her to lock her heart away and never press that key into the palm of someone's open hand. As hard as it is, I know how much love she has in her to give. I know how much, because I've felt its weight gently pressing down on me, careful not to suffocate me. I shouldn't be the last man to feel that.
And I won't be. Because every day, as I sit beside this pond. I see him falling in deeper and deeper. Her arms aren't the arms that wrap around her body when her sadness is overtaking her; mine aren't either. She's not the only one crawling on the floor trying to pick up the pieces that she's dropped; he's helping her. My hand is not the last to smooth her hair and rub her back. She lays her head onto his shoulder when she needs his comfort.
What fools these mortals be. Neither of them realize what's happening between them, and before he knows it, Kyle Valenti will be the only man she'll want to give the key to. Her heart will beat for him, and his for her. His hand will run through her hair and his brain will register it as silk. His strong fingers will fill the gaps in between her soft, slender ones. His ears will hear her breathy tone. He will replace me. In a way that is much deeper than they will ever understand. She will still feel for me, and I for her. He will feel guilty, as if he's betraying me somehow, for we had grown close since we were trapped in the cave. And I'll sit beside the pond, and watch him as he sleeps, willing him to know that it's alright. Desiring it so much, I'll get a headache from it.
I won't be the last man that will ever love her, and by those same standards I won't be the last man that she will ever love. But at least I was the first.
A little weird I know...
[ edited 1 time(s), last at 8-Oct-2002 3:45:01 PM ]