PART FIFTEEN

Apparently, it was April. Or so Michael had explained when she finally woke with some degree of clarity.

She’d gazed around the room again, studying the strange machines that pulsated rhythmically, some nearly soundlessly. More time had obviously passed, causing a shroud of darkness to fall over her room, yet Michael remained by her side, appearing haggard and tired.

She’d tried talking almost immediately, but he’d taken her hand within his own clammy one, and gently stroked her hair, explaining that she was still on a respirator, a breathing tube inserted down her throat. She’d nodded in slow understanding, glimpsing undeniable pain in his brown eyes as he studied her.

What? She formed soundlessly in her mind, aching just to talk to him. But then the look quickly disappeared, leaving her with the impression that he suffered to see her like this. But she also had the sense that there was much she didn’t know about the past thirty-eight days.

If your heart stops again, they won’t revive you, she heard whisper through her mind. Max had said that, in her dream. But at the time she hadn’t thought of the implications as she did now, blearily studying Michael’s shadowed features as he continued softly stroking her hair.

"Liz, we’ve all been so worried about you," he explained. "Everyone’s been here. Maria, me…your parents."

She raised her eyebrows in question, glancing around the room meaningfully and he rushed to explain. "Went back to Roswell last night. Just for a couple of days to see to some business stuff…they’re killing themselves that they weren’t here when you woke. Neither one of them has left until now, Liz."

She nodded wordlessly, her throat aching with tight dryness. Lightly, she reached a weak hand to her mouth, raising her eyebrows in question. "The respirator is off," Michael explained. "But they didn’t want to remove the tube yet," he paused, casting his gaze downward momentarily. "Well, until they were sure you were breathing well on your own."

Again, she nodded, suddenly very tired. She closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting to David, secure at the mere thought of his gentle presence, as surreal images from his paintings floated through her mind. Red flowers, surrounding her, knee-high and glorious. Then Max, lying on his side, innocent and seductive all at once, as a starched linen shirt fell open, revealing his chest…the two of them, staring up at the Antarian Sky, at a glorious pair of twin moons on the horizon.

What had David thought of her prolonged absence all these weeks? Had he believed that she was simply ignoring his emails, she wondered with a start, her eyes fluttering open again.

Because chasing quickly on the heels of that thought was another. David Peyton was Max. In the thick gauze of sleep, she’d forgotten that newly discovered fact.

She glanced quickly at Michael, feeling panicked. "What, Liz?" he asked, concern etching his features. "What’s wrong?"

Her eyes darted around the room, seeking some way to communicate, as she tugged slightly on the tube that half-choked her. Michael’s hand immediately clasped hers, stopping her reflexive action.

"Liz, don’t," he urged her, his voice still so surprisingly gentle. "It has to stay in." She sank further into her bed, wishing he could know her unspoken thoughts, when suddenly he reached beside the bed, retrieving a pencil and paper.

"Can you write it?" he offered, and she nodded, taking the pencil within her weakened fingers. Just holding the instrument was difficult enough, and manipulating it from her reclining position proved even tougher. She raised the pad to an eye-level position, desperate to scribble her question. She managed to write "David" with a question mark after, though she wasn’t sure how legible his name appeared.

She handed the paper to Michael, flinching as sharp pain shot through her shoulder like fire. She lifted her fingers, rubbing her shoulder and was surprised to find it bandaged tightly.

"Broken collarbone," Michael explained. "That and one bruised jaw, two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and one hell of a concussion," he cataloged, as he glanced down at the paper, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. She blinked in silent understanding, but had the distinct feeling he was withholding additional information about her injuries.

He continued to study the paper in his hands, chewing his lip. "I can’t read this, Liz," he finally admitted. "I’m sorry."

She closed her eyes in exhaustion. All she wanted to know was whether he’d heard from David, not that she expected that he would—which meant that he’d remained in Santa Fe, undoubtedly convinced that she’d decided his physical appearance bothered her too much to continue their nascent relationship. Liz’s chest tightened painfully. She would never have wanted to hurt the David Peyton she’d already fallen in love with—and now that she knew he was Max, that idea pained her far worse.

She stared at Michael in frustration, and again he stroked her hair slowly beneath his fingertips. "Liz, we’ve got plenty of time to talk about everything."

She nodded, and then had an idea. She gestured toward her face, making a sweeping motion across her features with her hand, and prayed he’d understand that she indicated a mask.

His brown eyes widened, as he glanced again at the paper. "David," he answered simply and she nodded.

Michael ran a hand through his long hair, leaning back into his chair with a soft sigh. "Liz, he knows," he explained. "He…called me in Santa Fe and left a message," he began. "I…well, Liz, I owe you an apology about him. I was really wrong."

Liz smiled wanly, her whole body warming at the notion that Michael truly had no idea just how wrong he’d been, and had no idea that his other best friend would soon be restored to him. That thought was especially touching as she observed how he shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly feeling guilty for all his derogatory remarks about David Peyton.

"I think he loves you, Liz," he continued. "That’s the only way I know to explain how I felt when he called. In fact, he calls here everyday, something that’s obviously very difficult for him with his…well, with his speech problem." Michael averted his eyes, and Liz imagined the first conversation between Michael and "David," and how it might have gone.

I…call…Liz, she heard in her mind, imagining how strange his slurring and broken syntax must have sounded to Michael in the beginning. If only he knew the truth.

"He found out about your accident from the newspaper, and called me at home. Left a message on my voice mail. I guess you’d mentioned my name or something." Liz nodded in agreement, keenly aware of precisely how he’d remembered Michael’s name so easily. "Yeah, well, he was clearly really worried, Liz. Like I said, I think he really does care about you. I phoned him earlier and let him know you’d come out of the coma."

Liz closed her eyes, remembering Max’s dream words to her. So afraid…lose you. He’d been waiting for her back in Santa Fe all these weeks, probably too intimidated to come to her in New York, or perhaps not feeling it was appropriate. Yet, loving her enough that he’d risked contacting Michael as he had.

**

"What about David?" Michael asked, leaning close over her bed. They’d extubated her earlier in the morning, but her throat was so raw and tight, she could only whisper breathily in his ear.

"David…is…Max," she repeated, feeling his long hair fan against her cheek. Michael leaned back, studying her in confusion, and she fought to keep her eyes open. For days now, she’d drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts remaining on the border of some netherworld existence.

"David is Max," he finally repeated, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. "What?"

She motioned him close again, and he leaned low over her bed. She reached a hand and cupped his scratchy cheek within her hand. "I…love you," she whispered quietly, needing him to know her heart before she continued. "Michael."

"Liz," he soothed softly, kissing her cheek. "I know that and I love you, too. Tell me again," he continued. "I’m trying to understand."

"I…know." For a moment, she thought of Max, of how difficult it was for him to express himself, and understood how trapped he must feel at times like this, when he burned to say something.

"David Peyton is Max," she repeated on a breath. "They’re the same person, Michael."

"Liz, you’ve been asleep a long time," he began, leaning away from her. He thinks my mind is just muddled, she realized hopelessly, her eyes suddenly heavy again.

"Michael, ask him," she begged with all the energy she could summon. "Please just ask…"

And then sleep enveloped her once again, leading her toward her beloved.

****

They were lying in the field of flowers again, lush red blooms surrounding them in every direction. Max propped lazily on his elbow, staring down into her eyes with what could only be described as a princely mien. The unusual Antarian sunlight caught his eyes differently than the Earth’s sun ever had, flecking the gold seductively, making his depths shimmer and change by the moment.

"You’re beautiful," she whispered, reaching a hand to stroke his cheek, and he dropped his gaze immediately. "How could I have forgotten just how this feels?"

"Did you forget?" he asked, his voice suddenly low and husky.

"No," she admitted, allowing her fingers to explore the left side of his face. "Never did I forget. I think that was the problem."

"And now?" he asked, his eyes growing suddenly doubtful. "Are you frightened of me?"

"I could never be afraid of you, Max."

"What about how I’ll look," he offered, lowering his lips to her forehead, sealing it with a warm kiss that caused her to shiver. "Don’t you worry it might be…shocking?"

"Show me," she encouraged, stroking the hair along the nape of his neck, as he nuzzled his mouth low against her collarbone.

"Is this where it hurts?" he asked, his lips lingering along the place where her bone had been shattered.

"Yes," she managed, suddenly aware that something was changing between them, something physical.

"Let me heal it," he promised, tracing his fingertips along the base of her throat, then delicately outlining her fractured bones. Instantly, she felt the injury repair beneath his loving touch. She sighed, settling back into the grass.

"I still want you to show me," she encouraged, as he pulled back to stare into her eyes. His face remained perfect, his skin smooth and gilded by the setting sun.

"You’ve already seen the worst of it," he finally answered, studying her carefully.

"Why haven’t you healed yourself, Max?" she asked in confusion, and he rolled away from her, onto his back. "Or why didn’t anyone else?"

His eyes became unspeakably melancholy as he rolled onto his back, nestling his head against hers quietly. "You ask tough questions sometimes, sweetheart."

"It’s why you love me," she laughed, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing his fingers slowly.

"I do love it, but it’s not why I love you," he disagreed quietly. "Not by a long shot." She didn’t miss how serious his voice had grown. All the amorous teasing was gone, and now a somber mood settled quickly over them. "I couldn’t heal myself," he finally answered. "I tried over and over."

"But…why not?" she asked, feeling very confused. "Was it because the injuries were your own?"

"Maybe, but I don’t think so," he admitted. "My people think Khivar planted something in my mind, my soul even."

She sat up with a start, staring down at him in shock. A stranger couldn’t plant something in your soul, it shouldn’t even be possible. Max just continued lying on his back, staring at her with an unthinkably sad expression on his face.

"How could he do that, Max?" she finally managed thickly. "Your soul is your own."

He nodded silently, reaching a tentative hand to stroke her hair back over her shoulder. "Yes, it is my own. But that didn’t prevent him from extracting as much vengeance within mine as he could."

"I don’t understand," she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes. How had such a beautiful moment as this one, something filled with childlike innocence, and sensuality all at once, been so easily darkened?

"Not here," he finally said, seeming to read her mind. "Not like this, Liz. I’ll explain in Santa Fe."

"Why couldn’t anyone else heal you?" she pressed, wondering why these questions seemed so critical, yet nearly impossible to voice.

Max’s gaze wavered, and instead seemed to move to the sky, where the twin moons had continued their ascendance. "Look at them," he whispered in awe. "Come close to me, Liz and just look."

She settled onto her back again, nestling against his side, so that they both stared up at the heavens. "I watched them like this every night from my cell. They were a rare moment of beauty every day. And every day I’d whisper to you across the galaxies. Did you ever hear me?"

He turned toward her then, cupping her cheek within his palm, his expression growing melancholy again. "You didn’t, did you?"

"I…I’m not sure, Max," she finally admitted.

"You believed me dead," he stated simply and she swallowed hard, nodding.

"You can heal me," he whispered, the words moving like electricity across her very heart. "The elders, my followers…they couldn’t get past the blocks Khivar placed inside me. But you can."

"Me?" she asked, turning toward him in surprise.

"My gift is inside you, ever since that day at the Crashdown. You just don’t realize it. My soul is inside yours since that day, too," he continued slowly, obviously wanting her to understand. "I’m telling you now because David doesn’t understand. He needs you Liz. Like I told you before, he needs you more than you can imagine."

"I don’t understand…about our souls."

"Did you feel alive all these years? When you felt I was dead?" he asked seriously, leaning up on his elbow to gaze into her eyes.

She thought for a long moment, closing her eyes at the impact of his words. Finally, she whispered, "No. I was dead."

"You were dead as you felt me to be," he explained huskily. "Because our souls are like those moons above us, Liz. Twins, joined yet separate. As one moves, so does the other, even though we might be a universe apart."

"You were dead as you felt me to be," he explained huskily. "Because our souls are like those moons above us, Liz. Twins, joined yet separate. As one moves, so does the other, even though we might be a universe apart."

"Then why was I so sure you’d died that night? I felt it, Max. I felt you reach to me, then you just…" She couldn’t finish, as tears began streaking her face, choking her very words from her throat.

"Because I did die that night."

"What?" she cried, her eyes flying open in shocked disbelief. "But you told me you didn’t. You said so!"

"I reached to you just before it happened, and then," he paused, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I died. I actually left my body and saw it lying on the floor of the cell beneath me. But then I felt you, reaching for me, pulling me back and I couldn’t go yet. You saved my life that night, Liz. By promising me you’d never leave me."

Liz closed her eyes as the tears coursed her cheeks, and she buried her face against his chest. "You saved me," he whispered again. "You’ve always saved me, Liz."

****

"How long have I been out of the coma?" Liz asked sleepily, gazing up at Michael where she’d found him sitting beside her bed. He’d been staring blankly at the wall, clearly deep in thought when she’d woken again.

"Ten days."

"Where is everybody else?" she asked groggily, glancing around the room. It was dark again, lit only by the dim glowing displays of the monitors and the corridor lights.

"Well, Maria went home to rest, your parents are back at the hotel."

"And you’re here with me," she finished.

"I’m here with you," he agreed, nodding slowly.

"Thank you, Michael," she whispered, reaching for his hand. "You’ve been here every day, I know."

"I couldn’t have been anywhere else, Liz," he explained quietly. "You know that. I’ve been insane…we all have."

"I’m going to be okay, Michael," she reassured him. He nodded, squeezing her hand warmly within his own, and then their fingers threaded together, as she drew his hand against her chest. They remained like that for several long moments, and she stole periodic glances at him, feeling a certain weight press against her. She knew Michael better than anyone else, and she sensed that he longed to tell her something.

"What is it, Michael?" she finally asked, feeling somewhat apprehensive. "What aren’t you telling me?"

He sighed, leaning closer toward her, still holding her hand tightly. "Liz, I need to talk to you about something." She noticed that his voice wavered nervously, and her heart began beating in nervous apprehension. Perhaps she had some permanent injury, something that was going to leave her debilitated.

She tried sitting up in bed, and he stopped her with his hand. "You still need to lie down," he explained quietly.

"Tell me what’s wrong, Michael," she pressed, feeling her voice grow tight. "You’re scaring me."

And then he did the most surprising thing. He began laughing, a joyous sound that was completely incongruous with how nervous he seemed. She wrinkled her nose in confusion, just staring at him.

"Liz, it’s…it’s not bad," he explained warmly. "Just hard to say."

"Okay," she answered, still feeling a little wary. "Go on."

"Do you even remember what you tried telling me about David Peyton when you first came out of the coma?" he asked.

She thought a moment, staring up at the ceiling. She’d tried writing Michael some note that first day or so, though she couldn’t recall what had been in it now.

"Kind of," she finally answered. "But I’m not sure what it said."

"You don’t remember, do you?"

She shook her head. "Not really, no. Something about…if he knew I was in the hospital?"

"More than that, Liz. A lot more," he continued, his eyes dancing with undisguised joy. "You told me that David Peyton is Max."

"What?" she laughed, wondering why on earth she’d have told him something so ludicrous. Yet the notion felt incredibly familiar, undeniably true, and her laughter faded on her lips. Something about the way Michael’s brown eyes danced as he stared at her caused her abdomen to twist in expectation.

"That’s what you told me," he explained, his voice edged with excitement. "God, I don’t even know why you suddenly thought that, but…well I had to go back to Santa Fe to check on the gallery and something made me want to know if you were just crazy…"

"Or if I was telling the truth," she whispered, realization beginning to dawn. Her dreams began crystallizing in her mind again, as memories of talking to Max came into sharp relief.

"Yeah, Liz," he nodded, smiling. "As crazy as it was, I had to know. So I went to see David. Unannounced."

Liz realized her entire body had grown taut as a drum, from her hands to her toes, as if she were bracing for a sharp blow. "Tell me," she finally whispered tightly. "Michael, please."

Michael bowed his head a moment, reaching inside his jacket pocket. He produced a pristine white envelope, and she saw her name written in neat hand on the front—in David Peyton’s familiar handwriting. Carefully, he passed the letter to her, as if by way of explanation.

"What are you saying, Michael?" she all but cried, taking the envelope within her hand.

"Max is alive, Liz," he explained quietly, tears filling his eyes. "Very much alive."

She stared at the white envelope through eyes blurred with her own tears, then drew it to her lips, just pressing it there. For a long moment, she remained completely silent, her thoughts spinning in countless directions—back to her coma-induced dreams, through her more recent ones, and then to her time with David in Santa Fe.

"I think I always knew," she finally whispered, closing her eyes. "Somehow my heart recognized him from the very beginning." My mind just had to figure it out, she finished silently, recalling the repeated words of Max’s dream self.

"You figured it out in the coma, didn’t you?" Michael asked.

"He came to me, in my dreams," she explained, remembering her vision of Max at Rockefeller Center. "Max did. And told me to wake up. Then he told me he was David."

"He thinks you won’t have anything to do with him now," Michael explained, laughing softly. "Same old Maxwell. Stubborn as hell…he’s convinced you’ll never forgive him for leaving in the first place, and now for not telling you who he was once he came back."

Liz just shook her head. "Did you explain?"

"What?"

"That I stopped living the day I thought he died," she cried hoarsely. "How can he think I’d do anything other than love him? That I ever could?"

"Because he thinks you won’t accept the way he looks now," Michael answered seriously. "That it will be too much."

Liz stared at Michael through her tears, feeling a sob well up within her chest. "What did they do to him, Michael?"

"I…I’m not sure, but it’s a lot deeper than what they did to his body. It’s what they did to his soul."

She nodded, wiping at the tears. "How bad is it? The disfigurement?" she asked, though it hardly mattered to her. The only reason she asked was because her heart broke for him, at the memory of how he’d hid behind the prosthetic, so clearly ashamed of his appearance.

Michael dropped his gaze suddenly, avoiding her eyes and she felt her chest tighten. "It’s bad, Liz," he finally answered, glancing up at her significantly before continuing. "But not nearly so bad as he thinks it is. That’s the real problem."

She nodded, swallowing hard, remembering how he’d flinched when she’d reached a hand to the left side of his face, averting it so quickly from her touch. How mortified he’d been for her to feel the contours of his injuries.

"What did you tell him about me?" she finally continued. "About what I’d think?"

"That part was easy," Michael explained, folding his arms over his chest as he studied her. "I told him that if he didn’t know one thing about Liz Parker by now, he never would. That you were his soul mate, plain and simple, and that was something that no scars could ever change."

"I fell in love with him again as David," she whispered. "I didn’t care what he looked like, how badly disfigured he might be. I just loved him with all my heart already."

"I know and I told him that, too," Michael smiled reflectively. "That not in ten years had you ever fallen for anyone, not until the mysterious David Peyton appeared," he continued, and Liz didn’t miss the faintest edge of melancholy in his voice at the admission. "That’s what made me wonder if you were right about his identity, Liz. The way he’d affected you."

Liz stared at the envelope, fingering it. "He’s just afraid, Liz," Michael continued softly. "That you won’t love him. That you can’t now."

"I can deal with that," she answered with a resolute nod. "I can definitely deal with that."

"I tried to get him to come back to New York with me, but he thought you’d need some time."

"What did you tell him about you and me?" Liz suddenly asked, glancing at Michael meaningfully. He dropped his gaze again, blushing slightly.

"That things had changed since he left," Michael explained huskily. "That you’re my best friend. That you’re a really important part of my life now and he’s going to have to get used to that fact."

"I’m sure he had something interesting to say about that," she giggled, feeling tears burn her eyes anew.

Michael coughed, shifting self-consciously in his chair, and Liz wondered why he seemed suddenly so shy. Finally, he answered her. "Yeah, he was really glad we’ve had one another all this time," he answered. "That neither of us was alone." Then, he began laughing sheepishly. "That, and he gloated that I finally figured out why he always loved you so much."

Liz thought he seemed a tad guilty at the last, until he laughed softly. "Kind of ironic, huh?"

"How do you mean?"

"Before, I gave him such a hard time about you, about how in love he was with you," he answered quietly. "And in the end, I couldn’t live without you any more than he could. The past few weeks taught me that much for sure."

"Oh, Michael," she whispered, reaching for his hand, and cradling it close against her cheek. "Thank you for believing me. For going to him."

"And now he’s waiting for you, Liz," he answered. "I don’t think he’ll be able to rest until he sees you again…and as himself, not David Peyton."

Liz nodded, gazing down at the envelope in her hands again. And knew that she wouldn’t be able to rest either, not until she held Max in her arms, their two bodies forming as one. Not until she beheld his handsome face again, no matter how badly it was scarred.

For Max Evans could only ever be one thing to her—her beautiful beloved.