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Moving On, Chapter One

Reply to Bianca

Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list June 28, 2002

Author: Bianca
Title: Moving On
Pairing: Max/Alex
Universe: AU (slightly)
Rating: PG-13 for language, will most likely be NC-17 as it progresses.
Summary: Alex (18) and Max (20) live in a remote part of Massachusetts. He's an alien that grew up in New Mexico. He was tired of being surrounded by harsh stereotypes and thousands of tourists, not to mention the hounding of the local Sheriff and the FBI, so he moved to a secluded mountain town with his sister and their friend. He was an orphan, all of them actually. They crawled out into the desert as children and wandered into the town of Roswell. The sheriff placed them in protective homes but none of them were happy being secretive and under scrutiny. They all planned to live together but after some unfortunate incidences with the FBI (same as the white room, story will elaborate later), Max wanted some time to himself. Alex had lived in the small mountain town all his life. He was a happy, normal kid, until his mother died when he was two. His father blamed him and beat him brutally his entire life. The physical beating left him broken and bleeding but it was nothing compared to the emotional torment he suffered, something Max knows a lot about.
Feedback: Please, or I might not be able to crank out any more parts.



        The sound of heavy, clumsy footsteps towards his bedroom was familiar and he knew what was to follow, but there was something else. He sat up slightly from his bare, shotty mattress on the floor in his dark room, straining his eyes and ears towards the light and sounds coming from the other side of his door. Chester busted through the door suddenly and stepped inside, the bright lights blinding Alex momentarily. "Wake up you little bastard." Alex had been through his too many times to be shocked at the drunken tone of his father's voice. The thing that did shock him, however, was the wooden baseball bat in his father's hand. "You didn't put the dishes away." He growled at his son. "I'm sorry. I did them right after I cleaned the house and made dinner. I was just letting them dry..." The bat raised, his father narrowed his eyes. "Are you talking back to me boy?" Alex shook his head firmly, covering the fear coursing through his body. An all too familiar feeling. "No, sir." Chester's anger showed through his drunken expression and he moved closer towards Alex. "Don't cop an attitude with me you fucking little bastard! Do you know how lucky you are?! I feed you, I clothe you, and this is the thanks I get? Ungrateful son of a bitch." His voice was little more then a low growl as he cracked the bat over Alex's shoulder. Alex did what he had done all his life; he gritted his teeth and bared it. The next blow came to Alex's back, knocking him onto the floor, on his stomach. Chester flipped Alex over and commenced to beat him by hand, the bat having splintered against his son's back. Once Alex stopped moving, Chester stood and walked out to his pick-up truck and drove towards the nearest bar.

        After about an hour after Chester had sped off, Alex decided that it was safe to get up. He groaned, clenching his eyes shut as he struggled to get to his feet. He had to use the wall as support to finally get up successfully. He leaned against the dingy walls of his home, slowly walking down to the bathroom. He flipped the light on and flinched as the bright lights stunned him ever so slightly. He then cringed as his eyes adjusted and he saw the damaged he'd suffered. Dried blood matted his hair and covered his face and chest. I closed his eyes and began his routine; his work cut out for him this time. Once the blood was washed away with a washcloth, the fresh wounds didn't look all that much better. Although not exactly sure where, he knew something was broken but he wasn't the type to complain. When all that could be done was done, he headed back to his cold, dank room. It wasn't really a room. Just four walls, a ceiling and a bare mattress resting on the icy floor. No lights and no windows. He slowly eased himself back down onto his bed and closed his eyes, fighting back the rage and tears building inside of him. When he thought he was going to lose it, he reached over and slipped a silver picture frame out from under the mattress. It was the only memento he had of his mother, the only tangible memory of the time when his life was right. When it didn't hurt to live, when death didn't look so near. Alex wasn't sure if it was his concussion or conscience talking, but he seemed to hear her voice in his head, telling him to get out while he still could. It was that moment that he made a life altering decision, he was going to live. For her. He would go on living because she couldn't, something he'd been blamed for all of his life. He took his picture frame, his only possession, and changed into a fresh change of clothing before slowly stepping out into the cold mountain air. It had to be below freezing but anything was better then this... impending death. He finally made it out to the highway and trudged along, his injuries slowing him down immensely. He had no sense of what was going on around him, but he could feel the sting from the cold air whipping at his unprotected skin. The blood on the fresh wounds freezing, his hands and legs stiffening from impending frostbite. He focused his mind on the long walk ahead, taking it step by step, to avoid thinking or feeling the pains plaguing his underfed physique. After many hours of walking up the windy mountain road, his body gave out, unable to follow the mind's simple commands any longer. He sat down on the farthest bank of the road, nestled up against a tall tree lining the highway. It didn't take long for the physical and emotional strains to take over his body and pull him into a deep sleep, surrounded by silence and encapsulated in the icy air of freedom.

*- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - *

        Max turned the steering wheel smoothly, following the curvy nature of the road, when his headlights reflected off of something on the side of the road. It took his occupied mind a moment to process the rapidly passing image. It had been a white t-shirt. He didn't know why, but Max slowed his car to a stop, somewhat intriuged and concerned for what it may be. The car coasted to a slow stop and he got out, walking towards the seemingly glowing white fabric. What he found with it caused him to pause mid stride, a thing that was nearly impossible to accomplish when he was as determined as he felt right now, determined to figure out what was lurking at the edge of the woods. He saw a guy, only a few years younger then he was, passed out and beaten, leaning agianst the side of the tree. He looked pretty bad. Max slowly reached out and touched his side, being careful not to wake him. Closing his eyes, he carefully scanned the boy's body. He was in pretty bad shape. His first thought was to take him to a hospital, to get him professional help but then reality settled in and he realized that the poor kid wouldn't make it to the hospital. It was far and he was wasting away rather quickly. Only giving pause for a mere moment, Max finally deciding to take him back to his place and help him there. It wasn't like he couldn't defend himself if it turned out to be a hoax or something. He reached down and hoisted him up, bracing the thankfully still unconscious boy under his shoulder and laying him out in his backseat, thankful for his alien strength with the dead weight of his new passenger. He drove quickly up the remaining road and pulled up to his isolated cabin. He got him inside after a few minutes, trying to get him up the stairs and inside without waking him. If Max was going to heal him, it would be harder to do it if he was asleep but safer. He thought over places to let him rest, deciding his own bed was the most logical place. He laid him out and ran his hands through his hair, lost, trying to decide what to do next.

        At first glance, he seemed to be dark and a little frightening. His hair was matted with long since dried, cold blood. The dirt and blood vexed his youthful features, working with the shadows dancing across his face from the few candles placed around the bedroom to further worry him, making him feel unsure about his decision. From what Max could see of him, he wasn't beaten badly but he knew better then that. His injuries were mostly internal, and his internal debating was just waisting time. He knew he couldn't heal him outright, not with the risk of exposure, but he could save him. He lifted his hand and held it over the other man's chest, closing his eyes and searching out his damaged lungs and heart. He healed him and when Max was sure he'd be alright, he opened his eyes to examine him further. Dissatisified, the amber eyed brunette rose and got a bowl of tepid water, and a clean washcloth. He sat down on the side of his bed, relieved to see the resting boy's chest still rising and falling with each breath. Healing had always been his biggest strength but he was terrified that he wouldn't be able to save him, regardless of his abilities. Setting the bowl on the bedside table, he reached up and gently brushed the hair away from his face, to get a better look at what he was dealing with. He, then, took the warm, wet cloth and slowly set to cleaning the cuts and grim that tampered with his face. Once his task was maticuluously completed, Max was surprised to find an oddly placid and youthful face, one not the least bit worring, one that didn't give the signs of being unhappy or unsafe. The boy slept like he didn't have a care in the world, but Max knew too well that it was probably just a byproduct of exhaustion. He shook himself mentally, finally taking his gaze from the decptively peacefully face to clean the rest of his exposed skin.

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