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The Little Green Man's Curse

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Added to the Roswell Slash Archive May 5, 2002

Title: "the little green man's curse" 1/1
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Roswell"
Rating/Classification: 'PG-13', Kyle/Max-ish, angst, slash.
Disclaimer: I don't own Kyle...or the freakishly good episode that aired on February 6th.
Summary: A short Kyle ficlet based on the recent events where Liz has been changed after being healed.
Notes: The first "Roswell" fic I've written in almost a year. Scary thought, isn't it?



        Sometimes, the insides of his thighs burn and he thinks he's caught some funky kind of literal jock itch. He wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his dad's guitar being tuned and scratches until his skin breaks open and bleeds.

        When he wakes, there are no scars.

        He wants to tell someone. To spill the secret. But he doesn't. He can't. That's not the way it goes. He's the confidante, the go-between, the one they all come to. Not the other way around. And he's not going to rock the spaceship. And the only person he talks to is Buddha. And Buddha never really talks back. Only listens.

        He wonders if the Buddha can hear the static buzzing around his ankles.

        He did the math. A year. Almost a year. That's when he's supposed to start hallucinating and seeing gray faces in mirrors and writhing under Max Evans' hands in the desert. A year to obsess over living and not dying...over living as something Other than what he is.

        So, he doesn't understand why it came early.

        He thinks it could be because Liz left town...left to clear her head and left him the little green man's curse as a "good-bye" present.

        He thinks it could be an aftershock from the healing stones...from being there and asking if there was anything he could do and pulling in his reaching hand when Max shook his head, blindly, and told him to stay back.

        He thinks it could be anything. Anyone.

        He knows it's probably Max.

        If it's not one Evans clouding his mind, it's the other. He doesn't even know which one he prefers. *OhyesIdo*, he thinks...even as he lies and tries to remember Isabel's face and, for the first time, fails.

        He rubs his legs together like two sticks in Boy Scouts and makes fire...twists and tangles in his sheets and falls, facefirst, off the bed and onto the floor...mutters "ow" and tastes tight knit carpet and the odor of socks on his tongue.

        Will firm, graceful fingers touch his belly? Will the circle of energy spread like the pain? Will he whimper and moan that it hurts...that he can't take it? Or will he take it all...gladly, willingly...because that is all the alien touch he's ever going to get?

        He knows the score.

        Liz Parker is the soulmate.

        He's just the mistake. The accident.

        He hallucinates her whispering "I love him so much" to the discordant strains of Hank Williams coming from the living room. Over and over. A refrain. And he licks the blood from his bitten lip, crawls back under the covers to the snap-snap sound of lightning sliding up his body.

        *"Me, too."*

        --end-- February 7, 2002.

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