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Zeno's Paradox

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list August 17, 2001

TITLE: Zeno's Paradox
ARCHIVE: List archive, all other please just tell me where it's going.
SPOILERS: Let's just say The Departure for consistancy's sake.
NOTES/SUMMARY: An evening in the Walmart parking lot. Sequel to A New Plan.
DISCLAIMER: All is owned by the WB, Jason Katims and Melinda Metz, etc., etc.,amen.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please--
NOTES: Thanks to Aunty Mib for an utterly insightful beta. I am eternally grateful.

Zeno's Paradox:

        In order for a person to cross a room, that person must first cross the halfway point of the room. In order to reach the halfway point, the person must first reach the midpoint between the origin of the walk and the halfway point. And to reach halfway to the halfway point, the person must cross the halfway to the halfway to the halfway point.

        Zeno argued that the process could be continued forever. In order to reach the other side of the room, an infinite number of points must be crossed. And logic tells us that an infinite number of points cannot be crossed in a finite period of time. Therefore, it is impossible to cross a room.


        This has been a long night. An endless, stretching desert of night. No amount of meditation, no measure of earthly inner peace is going to make it any less tense, any less riddled with anxiety than it is at this point. 4:13 a.m. on a Thursday. My sheets are knotted from twisting and tossing, and my pillow has been flipped no less than fifty times. There isn't a single cool patch left on the damn thing, and a new pillowcase didn't help a bit.

        I am never going to make it through tonight.

        Is he awake too? Is it remotely possible that across town our own dark-haired king of the extraterrestrial types is thrashing around as much as I am? Half-hard, dying of thirst, and nervous to the point of his stomach knotting?

        A tap. A gentle tapping at my bedroom window. I flick on my desk lamp, scramble to the window and thrust it open. "Evans?"

        He steps out of the shadows. He's here. He came back. He couldn't wait either. "Yeah. It's me. Do you want to... go? Or something."

        "I guess. It's too hot to sleep, anyway." That's right, Valenti. You're cool. You haven't been thinking about him all night.

        He's pulling the screen off of the window, and I'm pulling jeans on over my boxers, and stuffing my feet into shoes and socks. It's about 30 seconds before I am slithering out the window, crunching through the gravel behind him, getting into his car.

        We sit in his car, silent, for a moment before he turns the key. "Um... where do you want to... go?"

        Would it be too, too stupid if I said *anywhere, as long as it's with you?* Yes, I think so. "Just drive. I don't know."

        He drives. We turn down road after road after road, until he pulls into the Walmart parking lot.

        It's empty, dimly lit; it's just a stopping place. He turns of the engine, and the uncomfortable silence that marked the drive here is just stifling, overwhelming. I can't think. I rip open the door and stand in the fresh air, hugging myself. I know how I must look, with my hair sticking up from a night of tossing and turning, clothed in a Fruit of the Loom variety tee shirt and wrinkled jeans from my bedroom floor. I look as desperate as I feel.

        He gets out of the car too, rounds the back end; he leans as I do against the passenger side. We are mere inches away from each other. I can feel his body heat radiating from those arms, shoulders, everything.

        Neither of us says a single word. What could possibly be appropriate at this point? What would be *accurate*, really? *Hey Max, why don't you just toss aside the love of your twisted life (my ex) and kiss me again with those amazingly hot lips of yours, so I can have another little cruise around the galaxy?*

        I clear my throat a bit, hoping that some noise will suddenly spark this conversation. It doesn't. I can't bring myself to look at him. C'mon Max, I know you're the silent type, but how about rallying the troops with some of those leadership skills of yours?

        Fine. I'll do it. "Evans, you in there?"

        He pivots his head to look at me, his eyes are little galaxies, all of their own, shining onto me, and Jesus, how could I have ever thought of them as dark? "Yeah. I was just thinking."

        Thinking. I'm going to go ahead and label that the understatement of the millennium. I guess I could call what I've been doing for the last five hours thinking, but I think it really alternated between freaking, sexual frustration, and euphoria. How on earth did we ever get to the kissing part last time? The silence between us just seems to grow thicker, more tangible, more encompassing.

        He looks at me. Finally. He has this fraction of a smile, maybe 2/7 of a smile across his face, and his lips part, sound comes out and I may just fall to his feet and worship, as thankful as I am for him to be saying something. "Liz is going to be so mad about this."

        Attention people of earth: Kyle Valenti's brain has just short-circuited. A sentence. Nine words. I am so utterly bewildered by their meaning that I have lost my cognitive abilities. Does this mean that we are something more than just healer/healee kind of kissing friends and we're going to tell people? Does it mean he is going to go back to her with his tail between his legs, overwhelmed by guilt and has to tell her? What the hell? "Jesus, Evans. If you're going to talk, say something a little less ambiguous."

        He grins. He turns toward me, making this sliding, hip-first motion, grabs the back of my head and presses his lips against my mouth.

        Oh yes.

        Oh yes.

        Oh yes.

        His mouth is just so hot and so wet and tastes like peppermint chewing gum. His tongue meets mine again, and it's so *right*, and the sensation coursing through me is the same as when your foot goes to sleep, and then you try to walk on it: pinprickley and weak, but he knows this and his hand is on my lower back, supporting me.

        I make a sound, it's not a sound I recognize, it's not a sound that I've ever had occasion to make. It's a sound that encompasses a realized desire, while lamenting that the boundaries of reality and physics limit you to being only so close to a person. He hears this sound, hears the need just rolled up in this tiny little noise and his tongue is sweeping mine, pushing mine, making mine submit in every blissful way as his hand tangles roughly through my hair, and now I'm repeating the sound, it's my mantra and then he does it:

        Floating. Racing. Defying those laws of physics that say we must be two separate beings and that closeness is a relative term. I'm inside out, I'm inside out and stripped and here it is, the Zen on the Fourth of July moment that tells me sends us into another dimension, where everything is peace and unity and singularity and nothing is commonplace.

        It's a place where water is more than just liquid, it is a thousand billion shining diamonds of molecules woven together, and the surface of glass is porous with crevasses and mountains and nothing is what I think it is because I can just see everything. He is unraveling the fabric of the universe in front of my eyes, and even though I realize that I am only a boy with an alien stuck to my tongue, we together are so, so much more.

        I can't take it. I'm about to pass out or come in my pants, or something, so I find my arms, push away. It's a half-push, a baby push, but he moves back, staring at me as my knees wobble, and I move to the hood of the car to sit down.

        He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and he's panting too, and fuck. I made him pant, that is so, so damn sexy. He stares at me. "Are you okay?"

        Am I? I have no freaking idea. I may never be okay again. Or maybe I'm more okay than I've ever been. I can't believe that it's possible to feel so much, and still be alive, still be regular old Kyle Valenti: Buddhist/jock/alien sympathizer. I guess I should answer him. "Not really. But I don't care, either."

        He lets out a long breath, and then sits next to me on the hood of the car. We lay back, looking straight up to the stars shining up above us, and it strikes me as strange that here in Roswell we are looking at the same stars as everyone else, because nobody should be as close to them as we are. Nowhere else could they possibly understand the significance in these points of light.

        The hood is still warm from the engine running, and it's just really peaceful now, but we're back in this situation, where I'm dying to touch him, and he's dying to touch me, but neither of us dare make a move. What this is, what we have, seems so fragile. If we twist the barrel too far, the view through the kaleidoscope will change entirely, and this fragmented, reflected reality, beautiful as it is, will change.

        Who knows how long we might just lay here, on the hood of Max's car in the Walmart parking lot. We are still here as the sun tips over the horizon, spilling red light and long shadows all over the desert. We might leave in five minutes. We might be here all day. I'm not a very good judge of these things.


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