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Not Same

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list September 20, 2001

Title: Not Same 1/1
Author: Scynneh
E-mail: Scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: If they were mine, there would be comfortable socks all around. In many colors and patterns.
Spoilers: Departure, a little, not really.
Improv 1: memory, servant, air, idolize
Rating: A high PG-13, just so that no one is ruffled.
Pairing: Michael/Kyle
Author's Notes: It's been awhile since I've written anything for this fandom, or posted, but I have been penning thoughts like a fiend. Trust me.



        It was a proven fact that the chaos in the world was increasing. When things first exploded outwards, the amount of disorder could only grow and continue to do so.

        Michael must have been given a handbook on Chaos theory when he was engineered: 'Here junior, where you're going, they need a little excitement, so give 'em hell.' They were overly successful.

        Kyle observed his tendency to sit back and watch everyone else was one trait that his father had not expounded on, not endorsed, or whatever. But he thought that it served him well, so he continued to do so. And another one did much the same. Michael. Sometimes they would watch the same subject, and even less frequently, one would catch the other at his game. There would be cool looks and maybe a nod, but no words to let their targets know what they were doing. That was just the way of things.

        But during the debacle of the past two years, those dark eyes had been the focus of everyone else at one time or another, and Kyle had been able to indulge an impulse that he didn't completely understand: feeling out Michael Guerin. Not for Maria's sake, though that was what he told himself he was doing, and even got a silent 'thanks' from Liz, which he knew that he didn't deserve in the least, but he accepted it and went about his spying.

        That wasn't what he wanted to label it, but there was no other polite way to break things to himself. You are following this alien around school, listening to whatever gossip there is about him, and god, there is no shortage of the material, never is where the odd ones are concerned.

        Why did he want to get so close to Michael? He didn't know the answer to that question, and he wasn't entirely sure that he really wanted to know the reasons or motivating factors in his mini-obsession with aliens.

        Clearly Isabel didn't want him around, he thought that they had worked something out, and then she went off and did her little 'self-sufficient' routine, and he couldn't take that for long without feeling hurt, something his father had told him a woman should never cause in him,

        Kyle was getting rather tired of having his father in his head, dictating what he should or should not be doing, and as soon as he could convince himself to move from the corner where he was hiding; watching Michael get a drink from a water fountain, he was going to take the matter up with his subconscious. And this time he had some really good arguments, which he was going to use. Stridently

        Michael had habits that were strange, trying to stare through walls and people. It was weird, but kinda neat to watch, particularly when someone nobody liked was on the other end of that gaze. Which happened frequently.

        He didn't hang out with people. That was an acknowledged thing. Nobody thought of him in likenesses, no Greek busts or idolizing in rooms without lights, just whispers. 'Don't go to this guy if you want to have a fun time, go to him if you want to be scared or intrigued, but do not, under any circumstances, let yourself be alone with him.'

        Yet, somehow, Kyle found himself doing just that, losing all memory of sensible warnings given to him, and going into the Crashdown in the mornings, avoiding some of the more uncomfortable looks aimed at him by his father, and instead spending time, the hours before school, staring at the spotless counters of the restaurant.

        There were no psychiatrists in Roswell that he has to talk to anyway. That lack of obligatory soul-searching is nice, freeing him, but it also bothers him on some level that he doesn't like- should he need help, when he tired of being a servant of his own brain, what was he going to do about it, and will he know a problem when it scampers up to his sneakers and grins, sharp teeth bright in desert sun before it vanishes again? Just the fact that he has begun to picture his psychological dilemmas as anthropomorphic projections is an indication that the answer is very much the negative.

        So he was there, and after school too. Even though he knew that by now, he had usually found all of his jock friends and reestablished their places at the top of the social hierarchy. Not this year. Why the hell was he spending so much time with the town's resident delinquent when he could be out, in the swelter of fall air, and speak of the alien, and he shall appear.

        "You're here," was his greeting, and he watched as the second shape settled on the second stool and then added, "Upset."

        "No I'm not."

        "You always fidget with your shirt cuffs when you're upset. And right now you're getting down to the 'bare threads' stage. Calm down."

        "Shut up.

        "Mmm, afternoon to you too."

        "I hope that you did a lot while I was gone."

        "Yes, the hamburgers have been cooked and distributed among the hungry, and the world is a better place for my skill with a spatula."

        "Glad to hear it."

        "What are you doing here?"

        "Drinking a milkshake."

        "With Tabasco sauce in it?"

        "Of course. You?"

        "Huh?"

        "You're here, after school. Don't you have a game to go to, or practice of some kind?"

        "Funny."

        "So?"

        "No, I don't belong to such an organization, and the band can't meet because the rest of its members are busy or sick."

        "Sad."

        "You don't care."

        "About?"

        "Being rude."

        "Am I?"

        "Yes, almost constantly.

        "Well, then have a milkshake and ignore me."

        And all at once, that was alright, the sitting side by side, Guerin fiddling with the rings of his sketchbook, neither required to explain themselves. That might be enough of a reason to explore this new life.

        End

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