"Would you hold still."

"I AM holding still."

"No you're not. You're squirming."

"Well it stings!"

"I can't clean this up with you doing the Macarena like this!"

"Then give it to me! I'll do it!"

"God, this is so TYPICAL!" Maria vented, sitting back hard on the thin mattress. She glared at Michael, who sat propped up against the metal headboard. "I am trying to HELP you here, and you're YELLING at me."

The young man stared back at her. "I'm not YELLING at you," he said huffily.

"Oh yeah? Well, I distinctly picked up on some exclamation points, buddy."

Michael rolled his eyes and went to cross his arms across his chest, only to wince and let his right arm fall back to the bed. "I can take care of myself," he grumbled.

Maria raised a derisive eyebrow. "Oh really? Fine." She threw the damp, bloodstained cloth at his head and stood, crossing to the sink in the corner of the room. "Then go ahead, buster. You were doing such a GREAT job of healing yourself before I got here anyway. Why should I even bother?" Turning on the faucet, she began viciously to wash her hands.

She heard Michael muttering under his breath about ditzy blondes, but she ignored him. Focusing all her attention on the water pouring over her hands, she scrubbed furiously. His shoulder was still bleeding, though not as badly now as it had been when she'd first...'arrived' two hours ago.

She chuckled mirthlessly. Oh, this was a FINE fix she'd managed to get herself into. "Isabelle's going to wonder what the hell happened to me," she thought. "If only she knew!" Maria had no doubt that the others would eventually put together what had happened-- it would just take a while. "I mean, it's not everyday that people randomly fall through holes in the fabric of reality, right? But the way everything's been going, it makes more sense than anything else!"

The water had stopped running pink now that the blood had sluiced off her hands, but she kept them under the steady flow. She didn't want to listen to him behind her-- hissing through his teeth, muttering about 'killing that bitch.' Maria took it for granted that he meant Topolsky. But his annoyance and frustration were percolating to her through the bond, and it was driving her INSANE. So she snapped off the water and spun around.

He was sitting cross-legged on the mattress, face creased in pain as he pressed down on his shoulder with the damp facecloth. "What?" he grumbled through gritted teeth, glaring at her.

Maria shook her head and walked back to the bed. Sitting on the edge, she reached out and snatched the cloth away from him, ignoring his protests. "Let me do it," she told him. "Listening to you whine while I'm doing nothing is worse than listening to you whine while I'm busy." Gently, she began to clean away his blood again. Thankfully, it had slowed to little more than a trickle. "How's the healing going?" she asked, trying to ease the mood in the room.

She saw Michael purse his lips our of the corner of her eye. "Not bad," he replied, and she was glad he chose to go along with her would-be truce. "I just wish I were better at it. You know, like Max, or Izzy."

Maria glanced at him. His eyes were focused on her soft ministrations, and he didn't meet her gaze. Looking back to his shoulder, she asked, "Why aren't you?"

He shrugged with his good shoulder. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I just....I can't see how everything fits together. Unlocking doors and melting lockers are one thing. Trying to sew up a living body is kinda different." He sighed and let his head rest back against the wall above the headboard. "There're so many layers... It takes a long time to fix something. At least, for ME it does." He looked back to where her hands had finished cleaning up the blood. The wound no longer seemed to be bleeding, and Maria traced her finger along the thin red line that marked where he'd been cut. "Would you mind?" he said testily. "That does still hurt, you know."

She looked up guiltily and pulled away. As she did, she felt... wait, was that...could that be disappointment she felt coming off him? "Sorry," she apologized. After a pause, she went on. "That's a pretty skinny cut," she observed. "How'd it happen?"

Michael looked away from her and focused on a nonexistent point in the corner of the small room-- it was about the size of Maria's bedroom at home. "I told you. She wanted to examine my 'ligament structure.'" He said the last two words in a perfect imitation of Topolsky's wolf-in-sheep's-clothing voice. "So she whipped out her handy scalpel and went to town." He closed his eyes and Maria saw him flinch and swallow, as if he could still feel the blade cutting into him.

Wait a minute....

"How did you feel her cutting you?" she asked. "I know you did-- I felt it for a second, too." Her eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. "Weren't you, you know, knocked out at the time?"

When he shook his head, Maria felt her bile rise. "Naw," he said, not opening his eyes. "Anesthesia and alien biochemistry don't mix apparently." He chuckled. "But we must be pretty damn strong-- I didn't pass out until about two hours into it."

Maria's mouth was dry. "God, Michael," she said softly, reaching out reflexively to rest a hand on his chest. His eyes opened at her touch, and he looked at her. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, suddenly very aware of their close proximity.

Michael didn't say anything for a long second, and Maria felt herself starting to color under the intensity of his gaze. "I should take my hand away," she thought absently. But she didn't move.

"No," he finally said, breaking their eye contact as he looked away again. "I'M the one who's sorry, Maria. For....all this. For dragging you into this, for yelling at you. Everything."

She chuckled and pulled her hand away. Now she DEFINITELY felt disappointment pulsing off him, and it made her blush darker. She was glad for the dim lighting in the room, provided by a single bulb covered by what looked like an upside-down, opaque serving dish. "Dost my ears deceive me?" she said. "Or did Michael Guerin just apologize for something?"

His eyes met hers. "Don't get used to it," he told her, and she could hear the teasing tone had returned to his voice. It made her smile.

"I knew it was too good to be true," she sighed dramatically. Maneuvering around so that she sat next to him, she leaned her back against the headboard, too, and turned her head to look at his profile. He really was a sculpture-- marble, maybe. Or granite. "If it means anything, this is partly my fault, too," she told him. "I mean, it was half MY dream, so I'm as much to blame as you."

He turned his head to look at her, mock surprise in his face. "Dost MY ears deceive me?" he reiterated her earlier question. "Or are you taking some of the responsibility?"

"Don't go getting all excited, Spaceboy. I'll still expect tons of sucking up on your part when we get out of this before you get back into my good graces."

Michael's face went grim again, and he turned away. "Yeah," he said softly, but no more.

Maria cursed herself for ruining the mood. For a moment, it had almost been like they were on the outside again-- safe. Not trapped in this prison of stone and surgical steel.

Before she could say anything else, the lock clacked, and the door swung open. Topolsky entered-- her hair tied back in a tight bun-- followed by two burly guards. She wore a tailored-yet-casual blue suit. Taking in the scene on the bed, she smiled. "I'm pleased to see the two of you are getting along," she said. "We can't have you clawing each other's eyes out."

"What do you want, Topolsky?" Maria asked coldly.

The older woman turned hard eyes on her, and Maria swallowed. "With you, nothing yet. That will come later." She gestured to Michael, and the two guards crossed the room to grab him by either arm and yank him up from the bed. Michael struggled against them, but their hamlike fists clamped onto his biceps with bruising force as they dragged him to the door.

Maria jumped up from the bed. "What are you going to do with him?" she demanded, trying not to let Michael's anger and, worse, fear, play out in her voice.

Topolsky turned on her again, bemused. "You didn't think we'd stop what we were doing simply because YOU were here, did you?" she asked the slim girl. "Absolutely not. Your arrival...changes our plans a little, but the show must go on."

"What's up, Topolsky?" Michael asked as the guards pulled him past her. "Can't handle me on your own anymore? Gotta call in the boy toys?" He tried futilely to wrench his arm away from the guard on his left, with no success.

Topolsky glared at him, but didn't respond. "Take him to the testing facility," she ordered the burly men. "Have him hooked up to the machine." The guards nodded as one, and dragged Michael through the door. He managed to glance back over his shoulder at Maria one last time. His eyes were scared-- she could FEEL his fear-- but they were also determined. She could feel that, too. He wasn't about to let Topolsky see him weaken.

Her momentary pride was quickly quashed, however, when she realized Topolsky hadn't left the room. "What do you want?" she growled at the older woman.

Topolsky smiled sweetly. "Nothing. I'm just wondering again how you managed to get in here." She chuckled. "I know you didn't come through the front door, and there are no vents. And THIS door is guarded by four men at any one time." She shook her head. "I've been telling the powers-that-be for some time that we needed to install cameras in every nook and cranny of this building, but they didn't want to spend the money. They think it's top secret enough that no one should be able to find it." She sighed. "Well, I guess this proves them wrong. Though judging by your friends' actions today, they have no idea where you are, so they also have no idea where WE are."

Maria looked sharply at her. "What do you mean?"

Topolsky flashed her a grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?" She turned and began to leave. Poking her head around the door one last time, she said, "I am still VERY interested to know how you managed it."

Maria felt creeping shivers work up her spine under Topolsky's gaze. Unable to think of anything else, she mimicked Michael's bravado of the night before. "Blow me," she hissed.

Topolsky's eyebrows raised in amusement. "We'll see what we can do," she replied, then turned on her heel and strode out the door, slamming and locking it behind her.

Alone in the small room, Maria could think of nothing to do but lay down on the bed and wait for Michael's panic to set in again. Though she had more than enough of her own to deal with at the moment.

****** "So what does the lab rat get to do today?" Michael asked Topolsky as she walked into the blindingly white room. He really hated this room. With a passion.

"We're going to play a game," she answered him, as she crossed to where he was standing. Checking the wires attached over his heart and to the insides of his elbows, she continued. "It's called, How Long Can the Alien Run?"

Michael looked down at the treadmill he stood on. "I was wondering why you had me on this thing," he said. "I figured it wasn't because you had my health in mind."

Topolsky chuckled and stood back. "This is a simple endurance test," she told him. "The aim of the game is to run as hard and as fast as you can for as long as you can. It's already obvious that your physical abilities are stronger than an average human's-- we just want quantitative evidence."

"And what if I don't want to run in your little wheel?" he asked, his eyes scanning the room. He didn't SEE any kind of weapon....

Topolsky gave him a chilly smile, and he froze as she picked up a long, black tube from a nearby steel table. It didn't look like anything spectacular-- just a long rod with a crystal bulb on the top. It didn't even look very heavy. But when Topolsky flipped a switch hidden somewhere on the side, that bulb began to glow, and Michael felt his stomach sink.

"I call this my cattle prod," the woman was telling him, and Michael forced his eyes to move from the tube to her face. "It's very useful for making the uncooperative cooperate. Let's say, for example, that this is you." She gestured to a small steel chair beside the table. "And this is me." She gestured to herself. "This is you not trying your hardest." She once more gestured to the chair. "And this is my reaction." Almost nonchalantly, she tapped the glowing bulb to the back of the chair. There was an almost blinding flash of light, and then the chair wasn't there anymore.

Michael took a minute to realize it hadn't been disintegrated-- it had simply been thrown a good fifty feet across the room to collide with the opposite wall. It lay in a sparking heap on the floor. Michael swallowed.

"Needless to say, you being heavier than a chair, the electricity wouldn't send you quite so far," Topolsky was telling him, though his eyes never left the chair. "But I think I've made my point."

She was at his shoulder now, and he looked down into her eyes, determined not to let the fear that bubbled in his stomach show. "So I suggest you run your hardest, Mr. Guerin," she informed him, ignoring whatever it was she DID see in his face. "Now." And she flicked on the treadmill.

As the rubber beneath his bare feet began to move, Michael started to run. He turned away from her and focused his eyes on the opposite wall, making a pointed effort to ignore the destroyed chair, which still sparked occasionally. If he tried, he could almost imagine he was someplace else-- running down Main Street in Roswell, perhaps. Running away from wherever this place was.

As the image grew stronger, he began running quicker-- if he could go a little faster, he might just get away.

******

The hours passed slowly in the little room, and Maria found herself trying anything to distract herself from the desolation flowing through her bond with Michael. She'd never felt so empty, so hopeless. Trapped.

So she sang.

Whatever the hell she wanted to sing, she didn't care. Oldies. Pop. Rock. She even tried a bit of "O Mia Babbino Caro" in her WORST opera voice, hoping that whatever listening devices they might have installed in the room picked her up loud and clear. "We have to remember not to talk about...what happened," she reminded herself. If someone WAS listening, they couldn't find out about how she'd arrived here. Still, with any luck she was giving someone on the other end a pounding headache.

She was just starting on the third verse to "Major-General" from "The Pirates of Penzance" when she heard people moving outside the door. Choking off the song in mid-lyric, she stood quickly as the door began to open. Her heart sank as the same two guards from before dragged Michael back into the room and deposited him roughly on the bed. They didn't say a word to her-- just dropped him like a rag doll and left the room.

Maria glared at the locked door, as if the heat of her gaze could somehow melt them an escape tunnel.

A moan from the figure on the bed captured her attention, and she turned quickly. "Michael?" she said softly, kneeling beside the bed. "Michael, are you okay?"

He was laying on his stomach, half on, half off the mattress, so that his left hand brushed the floor. "Can't....move," he murmured, eyes closed.

"You can't move?" He nodded minutely, and Maria cursed under her breath. "He must really be out of it," she thought grimly-- little to none of his emotions were coming to her. "Let me help you."

Michael grunted in acknowledgement, and Maria stood to help him slide further onto the bed. She froze, however, when she got a good look at him. "Michael!" she exclaimed. "Mic...God, your back!"

Burns. His back was covered in red, angry burns. They glared up at Maria and seemed to wink at her like evil, scarlet eyes. "You can't do anything about us," they jeered. "We're here to stay."

Michael made no response to her exclamation, but stayed motionless on the bed. Maria swallowed her horror, and concentrated her energy on gently maneuvering him to the center of the bed. He moaned a few times as she did, and it made her eyes tear up.

"It's OK," she said softly as she helped him settle in again. "It's OK. It's over now."

"Thank you," he mumbled into the thin pillow.

She managed a smile, which sent a single tear coursing down her cheek. "No problem," she whispered hoarsely, dashing the droplet away. "Get some sleep."

"Hurts too much," he told her.

Maria's brow furrowed with concern. Climbing up on the bed beside him, she propped herself up on one elbow and tenderly began stroking his hair. "Don't think about it," she said softly. "Concentrate on something else."

"What?"

Maria cast her eyes hopelessly around the room, searching for something to take his mind off the pain. "God, how did he manage this last night?" she wondered. "What do you WANT to think about?" she asked.

He smiled slightly. "I think...I think I want to think about you," he murmured.

She was taken aback, but didn't stop stroking his hair. "Me?" she inquired softly. "Why me?"

He moved his head closer towards where she lay stretched out beside him. "You smell good," he told her. "Like coconuts. And you feel good."

She smiled slightly despite the situation. He must have been delirious-- Michael would never have admitted any of that if he were fully aware. "Then think about me, Michael," she encouraged. "I'm not going anywhere."

Still caressing his hair, she watched as the tension moved out of his shoulders. He must have been exhausted, because despite the pain, he fell asleep.

Lowering herself to lay down so she she was face to face with him, Maria moved her hand from his hair to his cheek. His breathing was deep and even-- at least he wasn't on the brink of death. "And that's SO comforting. I feel MUCH better now."

Well, if he wanted to think about her, she'd let him. Closing her eyes, Maria wiggled closer to Michael on the bed, so that she was pressed up along his side. She moved her face as close to his as she could, so that his breathing mingled with her own. Her hand slid from his cheek and down his arm, until it found his hand. She laced their fingers together and held tight, hoping that the calm, warm thoughts she sent him through the bond were sinking in, and that he'd have sweet dreams tonight. Perhaps something to do with coconut.

As she drifted off to sleep herself, she wondered briefly what Topolsky was going to do with her, besides keep her on as nurse-maid.