The Man Who Didn't Belong
Author: ArchAngel1973 (in collaboration with xmag)
Banner by: Tanya7496
Banner by: Candysteffi
Disclaimer: Characters and plot lines that appeared in the series, the books, and the concept of Roswell are not mine.
Belong to Melinda Metz, UPN, etc, etc…
Pairing: M&M
Rating: Mature
Summary: Based on a challenge by xmag. Post-Graduation, character death, angst… but, CANDY!
Author's note: There will be two endings to this story. The readers won't be asked to vote for one of the other, they'll just choose which one they prefer to end the fic. There will probably be a sequel to one of the endings.
Link to the trailer made by April:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwHIqfXBmGk&feature=channel_page
Part 1
The hot wind blew through the streets of Los Angeles, whipping up stray bits of trash and threatening to knock over everything in its path. The palm trees that lined the sidewalks on either side of the streets bowed to the will of the angry winds, their pliant trunks giving but refusing to break. There were a few people rushing from their places of employment, some tightly holding onto briefcases and others doing their best to protect their eyes from the sand being tossed around wildly.
Michael Guerin unlocked the drivers' side door of his Range Rover before turning to lean against it, his predatory gaze following a tall redhead as she tried valiantly to keep her short skirt from being pushed up any higher on her perfectly toned thighs. He whistled appreciatively when the wind won the battle despite the woman's best efforts and her skirt flew up, revealing even more tanned, toned skin. He smirked and shook his head, saluting with his right hand when her angry gaze zeroed in on him and she flipped him off.
She hurled an insult at him that was quickly whisked away on the wind but he only shrugged insolently and continued to watch her as she stalked to the parking garage next to the building she had recently exited.
"Hey, Guerin!"
He ran a hand through his short hair as he turned to look at the man standing out of the worst of the wind, holding the door of the agency open. Sam Novak had just been hired and the kid hadn't been around long enough to figure out that Michael wasn't going to be his new best friend. "Whatcha want, Novak?"
"Wanna grab a beer?"
He shook his head at the younger man's enthusiastic question and slid behind the wheel, slamming the door shut without bothering to answer. He didn't know why Marcos had decided to hire someone who had no experience whatsoever in their line of work. He was eager to learn, but Michael didn't have the patience or tolerance to put up with him, and he had no intention of expending any effort in that direction either.
He guided the truck out of the city, heading into the valley and the sixteen acres of seclusion that belonged to him. The Santa Ana's had arrived earlier that week, the constant winds hot, dry, and unrelenting. Several counties over wildfires raged out of control, defying every attempt made to extinguish them. When darkness fell he would be able to stand on his back porch and see the orange glow from the distant fires reflected against the night sky.
Not that he cared enough to look, he thought as he turned onto the gravel road that led to his house. Darkness was beginning to fall as he reached up to activate the garage door opener and pulled into the open slot. The door creaked as it lowered once more and he made a mental note to do something about it before it drove him crazy.
He turned his head to look at the motorcycle parked to the right of the truck and nodded to himself as he climbed out and went into the house. He had been working non-stop for the past couple of months and he needed a break; he needed to hit the open road and get away from everything for a while.
Silence greeted him and he looked around as soon as the lights were switched on, making sure that everything was just as he had left it. Satisfied that no one had been there he tossed his keys on the counter and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, dropping it beside the ring of keys. The kitchen housed all stainless steel appliances that were bordered by counters topped with imported black marble. Everything in the house was state-of-the-art and the highest quality that money could buy, not because he used most of it, but because it was the best available.
Michael had grown up with nothing, not even knowing who his parents were or where he had come from. Until he was seventeen the only thing he had known was the orphanage, living off of the charity of others, and forced to survive the brutality doled out by others who were bigger and stronger than him. He had sworn that when he made it out he would make something of himself and he would never have to rely on anyone for anything ever again.
He wandered through the house and finally made his way into the bathroom off of his bedroom, turning the water on and adjusting the temperature. Once it was hot enough to satisfy him he went back to the kitchen and opened the freezer, digging around until he found the frozen pizza with the toppings he wanted. He placed the pizza on a sheet of aluminum foil and frowned down at it for several moments before going to the refrigerator and digging around for a jar of jalapenos and the shaker of crushed red peppers. After placing copious amounts of the jalapenos and peppers on the frozen pizza he slid it into the oven and went to take a shower.
He took a quick shower, letting the hot water pound some of the tension from his tall frame. He had informed Marcos that he was taking time off and the man had simply waved him off, well aware that he would return to work when he felt like it. That was the advantage of basically working for yourself, he thought as he toweled off.
Marcos owned the agency but he contracted the work out so if Michael chose to turn a job down there were no repercussions. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded barefoot into the kitchen to check on the pizza, determining that it needed a few more minutes. A quick glance at the clock let him know that the basketball game would be starting right about the time his dinner would be ready.
In the living room he picked up the remote and aimed it at the 50-inch flat-screen television mounted to the wall. He flipped through the sports channels until he located the one he wanted, watching the commentary until the commercials started. He rushed back into the kitchen to slide the pizza on a cutting board and cut it into slices. Grabbing a beer out of the refrigerator, he set it on one corner of the cutting board and carried the whole thing into the living room.
He placed the cutting board on the coffee table just as the game started and he snarled at the television when the opposing team took control of the ball after the tip-off. He sat down on the floor with his back against the sofa, long legs stretched out underneath the table as he reached for the first slice of pizza.
He slouched down against the couch and alternated between hurling insults at the screen when the opposing team had the ball and cheering loudly when his team scored. He was annoyed when his team lost by two points at the last second and he shook his head at the reporter interviewing the player responsible for the winning shot.
Before long his eyes started to slide closed and his head dropped back to rest on the cushions. He was exhausted after his last job and his body was not going to be put off any longer; sleep claimed him despite the uncomfortable position he was in.
He awoke violently several hours later, falling to the side and clutching at his chest when he felt pain slicing through his lungs, stealing his breath. He tried uselessly to push himself up but his right arm felt like lead and he couldn't move it. He tried desperately to draw air into his lungs and he was certain he could taste the coppery tang of blood.
What the hell was going on? A wave of nausea rolled over him and he fought against it, focusing instead on trying to understand what was happening to him. His lungs were burning and his vision was beginning to go dark at the edges but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get up off of the floor.
The pain suddenly stopped, ending just as quickly as it had started, and he pulled in deep, gulping breaths. His heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest and he moved experimentally as he slowly sat up, testing his body out to see if any of the pain remained. He pulled himself up onto the couch and fell back on it, trying to calm his breathing and rubbing one hand over his chest to assure himself that he was all right.
He gradually gained control of his breathing and his heart rate leveled out leaving him confused about what had happened. In all of his life he had never experienced pain like that and he hoped to never experience it again. Before long the mysterious phantom pains were forgotten as the sleep his body craved claimed him once more and he lost his grasp on the disturbing sensations that had brutally assaulted his body.
The hours slowly passed and he automatically awoke just as dawn broke over the desert, his body programmed to rise with the sun regardless of what else was going on in his life. He rolled to his feet and went into his bedroom to change into a pair of shorts and his running shoes before stepping out onto the back deck. He warmed up with repetitions of pushups and sit-ups, his workout regimented and precise to get the most out of every single movement. He surveyed the landscape as he stretched some more, running in place for a minute before setting out on a five-mile run through his property.
His body was conditioned for the activity, his muscles honed from years of hard, physical work. Making the five-mile run was effortless despite the hot winds that hadn't let up overnight and sweat ran along his flesh in salty rivulets, following the contours of his body. When he completed the circuit he bent over, hands braced on his legs right above his knees, pulling the hot, dry air into his lungs. As soon as his pulse had returned to normal he straightened up and went inside to take a shower.
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs smothered with hot peppers and onions and a side of toast he straightened the house up and walked outside, heading for the building back behind the house. The Santa Ana's ruffled his short hair and kicked sand up, the tiny grains beating against the bare flesh of his arms, but despite the dust and sand that was being whipped around him his stride didn't change.
He unlocked the wide doors and pushed them open, flipping the light switch as he stepped inside. When he had purchased the property the building had been set up to house livestock and one of the first things he had done was to completely gut the inside and redo it so he could use it as a mechanic shop. His gaze moved over the half dozen motorcycles in different stages of completion and he ran his hand over the tank of the one closest to him.
He had discovered his passion for restoring vintage motorcycles in junior high when the new director at the orphanage had taken an interest in him. Tom Gifford had seen the anger and hostility that Michael didn't even try to hide and he had dedicated an enormous amount of time to redirecting those emotions and channeling them into something positive.
The overhead lights reflected off of a set of chrome exhaust pipes, drawing his gaze to the table on his left. He had gotten new parts in before his last job and he had barely had time to uncrate them before the call had come in, requesting his services. He wandered around the motorcycles for several minutes, waiting to see which one was going to hold his attention.
He finally settled on the 1971 Harley Davidson Electraglide that sat near the south wall, the engine disassembled and strewn out across the worktable. He crossed the room and turned on the radio that sat on one of the shelves, the unit already tuned to the jazz station that he preferred. He walked over to the upright toolbox, unlocking it and selecting a handful of tools that he carried over to the worktable.
For the next few hours he lost himself in the tedious work that went into restoring the vintage motorcycle, forgetting about everything else. He pulled one of the boxes down off of a shelf and pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, slicing through the tape that held the top closed.
The knife clattered to the tabletop when he experienced the strangest sensation; a feeling of loss, soul-deep and cutting straight to the center of his being washed over him and his hands curled around the edge of the table to keep himself upright. He didn't understand why the feelings were assaulting him or where they were coming from and he slowly straightened up when they began to dissipate. It had to be stress-related, he thought. Either that or he was starting to buy into the myths that surrounded the Santa Ana's. He had to get away for a while, to clear his head, and get rid of all of these weird feelings.
He cursed out loud when he cut his knuckles on a jagged edge of the engine part that he was pulling out of a box and as he leaned over to look at the wound he noticed a crack in one of the seals on the part.
"Son of a bitch!" he muttered, picking the part up and examining it closely. He hadn't planned to go anywhere, but if he wanted to finish this step he was going to have to. At least he wouldn't have to go into L.A.; he could stop at one of the smaller towns outside of the large city. He made a list of supplies that were running low and shoved it in his pocket before locking up and heading back to the house.
*****
Michael parked the Range Rover and grabbed the box sitting in the passengers' seat before climbing out and walking up to the automotive parts store. He made it a point to ignore the people that were everywhere and stepped through the first set of automatic doors.
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
He looked down when a small pair of hands circled his wrist and tugged, causing his watch to dig into his flesh. "What?" he snapped, pulling his hand free.
Blond curls bounced as the little girl shifted from one foot to the other. "Ya wanna buy some cookies? It's for a real good cause." She pointed to her left where a group of little girls in uniforms were clustered around a table piled high with brightly colored boxes of cookies. Their shrill, high-pitched voices grated on his nerves and he shifted the box he was holding to a more comfortable position as he ignored the kid and continued on his way into the store.
At the counter he lifted the part out and showed the clerk the defective seal, demanding a replacement at no charge. When the teenager scurried into the back Michael wandered off to pick up the items on his list. He dropped a case of oil and a box of bulbs into a cart along with a handful of spark plugs before moving over a couple of aisles to look at the tools.
Once the clerk had located a replacement for the defective part and the rest of his purchases had been paid for, Michael loaded everything back into the cart and pushed it out through the first set of automatic doors.
"Hey, mister, you sure you don't wanna buy some cookies?"
"Get lost, kid," he growled.
"C'mon," she said, her smile revealing a wide gap where she was missing two front teeth.
"Julie, sweetie, he said no."
His irritated gaze swung to the woman who had rushed over to retrieve the little girl.
"I'm sorry," she apologized with a smile. "It's her first year in the group and she's very excited about - "
"Do I look like I care? Do you people even consider that the only reason anyone buys your damn product is so you'll leave them alone?"
"Sir, I don't think there's any reason to - "
"I don't give a fuck what you think, lady." He narrowed his eyes when she gasped and quickly covered the little girls' ears. "The fact is you're extorting money from people and you're usin' your brats to do it."
"It helps build their self-esteem - "
"Sellin' cookies that can be bought at a grocery store for a third of the price you charge helps build self-esteem?" He shook his head and his dark eyes raked over her ample form coldly. "If it's so great for self-esteem why aren't you and all the other parents out sellin' cookies? Because you know that people are more likely to pay these outrageous prices if the product is bein' offered by kids… it's a marketing ploy. People will buy this shit from a bunch of bratty little kids a helluva lot faster than they will from a bunch of overweight, middle-aged mothers."
"You… you… you bastard!" she sputtered indignantly. "I'll bet you kick puppies for fun."
"Maybe I do." He straightened up and glanced around in interest. "Why? You got one over there?" He would never kick a puppy but she didn't need to know that.
She gasped, horrified, and hurried away, dragging the little girl with her.
Michael shook his head and crossed the parking lot to unload his purchases. He had liked it much better when the automotive store had been the only thing on the block. Now there were shops lined up on both sides of it and there were people everywhere.
He pulled out of the parking lot and followed the main street out to the old highway, hanging a right and driving several miles out of his way so he could get an order of the spiciest hot wings in the county. He shifted restlessly, trying to ignore the sudden feeling that was making his skin feel like it was crawling.
As he parked and stepped out of his vehicle his thoughts were drawn back to the night before and the dream that had woke him up. Unconsciously his hand came up to rub his chest; he wished he could remember what he had been dreaming about. What kind of scenarios had his mind conjured up that were strong enough to turn mental images into physical pain?
"Will you look at what the Santa Ana's blew in," the woman behind the counter called out as he stepped inside the dimly lit bar.
Michael smirked and nodded in greeting as he settled on one of the bar stools at the counter. He held up his forefinger when she quirked an eyebrow in question and he leaned to one side to grab a handful of nuts from the bowl on his right.
She pulled an imported, non-alcoholic beer from the cooler under the counter, popped the cap off, and slid it along the surface into his waiting hand. "The usual?" she asked and yelled an order out to the cook in the back when Michael nodded.
Jordan Sykes had known the man at the counter for close to five years; he was a loner who liked his beer cold, his food hot, and his women even hotter. Most people who became regulars at the bar talked about themselves, jobs, families, and a million other things, but this man was an enigma. Michael Guerin didn't talk much and when he did talk it was never about anything personal.
They had gotten comfortable with each other, or as comfortable as he was able to get with anyone, and she could tell that he was on the prowl, his predatory gaze scanning the women who had started coming in since the last time he had stopped by.
"So, what's new?" he asked, swinging around to look at her.
She leaned on the counter and met his gaze evenly. "Got a few newcomers that'll fit your preferences, but keep your hands off the new waitress."
"She hot?"
"Hot and taken."
Michael nodded at the warning tone in her voice and took a long drink from the bottle in his hand before tipping the neck in her direction. "She yours?"
"Um-hmm." She poured herself a shot and tossed it back, satisfied that he wouldn't cross her and make a play for her partner. "Got a blond that comes in every night around eight that'll interest you, definitely the no-strings type."
Michael glanced at his watch. "Eight o'clock, huh?" Hell, he could have dinner, sucker several losers out of a weeks' worth of wages at the pool table, get laid, and be home before ten-thirty. "Tonight might be her lucky night."
"You're such a prick," she muttered with a grin.
"I know."
Jordan shook her head as she moved to the other end of the counter to serve a couple of newcomers. Michael was full of himself, but from the stories she'd overheard from the women he'd bedded he had reason to be. Their only complaint was that he never asked for a repeat performance. She knew he didn't date, he never took the women back to his place, and he always made sure they knew up-front that he had no interest in them beyond having sex. He didn't stick around for the morning after, he didn't call the next day, and he never remembered their names, but that didn't stop the women from coming by to see if he was interested in hooking up again.
She glanced back at him and rolled her eyes when she saw him staring at a couple of women who had just entered the bar. He was such a horny bastard, she thought as she mixed a couple of drinks and placed them on the counter in front of the customers. She leaned against the counter, catching his eye and shaking her head when his gaze zeroed in on one of the waitresses.
He raised the bottle in his right hand and tipped it in her direction before turning his attention back to the brunette sitting on the stool beside him.
"My money's on the brunette," Cal muttered as he passed her on his way to deliver Michael's dinner.
"I've got fifty that says it'll be Miss Eight O'clock," she challenged.
"You're on."
Michael leaned against the counter in a comfortable sprawl, his eyes roving over the brunette who had approached him. She talked too much and there were about a dozen other, more interesting things she could be doing with her mouth, but she just wasn't doing it for him. She was built in all the right places, but she wasn't the flavor of the night; he was just enjoying the view while he waited for the right piece of ass to enter his line of sight.
He tried to shake off the feeling of emptiness that he hadn't yet been able to get rid of, and he sincerely hoped that some time away from everything would take care of it. He tuned the woman's voice out and started planning a road trip, mentally preparing a list of things he needed to do before leaving and what he needed to pack. Maybe a trip to Santa Fe would help; he hadn't been there in a few years and he was sure the women there were still hotter than hell.
Hey chica,
smooches 
And two endings??!! Hmm sounds like fun! Love the banners btw!
:D:D
As for the other Michael...(I'm really gonna get confused trying to leave feedback aren't I?) anyways too funny!! Putting him in a cage!
LOL. And 50 parts written so far w/ weekly updates? 
I can't wait
...or I was...I think.
can't wait for part 3b!