Lost Summer of the White... (Max POV/Adult) Chapt 11 2/1[WIP

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

There are so many times that I've wanted to acknowledge your feedback, but I'm torn because of the content of each update. I have a tendency to be chatty and facetious (blame my son, who has a wicked sense of humor, for that), and I fear detracting from Max's story by my inability to keep my mouth shut, so to speak.

Maybe I'll take a page from Midwest Max's book and in future updates do a separate post right before each update, because I really really love hearing from you. Thank you again for all your support and comments ...


From Chapter 10b

It was everything he'd ever wanted, and somehow never expected to have. The world fell away as he became lost in the emotion that he could see reflected in her gaze. Slowly, their lips brushed together in a tender caress. Max almost moaned when the brief contact ended, only to feel her press small, cherishing kisses on his face.

For a moment, he gave himself over to her. The touch of her lips was a balm that reached all the way down to the wounds of his soul; they were the most healing thing he'd ever felt.

When the trail of warm, sweet kisses ended where it began, his mouth closed eagerly over hers, and they were lost in the depths of their newly-spoken love ...


Chapter 10c

It seemed like minutes later that he broke the caress with a sigh of regret, pressing his forehead against the warm juncture of her neck as he tried to catch his breath. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself, just for a few seconds.

He was vaguely aware that, almost immediately, he began to sag against Liz, could feel her tighten her arms more closely around him. He was so exhausted, literally at the end of his strength.

Her cheek was resting against the dampness of his hair, her fingers curling into the strands at the nape of his neck. He tried not to lean so heavily against her, knowing she was tired as well, but he was drifting ... drifting.

He came awake with a startled gasp as he felt himself falling back, his body jerking as he tried to save himself. His eyes flew open as he looked around, panic-stricken.

"Shhh," she soothed. "It's okay. I've got you, Max. I've got you."

"Liz?" his voice was hoarse and groggy.

He could feel her arms around him, easing him back to lie on the couch. He struggled to keep his heavy eyes open as he gazed up at her, his hands fisting her jacket as he sank into the cushions, trying to pull her with him, unwilling to let go.

"Everything's fine," she said quietly as she leaned over him. "But you're tired, Max. You need to sleep now." She brushed the hair back from his forehead and skimmed her knuckles down the side of his face tenderly. A small, tremulous smile curved her lips. His hand slid down her arm to grasp hers, placing a kiss on her fingers and then holding them to his cheek.

"Stay with me," he begged softly, his voice blurred with weariness. "Don't leave."

"I won't," she whispered, watching his eyes flutter closed. "Move over," she nudged him gently, "I'm gonna lie down with you." At her urging, he shifted until he was on his side, pressing into the back of the couch, trying to make room. Liz slid in next to him and he pulled her close, spooning in behind her.

They both were shivering almost uncontrollably, with their wet clothes, damp hair and the cold night air. Max gathered the last remaining reserves of his energy and waved a tired hand over them both, drying them completely. He gave a heavy sigh as he finally relaxed for the first time in two days. He brushed a kiss over Liz's hair, murmured a quiet "love you," and was immediately asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the discomfort that woke him ... cold metal underneath him, flat on his back, immobilized wrists and ankles holding him in place when he tried to shift into a better sleeping position. He moved his head fitfully back and forth, a frown of confusion pulling down on his brows, trying to put it all together.

He remembered falling asleep with Liz's warmth snuggled against him. That soothing warmth was gone. In it's place were impressions that reminded him way too much of the white room.

At the thought, his eyes flew open. He was staring at white ceiling tiles ... very familiar white ceiling tiles. He raised his upper body off the gurney, as far as the restraints allowed, looking around frantically, breathing hard. No! No, no, no!!

How did he get back here?! And where was Liz? Where was she?!

When his eyes finally picked out her slender form, standing at the door and facing away from him, he almost sobbed with relief.

"Liz?" he called in a uncertain voice.

Her hand tightened on the knob, her body becoming very still. She leaned to press her forehead against the unrelenting white expanse in front of her.

"Liz?" he asked, confused. "What's going on?"

As he watched, dread beginning to pool in his stomach, she slowly turned to look at him. Her face was tragic, her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. Biting her lip to stop it's trembling, she shook her head with a whispered "goodbye, Max," before turning away again. She opened the door, slipping through, allowing it to close quietly behind her again.

"Liz!?!" he cried out in an agony of disbelief. "Liz!!"

He pulled against the restraints with all his strength, twisting his wrists, arching his body in futile attempts to get loose. His movements became more frantic and more desperate, as he strained again and again at the manacles that held him to the gurney, his tear-filled eyes remaining fixed on the door, silently willing her ... begging her ... to return.

"Liz!!" his keen of anguish filled the room. "Liz!! Come back!! Come back!!"

"Come back, Liz!" a low voice mocked from behind him. "Come ba-a-ack!"

His struggles stilled, a broken "no" pulled from him at the realization that he wasn't alone. Slowly, he turned to look behind him, seeing Daniel Pierce leaning casually against the wall, ankles crossed and a smirk lighting his handsome face.

"You're hurting yourself, Max," the agent observed. "Not that I care. But your wrists are going to start bleeding all over my gurney and I really don't want to call in a haz mat team to clean it up."

Unable to look at Pierce's gloating features, he turned away, choosing instead to gaze once more at the door. He could hear the amused chuckle that came from his tormentor.

"She left, Max," Pierce pushed away from the wall to glide smoothly up behind him. His voice was a sibilant whisper in his ear. "She's gone. She figured out what you were, what you really were, and she left."

"No," he shook his head furiously. "No, Liz loves me. She knows who I am, and she loves me!" he grated out.

"Who you are?" Pierce laughed as he moved into his line of sight. "Don't you mean what you are?"

"Shut. Up." he hissed.

"Come on, Max, admit it. There's a part of you that's been afraid of something like this ever since your little friend Michael got sick," the agent mocked. "Oh," he snapped his fingers, "that's right. You don't like to think about that time, do you? I understand completely," Pierce nodded his head in solemn commiseration. "After all, it wasn't the romantic alien hero saving the beautiful human damsel in distress anymore, was it? It wasn't the soulful looks and the connecting," he snorted, and then his voice got hard. "It was creepy sickness and weird rituals and maybe even dying. And she freaked out."

"No, you're wrong!" he denied hoarsely. "You don't understand anything!"

"Sure I do. You were scared to death," Pierce continued to ruthlessly expose one of his darkest fears. "You didn't know if that was your life cycle, and if that was how you died. You were so afraid that you just couldn't keep it inside, so you talked about it. And she couldn't handle it," he leaned close to murmur in his ear.

"She wasn't afraid of me, she was afraid for me," he glared.

"It's why you took your 'step back,' wasn't it? Finally admitting to her that you weren't normal, but trying soo damn hard to figure out a way that it could work." The agent chuckled, before leaning close to murmur in his ear. "Did it hurt to actually have to say it? To tell her that you weren't normal? And even then, you still couldn't stay away, could you? But you were so scared after that, deep down inside. Poor little ET," he crooned as he backed away again, "secretly terrified that your alienness would drive her away one day."

"Stop," he choked, his gaze sliding away to stare straight ahead, tears tightening his throat.

"She saw this," Pierce thrust out his hand, a mass of white, sticky cobwebs dangling from it. He tried to ignore the agent, but almost against his will, he looked, remembering how they'd covered Michael's body. "So you tried to give her this," in Pierce's other hand an incandescent sparkler magically appeared. "It doesn't matter though, does it? Because the bottom line is you'll never be normal, Max," the agent's eyes brimmed with mirth, his hands suddenly empty again. "And she agreed with you. Isn't that what she told you? That it could never be normal?"

A frown of confusion appeared on his face as he struggled with a fleeting memory that was just out of reach.

"Well, it looks as if your abnormal life has ruined things," Pierce observed cheerfully. "Just like you always knew it would."

"Shut. Up," he grated. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!" his voice rose to an agonized shout.

"That's why your deepest, darkest wish was to run away with her," the agent grinned, and he once again struggled to remember something that felt important, vital. "You wanted to get away before all your alien shit screwed things up for good. You were hoping that maybe it would be okay if it was just the two of you, far away where nobody knew about you," he said, one eyebrow raised.

"And every time some weird alien thing happened, you'd hold your breath. If she handled it, you'd breathe again." He chuckled. "You didn't even realize you were doing it. But you always knew this day would come," he nodded. "That there'd be some f*cked up alien thing she just couldn't get past."

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hissed. "You don't know what we have. She's just scared and confused and ... and unsure, that's all. We all heard some things, things we'll have to figure out," he pushed himself up as far as the restraints would allow, defiant. "But we'll get through this!"

"Whatever you say, Max," Pierce said as he strolled casually toward the door. He opened it and then turned to smile at him over his shoulder. "Whatver you say." He slid through the door, leaving him alone in the white room.

There is no easy transition when Max moves from the realm of sleep, and dreams, back into being awake. He doesn't give a deep sigh as he slowly becomes aware of the warm darkness of his room, savoring the time it takes for him to become fully alert.

No, he lurches up awkwardly in bed, only managing at the last second to stifle the cry that trembles on his lips. He doesn't want to wake anyone up, and he really doesn't want Isabel to know that he's had another nightmare.

His t-shirt is damp with the sweat that slicks his body. His heart is pounding, every sense on overload. He looks around anxiously, trying to peer into the corners, for the shadows of his room are suddenly threatening ... he wonders if Pierce is hiding in one of them, watching him with that predatory gaze that Max had become all too familiar with.

Logically, he knows that Pierce is dead. He saw it himself, with his own eyes. He knows that what he's feeling is completely irrational. But, in his nightmares, the agent is alive and well, a malevolent ghost that haunts his sleep and tortures him with his darkest fears and vulnerabilities, laughing at his torment. Max wonders if Daniel Pierce will chase him down in his dreams for the rest of his life.

He gets up off his bed. He has no desire to lie there, trying to go back to sleep, while his thoughts run wild. He doesn't want to sleep. He wants to do something, anything, to relieve this tension that is clawing at his insides. What he really wants to do is put on a pair of gym shorts and a clean t-shirt, lace up his shoes, and get out and go for a run. He doesn't care that it's the dead of night. The desire to just get away is so strong that he's halfway dressed before the dark thought whispers in his ear ...

They took you once. They can take you again.

Max drops back onto the bed, gripping the shirt in his hand. What is he thinking? He can't go out there, he can't.

He remembers Pierce questioning him in the white room about the deaths of the other heads of the special unit. And one thing came through to Max loud and clear, even in all his terror.

Kill the head, and the unit doesn't die. Kill the head, and another head simply takes it's place. But the unit goes on.

Until Nasedo destroys the special unit from the inside, the threat against him is far from over. Max's position is actually more tenuous now. Before, they suspected him of being an alien. Now they know he is.

He shudders. He can't think about this. So he trades one torment for another.

His thoughts turn to Liz. The longing to be in her arms, to feel her touch, to look into her eyes is suddenly overwhelming. He knows that, right now, it's an impossibility; but he would take anything he could get. A phone call, an email ...

Just an email, he thinks. If he had that, he would feel like he could breathe again. He could hold on forever if he just had that. He palms his wet eyes. He feels so unsure, so tentative. He has been shaken clear down to his bones.

Max moves quickly to his computer, sitting down and going through the start-up process. He gets onto the internet and goes to his emails. He sees immediately that there is nothing from her. Desolation washes over him, and he can't help the anxious thought that goes through his mind.

What if he never hears from her?

His chest gets tight with the need to just communicate with Liz in any way he can. He has to try. He clicks on the icon to write an email and types in her address. What he sends is simple ...

Liz,

What I told you before will always be true. You mean everything to me. Please, please come home.

I love you.

Max

It only takes a click of the mouse to send it on its way, all his hopes going with it.

Not sure what to do with himself, Max just stays where he is, his face lit by the glow of the computer screen.

[Realistic Dreamer]

Gentle Readers ...

It's been a long time. I want to thank all of you for your kind wishes and encouragement regarding my dad and his health. He is doing well, and goes home from the rehab center tomorrow. It's not the end of his health problems, but we will be crossing those bridges in the next few weeks. It's been a long row to hoe.

I apologize for the delay in updating. Not only did I do a lot of traveling (this includes one mid-air, 6 miles above the earth turn around of my plane because of a "slight" mechanical problem that scared the crap out of me), but the whole experience has been a really sobering look into the health care of the elderly.

Thank you again for nominating this for Favorite Lead Portrayal of Max Evans. I was in fabulous company (Breathless and Sylvia ... oh, my) and this category really means a lot to me. I appreciate you all.


Chapter 11

Max doesn't look up when Isabel enters the kitchen, so he misses her slightly raised eyebrow, the only outward expression of her surprise at seeing him already up and sitting at the table. A bowl of cereal is sitting untouched in front of him. Max is not known to be an early riser in the family. Their mother often jokes that she feels she has to literally pull the bed out from underneath him to get him up in the morning. His favorite phrase is "just ten more minutes, Mom."

Isabel takes a moment to study him, and her heart sinks in dismay at what she sees. He looks exhausted. Max's hair is rumpled, there are dark circles under his eyes, and she has never seen his jaw so tight with strain. He runs a hand down his face as he stares down at the table, his lips pressed together.

She lets out a compressed breath, and Max raises his head, meeting her gaze for a moment. Her eyes widen a bit as he turns his stare back to the tabletop. It was only a flicker, but the stark pain in his eyes was as raw as anything she had ever witnessed.

Wordlessly, Isabel slides into the chair across from him. Taking a moment to collect herself, she adopts a bright demeanor and a teasing tone.

"You know," she observes, "those Coco Puffs are gonna get soggy if you don't eat them soon."

Her nose wrinkles in vague disgust as she takes a closer look at his bowl. Reaching over, she picks up the spoon and scoops up some cereal. Lifting it a bit, she allows the Coco Puffs to fall back into the bowl in little plops.

"Okay, forget it, it's way too late," she says, shaking her head. "They're beyond all hope and help."

When he doesn't respond, Isabel sighs. Abandoning the pretence of manners, she places both forearms on the table, leaning over them to stare at him, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge her.

After what seems like an eternity, because Isabel is as stubborn as Max can be, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers. There is concern and sympathy brimming in her eyes.

Oh, fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Max has to will himself to stay seated, when all he wants to do is get up and get away from her. He doesn't want this. Not now, probably not ever. He slides his hands off the table and onto his lap, clenching them in tight fists, out of Isabel's sight.

It's written all over her face. She wants to talk. To help. She wants to fix this, fix him. She is so eager to try and make things better for him that the pressure is already overwhelming. And, outside of the commentary on his soggy cereal, she hasn't said a single word.

It's not that he doesn't understand, or that he doesn't in some way appreciate that she wants so much to help. It's that she doesn't know; she just doesn't know. And he wants to keep it that way.

He quickly looks away, glancing at the clock instead. Max frowns when he suddenly realizes that he's been sitting in the same spot for over half an hour. It feels as if no time at all has passed. He tries to remember if anything happened while he was sitting at the table, something like maybe his mother passing through the kitchen. He doesn't know.

Max has been completely preoccupied with the pain inside of him. It's all he can think about. Sometimes it's sharp, intense and almost more than he can stand. Other times, it's as if he is under a thick cloud, one that weighs him down to the point that he feels he can't move or function.

It's been this way since he'd woken up from his latest nightmare. He'd spent hours in his room. He'd stared at the computer screen for a long time, as if watching it could somehow magically bring him a response from Liz. Finally, he'd turned it off. He'd paced the floor. He'd lie down on his bed, only to get up again moments later.

And his thoughts had been disjointed; they'd moved from one thing to the next. Pierce, Liz, Pierce, the weight of the new responsibility that now hangs over his head, Pierce. Pierce, Pierce, Pierce. The thoughts went around and around in his mind, never allowing him any sort of peace, and eventually he'd left his room, unable to stand it anymore. He'd felt like he'd go crazy if he stayed in there much longer.

It didn't help. Sitting at the kitchen table, going through his normal morning routine, didn't help. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts just keep going back to the special unit, to Eagle Rock, to the agent.

There are things that happened to him in the white room that will not get out of his head. He tries so hard not to think of them. He can be successful for a little while, and then they're right back there, in the forefront again. It's like instant replay, or a tape on a continuous loop, that he has no control over.

Max knows the fact that Daniel Pierce is dead should be some sort of closure for him, but it isn't. He haunts Max's dreams, where he is alive and well. In his nightmares, Pierce holds him captive and tears him to shreds ... physically, psychologically and emotionally. The special agent now holds more power over Max, dead and moving about freely in his subconscious, than he ever did in the white room.

Max doesn't want to think about Pierce. The hatred, the rage he feels whenever the agent enters his thoughts scares him, because their intensity is almost more than he can bear. He literally becomes sick to his stomach.

And there is one period of time during his capture that his mind still completely shies away from.

But the minutes just before Michael and Nasedo came are hands-down the most terrifying of the entire ordeal, and they play out in graphic detail in his head once again. Helpless to stop himself, he thinks about the last moments of the white room, before they broke him out.

"I can take you apart, piece by piece, and make sure that you stay conscious enough to feel every second of it"

"I can take you apart, piece by piece ..."

"Take you apart, piece by piece ..."

"Piece by piece ..."

Involuntary tears fill Max's eyes as his vivid imagination takes over.

He is on a bed in the white room, propped up by pillows. His head blindly turns this way and that, trying desperately to follow the sounds of someone strolling around him.

He has no arms, no legs, no eyes, no vocal cords. There is no tongue to moisten his dry lips. What is left of his body is criss-crossed with the scars of other surgical forays into his "alien" anatomy. There is one from when they removed a kidney, another one from the time they took a lung. There are thick striations from the many times they'd experimented on his heart ... always taking him to the brink, but never taking him over.

The only senses that he has left are the feeling of touch on his skin. And sound. The special agent, in a fit of whimsy, has left him his hearing so that he can torment him with words, day after day after day. Max is a prisoner in his own body, at the mercy of a man who has long ago taken everything from him.

"I told you, Max," he jumps in terror at the sibilant whisper that is suddenly, and without warning, in his ear. "Piece by piece."

Like anyone who has ever come within a hairsbreadth of overwhelming horror, Max feels the dark brush of Pierce's evil against his soul again at the memory. His fingers involuntarily go to the spot on his chest where the dissection had begun. A small, strangled sound comes from deep in his throat when he thinks of how close, how very close, he'd come ...

Looking up, he is startled to see Isabel still watching him. He'd forgotten she was there.

"Do you have to go to work today?" she asks.

Max sits for a moment, a blank look on his face, just staring at her. His heart is pounding, his stomach churning. He knows his hands are shaking. He feels like he can't breathe, the walls closing in on him.

He has to get out of here. With an inarticulate murmur, he pushes away from the table. His instinct has him heading for the door that leads outside. The thought of the special unit stops him in his tracks, and he turns awkwardly, heading back to his room.

All Isabel hears is the distant slam of his door.