Chapter Text
Several crickets hanging around outside the Crashdown Cafe and the apartment above it signaled back and forth with each other almost constantly, throughout the night. The air conditioning lumbered on and off at hourly intervals, cooling a living room made stuffy by the presence of four young bodies in varying states and stages of repose, though the room would normally be cool at this time of night in the middle of the New Mexico desert.
Whitman snored lightly, his bare arms crossed beneath his head on his pillow and the line of his lanky form stretched out straight within his borrowed sleeping bag. DeLuca sprawled haphazardly, her short blonde hair a wild mess all around her face, and one Scooby-Doo pajama-clad arm (Because, apparently, she kept a set of pajamas here for unplanned sleepovers. It was smart, although with the amount of time Michael had been spending with Parker lately, he knew that the pajamas hadn’t seen as much use in the past two months as they had before he and Parker became friends.) up above her head, the other cupping her own, sleep-slackened cheek, her legs bent at nearly inhuman angles under the quilts she’d bogarted from the Parkers’ linen closet, apparently preferring the quilts to a sleeping bag. Every once in a while, she snuffled or snorted softly, her head tossing lightly against her pillow.
Parker (Who currently sported mint green sleep shorts and a soft, faded, well-worn grey Crashdown t-shirt with a little stylized alien on it that Michael suspected once belonged to Mr. Parker, since it hung down to her mid thighs and wasn’t a version of the Crashdown uniform that he could ever recall having seen in all the years his brother had been dragging him there. She had chosen the t-shirt in place of her usual matching mint green sleep tank, in a passing nod to modesty, given the mixed company and some lingering shyness from having the private details of her own physical appearance spread around to most of the degenerates they were forced to share a school with.), in spite of their best efforts towards discretion as they were arranging themselves for the night, had worked her way inexorably towards Michael in her uneasy slumber. By the time the smallest hours of the night rolled around, she had wormed her way flush against his side, her head burrowed into his chest.
Still wide awake, Michael could have - and definitely should have, given their company and stark lack of privacy - moved her carefully back into her original spot, but he had wrapped his arms around her instead, the hand she’d fallen asleep holding now buried in her sleep-mussed, strawberry scented hair. Her warm, minty breaths puffed against his neck, and every now and then, she would scrunch her nose or frown and try to scoot even closer, as though that was somehow still possible. When she grew restless in that way, Michael would run his fingers gently through her hair, and gradually her body would go still and lax again.
There was something soothing about being able to gentle his best friend back into a deeper sleep, and Michael would take all the soothing he could get, since his siblings were probably going to kill him in the morning, and not in a jesting, Dread Pirate Roberts kind of way. He imagined telling Isabel and Maxwell about the glow between Michael and Parker’s entwined hands that Whitman had allegedly noticed during the funeral service, and all of the different ways the other two aliens might annihilate him for it, and silently prayed that morning would never come.
After all, this wasn’t such a bad place to be. In many ways, it was a vast improvement over the way most of his life had gone, staying as remote as possible from everyone at school - aside from Isabel and Max, of course - and having to dodge Hank’s elbows and fists and knees and boots, and tune out his sharp tongue in the rare moments when Hank decided to stay at home instead of visiting one of the local bars in his off time. Michael could easily lay here, cocooned in the sleeping bag that Parker pulled out for him, holding his best friend close as she slept, listening to the sounds of Roswell at night indefinitely.
Better than having to deal with the fallout.
Isabel was still fuming about the first human initiated into their secret, though the recent bullying Parker had been subjected to and the loss of Dr. Claudia Parker had softened his sister ever so slightly in his best friend’s favor. Maxwell was still nursing some hurt feelings over the closeness between his longtime crush and his own brother, and feeling guilty - but not too guilty, since he had, in fact, saved Parker’s life - about his involvement in her discovery of their alien nature. Throwing another human into such an already volatile mix was bound to cause an explosion at some point, but Michael couldn’t see a way out of it. Whitman was one of the most straight laced guys he had ever met, so there was no chance of blaming what the geek had seen on drugs or alcohol, and he was also reportedly incredibly smart and even-keeled, so there probably wasn’t a way to convince him that he was just crazy or hallucinating due to grief or stress either.
Not to mention that he doubted Parker would be happy with Michael if he tried to sell Whitman on any of those possibilities, and she wasn’t exactly in a good place to be dealing with any kind of friction between herself and one or more of her friends.
How had he reached a point where he had to deal with these kinds of problems?
Parker whimpered in her sleep, and without needing to think about it, he shushed her quietly, carding his fingers through her hair until she relaxed again.
Right. She had wormed her way into every single part of his life almost instantly when he had needed someone the most, and she’d managed to become a permanent fixture, every bit as vital to his existence as his brother and sister. That was how.
He couldn’t even find it within himself to regret it, no matter how many problems he had dealt with because of it, and would most likely continue to deal with because of it in the future.
Eventually, Michael was forced to admit that the living room was starting to grow a little bit lighter, bit by bit, and he sighed when the weak illumination grew strong enough that he could see the room in muted colors, instead of black and grey shadows.
He waited a few more minutes and then sighed again before he pressed his lips lightly against Parker’s crown and then began shifting her back into her little nest, her head laid carefully upon her pillow. She objected, her lips puckered in confused discontentment, but he crouched next to her and ran his fingers through her hair again, slowly coaxing her to relax fully, and then he rose and slinked on silent, bare feet into the kitchen.
Quietly, he started a pot of coffee and then grabbed everything he needed to make scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits for six, hoping Mrs. Parker would not mind if he took over her kitchen for a little while.
The easy routine of cooking was almost as relaxing as easing Parker through her disturbed sleep, the familiar motions occupying his hands and requiring just enough of his focus that he could - at least briefly - stop worrying quite so much over what to do about the latest crisis.
Perhaps prompted by the gradual loss of warmth from his absence, or the inevitable sounds from making breakfast, Parker stumbled into the kitchen before any of the others, moving almost blindly, her eyes still puffy and heavy-lidded with sleep, until she could wrap her arms around his waist and press her head into his back.
With a soft noise of protest, she groaned, “It’s too early.”
With the hand not occupied by flipping the bacon, Michael patted her forearms where they overlapped against his middle. “I know. I’m an awful person, waking you up so early. But hey, at least there’s bacon.”
“Mmm. Bacon’s good,” she mumbled agreeably, before going quiet.
He waited a few beats, wondering if she was going to say anything else, and then he felt more of her slight weight pressing against his back. Patting her arms again, he warned, “Parker, you’d better not be falling asleep back there. You might not have noticed, but this is a hot stove. Sleep and burners don’t exactly go together.”
She grunted.
He bit his lips against the grin threatening to break out. “You wanna try that again, in English?”
“‘M awake,” she grumbled dutifully.
Convincing.
“Uhuh. Go sit down at the table so I can stop worrying about you getting splattered with bacon grease.”
She squeezed his middle lightly and then complied, offering no protests or offers of assistance; she knew better than to try and cook whilst she was still only half-way awake.
DeLuca stirred next, joining her female best friend at the dining room table, which Michael could see easily enough when he glanced away from the stove. She took one of Parker’s hands and held it in her own on top of the table.
“Hey, babe,” she said softly.
“Hi, ‘Ria. D’you sleep okay?”
DeLuca huffed. “Like a rock. But you don’t need to worry about me. How’d you do? You look like you could do with about twelve more hours.”
“Gee, thanks,” Parker said, but she smiled as she did so.
Waving her free hand, DeLuca just replied, “You know you’re always gorgeous, missy, but even you can get bags under your eyes.”
She was one to talk. DeLuca had bags the size of New Mexico currently taking up residence beneath her own eyes. Maybe sleeping on the floor didn’t fully agree with her, since he knew she had actually slept the whole night through, or maybe she had allergies and those bags were just always there, normally hidden under makeup. Michael wasn’t going to ask. He would be the first person to admit that he wasn’t always the best with other people, but even he knew better than that.
The timer he had set on the oven earlier went off, and Michael turned it off before flipping the bacon again. He set the fork aside and then grabbed an oven mit and a kitchen towel, using them to protect his hands as he took the biscuits out of the oven, setting the cookie sheet he’d placed them on onto two hot pads he had set out to protect the countertop.
Mrs. Parker wandered into the kitchen next, looking tired but thoroughly at ease in her long cotton nightgown and floral-patterned house robe, tied loosely at the waist, her hair still mostly unkempt from sleep. She paused on her way in as she was passing the girls, kissing them both on their foreheads.
“Good morning, girls.”
“Morning.”
“Hey, there, Mrs. P!”
She smiled and then continued her way into the kitchen, taking everything in with slightly wide eyes.
“Michael, honey, you didn’t have to cook for us!”
He shrugged, pulling the scrambled eggs off of the burner and turning off the heat. “It’s not a big deal, Mrs. Parker.”
“It is, though,” she said earnestly, patting his shoulder. “Thank you for being here for Liz, and thank you for doing this. I sure do appreciate you helping like this. I don’t know where we would have been without you the past few days, although I certainly hope you know I don’t expect it. Don’t get so wrapped up in helping everyone else that you forget about yourself, alright? But I do want you to know that I noticed, and I’m very grateful.”
He ducked his head, focusing on the last few pieces of bacon still frying in the pan. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Parker,” he mumbled, trying and failing not to feel awkward. If she really knew how he had been looking after her daughter since things went to pot - again - she probably wouldn’t be thanking him. She might even chase him out of the apartment with her broom.
(That wasn’t really the Parker style of parenting, though, from what their daughter had told him. They made sure to let her know with plenty of praise when they were proud of her, but if she ever screwed up, they didn’t get loud and dramatic. Instead, they grew grave and quietly concerned and disappointed. According to the youngest Parker, it never failed to make their only child feel like an absolute dog.)
Instead of pressing him even further, Mrs. Parker simply patted him on the shoulder a second time and then went to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Then she walked over to the fridge and started pulling out a few different jars of jelly, some butter, a jar of salsa, a tub of sour cream, a bottle of ketchup, which Michael eyed dubiously, and a package of shredded cheddar, all of which she placed on the counter in a little cluster.
At his raised eyebrows, Mrs. Parker shrugged easily. “Everyone here likes something different on their biscuits and in their eggs. There’s a bottle of Tabasco and a bottle of honey in the spice cabinet- you might have missed them when you grabbed the salt and pepper earlier.” To the pair sitting at the table, she said, “Girls, come get some of this and take it to the table for me, will you? I’ll get the plates and silverware.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. P!”
Whitman, who like Michael , had stripped unselfconsciously down to his boxers and undershirt last night, hanging his black suit in Parker’s closet, wandered into the kitchen next, and Mrs. Parker asked him to pull out two folding chairs from the main hallway closet so that everyone could sit at the table.
It was as Whitman was arranging the chairs at the table that Mr. Parker shuffled in, also wearing a house robe over his plaid pajamas. He leaned down to hug his daughter and then went to hold his wife, who’d already finished her self-appointed task of setting the table.
Michael turned away from the tender looks on their faces, busying himself with pouring coffee into the mugs Parker had pulled out once she and DeLuca were done moving condiments to the dining area.
He intentionally chose the one with an alien holding his hand up in a peace sign on it for himself purely out of spite, daring the universe to out him to yet another person in this stupid tourist trap of a town.
Breakfast passed quietly, everyone still a little sleepy and subdued in the wake of the funeral. Mrs. Parker made it a point to thank Michael for the meal again when it was winding down, and the others all followed her lead.
Michael’s face felt hot. He had no idea what to do with this many people thanking him for something so simple all at once, and so genuinely.
He shrugged and said, “No problem,” the words gruffer than he’d intended.
Parker found his hand under the table and squeezed it gently, and he relaxed a little.
“Well,” Parker said, sounding much more alert now that her stomach was full and she’d had plenty of caffeine, “since you cooked, I’ll do the cleanup.”
DeLuca nodded. “Seems fair. I’ll come help.”
“I can clean a few dishes,” Michael said, not wanting to be left alone with Whitman, who knew something about him, and Mr. and Mrs. Parker, who didn’t know what Whitman knew but were people-smart enough to pick up on the tension between the two boys if given the chance.
“Me, too,” Whitman added.
“Guys, we can’t all fit in the kitchen together,” Parker objected, laughing just a little bit at the idea of all four of them piled on top of each other in the small space. “Seriously, Maria and I can handle it.”
The parents Parker glanced around at the teenagers gathered in their dining room and Mr. Parker said reluctantly, “Well, it looks like you have everything handled here. Would you all mind if Nancy and I went downstairs to take care of some things before the day starts?”
His daughter waved him off, a sweet but competent look on her face. “Don’t even worry about it, dad. We’re fine . Go do whatever it is you need to do.”
“Alright, then,” he said, rising from his seat and then pressing a kiss to his daughter’s hair. “I’ll see you kids later. If you need anything, just let us know.”
His wife echoed the sentiment and then joined him on the way to their bedroom, presumably to get dressed for the day.
“Well, since you ladies have the kitchen, Michael and I will straighten up the living room,” Whitman announced. “I’m sure Liz’s parents will appreciate having it back to normal.”
Michael pinned Whitman with a flat look, not bothered about being volunteered, but exceedingly bothered by the high probability of being cornered while they worked. The other boy didn’t even flinch.
Great.
Maybe Michael was starting to lose his touch.
Parker looked between the two boys, her brow furrowed as she zeroed in on the strange energy in the room, but she couldn’t seem to find a viable reason to separate them. She shrugged warily and then agreed. “…Alright. That sounds good. Just let me know if you need help with anything.”
Whitman sent her a goofy look. “With the number of times I’ve slept here over the years, Parker? I think we’ve got this covered.”
”Yeah, what exactly do you think they’re gonna need help with, Liz? It’s the sleep stuff, not rocket science,” DeLuca wondered, clearly amused - both by her friend echoing her parents and by how adorable she was when she acted older than her sixteen years.
Parker relaxed a bit in the face her two oldest friends’ easy demeanors. “Yeah, okay, you’re right, Alex. And like you said, Maria, they’re sleeping bags and a few pillows and blankets. What could go wrong?”
”Exactly,” DeLuca declared, always glad for someone to tell her she was right. Probably because it didn’t happen all that often. She had some of the strangest ideas about things.
Although Michael couldn’t find anything to complain about when it came to her stubborn devotion to Parker, who needed all the staunch supporters she could get, particularly after the stunt Troy had pulled last week, and after Dr. Parker’s passing.
The girls got busy with the dishes, first clearing everything off the table and talking to each other quietly. Left alone with the last human, which was the exact opposite of what one of Roswell’s carefully hidden alien youths had wanted, Michael and Whitman eyed each other.
Eventually, Whitman rolled his eyes and started rolling up one of the sleeping bags, Michael following suit. “Relax. I know I kind of sprang what I saw on you last night, but I’m not about to give you the third degree when the girls are just one room away.”
He waved at himself and then he waved at Michael vaguely. “Besides, look at me and then look at you. It’s not like I could actually give you the third degree even if the girls weren’t within earshot. You could squash me like a bug if I even tried.”
”But I have a ton of questions, and you haven’t threatened to reduce me to a crimson stain on the floor yet, which tells me that either you’re not totally opposed to answering them, or you just don’t want to kill me where there’ll be witnesses. Now, Liz clearly thinks the world of you, and she’s a pretty good judge of character, which makes me pretty sure that it’s the former and not the latter. And while I could just ask Liz about this at some point, which I know I kind of mentioned last night, this seems like a big enough secret that asking her about it would just stress her out, which I think we can definitely agree is something that she absolutely does not need right about now. So, keeping all of that in mind: You and I will need to talk at some point.”
Michael stared at the other guy for a while, waiting to see if he had anything else to say, since he was evidently feeling especially verbose today. When all Whitman did was blink at him, Michael finally said, “Great. Can’t wait.”
Whitman’s mouth folded in on itself like he was fighting off a grin, but all he said was, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
They finished the rest of their task in silence.