He watched her move fitfully in her sleep. She whimpered occasionally. Most of the time she cried and called out for her brother or the Guerin boy. He liked it better when she was awake. Sometimes her eyes spit fire and mistrust and she called him a "lowdown proletariat bastard" and blamed him for their situation.

Situation? He slumped in the hard wooden chair and rubbed his tired eyes with his fists. When had he started using such a flat word for what had happened? Two days ago? Three?

The room was like a concrete box. What furniture there was, was bolted down. One chair...a twin bed...a metal file cabinet...and a two way mirror directly across from the bed. The door practically blended into the walls...an offending mass of silver-gray metal with no window. There was barely room for two people to move around. Which was why he moved constantly and she didn't--unless she rose up like a haughty goddess to knock on the mirror and demand to be taken to the bathroom. She did that twice a day at the exact same time every day. The rest of the time she cussed at him and the mirror...or she slept and tried to dreamwalk. He paced. He paced a lot.

"Come on, you assholes...let us out! You can't do this, goddammit! We have rights! Valenti here is a Sheriff! Don't you think they'll fucking look for him?"

"I didn't know you could cuss like that, Isabel. That's damned impressive. Too bad they don't care about our rights. Go on and hush...you're only going to make yourself hoarse."

The first two nights, he'd slept in the chair. . .the morning of the third, she'd watched him get up to knock for a bathroom trip, trying not to scream, and she'd given a tiny nod. Okay. Only after he knew she was dreaming had he dared climb onto the narrow bed and stretch out. Now, almost a week after their imprisonment, it was nothing. Twice he'd woken up to find her curled against his chest. Even in here, where drab blue coveralls and undergarments were stacked in the cabinet and men with rifles stood guard outside, her long blond hair smelled like fresh, ripe, strawberries. The scent made him ache.

Last Tuesday, he'd pulled the Evans' Jeep over for speeding. She'd only been going five miles over the limit and what he'd really wanted was to see her squirm and try to deny, once again, that she, Michael, and her brother were what he suspected. It was a habit. He couldn't help it. So, he'd put on the brights and the siren and urged her onto the shoulder of the darkened road. At the Jeep, cool greetings had been exchanged.

"Hello, Isabel....mighty late for a drive, isn't it?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, is there, Sheriff? I didn't know Roswell had a teen curfew."

"No need for one as long as we have good kids like you and that brother of yours."

And that was all he remembered before they'd woken up on the floor of this room. Before men in suits had filed in with silent smirks and stared at them like they were lab rats. He still didn't know why they'd been kidnapped. He still didn't know why they'd been stripped and changed while unconscious and all their belongings taken and why the armed guards offered no explanation every time they were led down the narrow white corridor to the tiny, pristine, washroom.

Isabel was right to blame him. It was his fault. He rubbed the back of his head, remembering a feral, feminine grin. Topolsky. Feds. After Hubble, it was no wonder they'd all gotten riled up. So they'd made their move. He hadn't seen her--hadn't seen anyone but square-jawed Quantico flunkies--but every fiber of his being said that Agent Kathleen Topolsky was on the other side of the mirror most of the time. Not at night. He knew at night there was just surveillance. Topolsky needed her beauty sleep, after all.

"Max...?"

Isabel's breathy moan floated to him in the silence. He could make out her dark, velvety brows knitting together in frustration. "Max...are you there?"

Max was never "there". Neither were Michael Guerin or Liz Parker or Maria DeLuca. She tried to act like it was nothing to worry about. He still hadn't gotten up the nerve to ask her to try Kyle's dreams. He didn't want to know...he didn't want to imagine. He worried anyway. What if the other kids had been grabbed, too, and were somewhere else in this facility? What if everyone was dead? What if his son was dead? He choked against his palms, shuddering.

In light of it all...did it really matter that he finally knew the truth? That the girl who lay in that bed was an alien? "No." He said it out loud, hearing his rusty voice for the first time in hours. "No, it doesn't matter." She was just a lovely, blond-haired girl who cried herself into dreamland...who smelled like strawberries and swore like a sailor. Whatever lay under her skin was something he'd ceased caring about....or maybe something he'd started caring about even more.

"Jim?"

Her big brown eyes were open...damp with exhaustion and failure. She had one hand under the thin down pillow that they had learned to share and the other was clenched at her side.

"Yes, 'Bel?"

"Are they going to kill us?"

She meant, "Are they going to kill you and dissect me?". "I don't know," he murmured, rising from the chair. "I won't let them hurt you," he assured quietly. "I'll die before I let them do that."

Her voice was low and sad. "You probably will." She shifted on the small bed, on top of the sterile white sheets. "You'll die and they'll cut me open." And then she sat up suddenly, her hair spilling around her like a wave. She'd partially unbuttoned the coveralls and the white of her bra peeked through. Neither of them were particularly self-conscious anymore. Not when they were always watched. Not when they had nothing to look at but each other. "Or....or...."

"Or what?" They'd entertained theories before...it was almost like a game to pass the time. Alien abduction. Anal probes. Blackmail. Genetic experimentation. Alien autopsy. It was just a question of when. He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, letting his tensed shoulders slump.

It took her a few minutes to finish the sentence, but when she did, it was with the same convicted poise that she'd insulted their captors with. She stared him straight in the eye like she had when he'd pulled her over. "Or they want us to mate and have a alien-human hybrid baby."

He couldn't laugh. He couldn't even gasp in surprise. He'd thought of it. He'd thought of it by Day Two. A young, beautiful, extraterrestrial trapped in a room with an old, "hasn't-had-a-date-in-ages" goat like him...it smacked of a sick government plot. And it terrified him. "'Bel," he sighed, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "Isabel, do you trust me?"

She cocked her head, and he half expected her to call him a perverted asshole, but, instead, she scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Until she could practically bump him onto the floor with her body. The berry scent of her hair drifted up around him. "I do now," she informed, softly.

He laughed shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. "I sure don't trust me."

"Shut up. Just shut up, Jim." She poked his chest with one finger...making his coveralls turn from blue to flaming red and then back again.

"Just how do you propose to make me do that? You going to work some alien tricks on me?" he teased. "Give me a silver hand print?"

She shook her head mutely and her bottom lip began to quiver. It was pure instinct--and years of holding Kyle when he'd wake up from nightmares--that made him pull her into his lap. He could feel her entire body shaking as he held her close. Her arms automatically slid around his waist and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

"They're all okay, right?" she whispered.

"Yeah, they're fine....they're fine, Darlin'," he murmured into her hair.

He held her for what felt like hours but was only minutes, cradling her in his arms until she pulled him down and they stretched out together on the bed. Even then, he didn't let her go. He didn't want to. Her face fit into the curve of his neck and her long legs tangled with his. She was soft and warm and the only thing that kept him from breaking. She hadn't seen him cry...and he was determined to keep it that way.

"I'm scared," she said into his skin. Her lips made him shiver and he ignored the sensation.

"So am I," he admitted. "So am I."

"Thank you."

He knew it was wrong. When she raised her head, their lips met anyway. She kissed awkwardly but she tasted like she smelled and he craved it. His captive body kissed her back, his mouth taught hers to open and caress properly as his hands wound themselves in her hair. It was as if he imprinted his mark on her lips, made them his and only his. As her young, lithe, form brushed against him, his baggy coveralls seemed suddenly too tight. Lights went off behind his eyes and he was undoing buttons and nipping at skin.

Two naked children, holding hands, on a dark country road...a little blond girl chasing pigeons in a park...that same girl, now older, crying at the reservoir.

"Yes," she whispered. "More..."

Maybe it was that sigh against his lips...maybe it was a glimpse of the mirror out of the corner of his eye...but Jim's control came rushing back. His senses snapped into crisp focus and he broke away, breathing harshly and scrambling to the foot of the bed. He took in great drafts of stagnant air.

"Damn. Damn. Damn." He closed his eyes against the sight of her lying there, all tumbled and sensual, and swallowed sudden bile. "Told you I don't trust myself," he gasped out sickly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Her voice was calm and completely without shame.

"You're not?" He looked at her cautiously, carefully. She sat there as unruffled as the Madonna in St. Anne's on Roswell's Jackson Street. Smiling. Almost looking like young, untouchable, Miss Isabel Evans again. Her eyes were dancing.

"I saw them, Jim." She leaned forward, conspiratorial and excited. "Max and Michael and Kyle and everyone! You helped me see them! They're okay! They're alive! THEY don't have them!"

"They're coming for us", she meant.

"Well, I'll be damned." He couldn't help the smile that appeared on his own face, replacing all the guilt, and the sick feeling in his stomach, with a surge of absurdly happy hope.

They both swore triumphantly at the mirror, at the camera and the ghost faces behind it.

"Just you wait, Assholes...just you wait...you're going to pay!"

"Fuck you, Kathleen...you're going to get yours."

She tugged on his ankle, urging him back from his position of retreat, and they settled comfortably and platonically into each other's arms. This time there was no blinding need to kiss...no near-creation of a hybrid...and no vision. He inhaled the scent of fruits and waited for the explosions to begin.

Jim found himself following the Evans' red Jeep in his cruiser, flashing his lights. She was doing 50 on a 45 mph side street. The Jeep slowly pulled over to the side of the road and he did the same, parking behind it.

Between catching up with paperwork, avoiding nosy reporters and Feds, and spending as much time with Kyle as possible, he hadn't seen her. Seven days since Max and Michael had freed them from the basement facility and blown it up. Seven days since several unlisted FBI agents had died in a mysterious warehouse fire. Seven days since he'd held Isabel in his arms and nearly created a sci-fi cliche. He'd called Phillip and Diane a few times to check on her--mostly hoping to catch her on the phone--and they'd been enthusiastic with their thanks and not particularly forthcoming on much else.

He missed her.

As he got out of the car and walked towards where she sat, all proud and unscarred from their ordeal, he felt his knees shake just a bit. He'd gotten used to seeing her in blue coveralls and white cotton...she looked startlingly beautiful and strange in a red tank top and matching vinyl pants. She almost didn't seem like the same young woman.

"Hello, Isabel," he murmured, tipping his Stetson courteously.

"Sheriff," she allowed, casually taking off her black sunglasses and fixing him with her cool, dark gaze. "Was I speeding?"

"Five miles over," he admitted gruffly, trying not to wince. Would this be them? Back to normal? Business as usual?

She looked ready to cuss him out. Lord, he hoped she would. Minutes passed. And then she smiled. She smiled and shook her head. "You lowdown proletariat bastard...don't you have anything better to do?"

He laughed. The tension flowed out. He watched her eyes spit fire and he was relieved. Truly relieved. "What do you suggest, 'Bel?"

Her lips quirked and one lofty eyebrow arched up. "Pie at the CrashDown and a discussion of the latest in coverall chic?"

"You're on."

Leaning into the Jeep, he brushed a paternal kiss across her forehead. The smell of strawberries enveloped him in a brief haze...and then it was gone in the desert wind.