Drugged
Alandra DeFlores
Distribute: anywhere, as long as you e-mail me first.
Spoilers: The White Room
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Max/Pierce
Summary: A short Max POV
Disclaimer: Please. If I owned Roswell, I would NOT be writing fic. Well, I
might, but that's not important.
* ~ + Special thanks to Meri for being my beta reader and thanks to Meredith
+ ~ *
What is wrong with me?
I'm all alone. I'm scared. I'm cold.
He enters. Inhuman. Unethical. Interrogating me. Prodding me. Asking about
the dead agents. Telling me about the aliens they held captive years ago.
As if I give a damn.
I don't care. How can I?
He keeps leaning closer and closer to me, a smirk on his face. His blue eyes
are piercing me while his breath falls in soft puffs on my lips.
Why? Why do I want his face to stay so near to my own?
Damnit, I have lost my mind.
He walks away for a moment, inquiring about those stupid orbs. When I refuse
to reply, some guys in white suits come in and inject me with something.
But I've already been drugged. It just didn't come in a vial, a bottle or an
IV.
The last thing I remember is a hand--his hand--stroking my hair softly...
almost lovingly. An image of his face is the last image I have burned into
my brain as I fade...
Electric Shock. Freezing Temperatures. Severe pain.
My body has endured all of these physical tortures, but it pales in
comparison to the feeling that surges through my aching body as I try to use
my powers on him and fail.
Because all I can do then is fall. Fall into his arms. I'm exhausted. I
can't fight. And I don't know that I want to. He is cradling me, why is he
cradling me?
I am disgusted with myself. I hate myself for feeling so damn safe for a
fleeting fraction of time in the arms of a man who wants nothing but to
poke, prod and destroy me.
Oh, God, what is wrong with me?
If I must die, please let me die now.
I cannot take any more of these torturous thoughts. Thoughts of this.
Thoughts of him. If I continue feeling this way, I'd rather be dead.
Anything to stop the flow.
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