Gentleman
Author: Morphea ( morphea@alloymail )
http://members.dencity.com/anise)
Summary: Tess does not have an identity crisis.
Isabel/Tess. PG-13. This is Roswell femslash, baby!
Disclaimer: This is not meant as a violation of
copyright against Jamie Katims. I do not own the
premises or characters of Roswell. You have my
permission to distribute this fic if and only if you
make no changes & keep the header attached.
Feedback rocks. Just to warn you, I usually slash &
burn in the Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom, so I'm in
the habit of ignoring canon.
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Dad's dead serious when he tells me no boys.
He's leaving the house to me for the night, until noon
tomorrow, and under no circumstances will there be any
boys in the house. I nod. I know. Isabel nods. Isabel
knows.
She's my man.
She's so strong; it's maddening, what she can
take. Her face is set as he wishes me good night and
leaves. We hear the door shut, and she doesn't move.
We hear the deadbolt slide into place, and she doesn't
move. We hear the motor gun and the car descend down
the road, and she doesn't move. We hear nothing at
all, and I'm pinned. She boosts me on to the kitchen
counter, and I gasp up into her kiss. My head hits the
spice rack, and I smell cinnamon as draw my legs up
around her. She moans against the clatter of my thin
high heels falling to the floor, and I can't help but
laugh a little at her, so predictable, so Isabel. I
haven't seen her since right after third period today.
We didn't touch or talk. She just came by as I was
putting on a little more grayish lavender eye shadow at
my locker and leaned next to me, lazily, arms crossed,
bluntly staring down all the cute soul mates and prom
dates that walked by. She's my man, she's my
cockatrice, she's a thousand sly little things that
make me warm and sure and indifferent to all those
harrowing things I am.
Slow as honey the day dwindled down to nothing
but tonight. I covet this time we trap; it's like
nothing else I've ever had, and it makes me glib and
selfish to the touch. No parents, no siblings, no
friends, no teachers, no guidance counselors, no
psychiatrists, no doctors, no scientists, no police, no
concerned citizens, no self-righteous political
organizations frantic that we might corrupt or infect
their dear sweet children. They don't know it, but it
goes both ways. Makes me weak in the knees how
possessive Isabel can be. Truth is beauty. The seams
of my stockings run rivers those boys can't touch. I
know it by heart; it reverberates back as she runs the
palm of her hand down my left breast. I twist up a
little, and I can faintly taste Joy's grape on her
teeth. This isn't effortless for her. I know this
through and through. I love her in cold blood. I love
her here at home when she lays me low and loves me
back. I love her at school when she determined not to
let this secret buck me off. I am so fiercely what I
am, but I can break. I've come close; I wonder if I've
made antibodies to devour those beautiful, fleeting
desires to be destroyed, violently and completely, by
her side. A difficult truce wound up inside me a long
time ago, and I think she really knows because she
never complains or slips up herself. She iced the
temptation early on; she's cropping normally to all
those other girls out there. She knows well enough why
I've got to have things this way, and she never makes
me listen to myself explaining to her with all those
awful words that make it sound like I do anything but
love her. She's a gentleman.
A real man.
My man.
*the end*
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