Roswell/BtVS: Burst The Insulation (Liz/Faith)
callmesandy and mosca organized femslash06 ( masterlist). I volunteered to write a backup for marenfic, who requested Liz/Faith (Roswell/BtVS), among other things.
Title: Burst The Insulation
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Roswell/BtVS
Ship: Liz/Faith
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: A flush rising into my face, for a word.
Notes: Post-series for both
Being married and on the run from the government, Liz finds, isn't the grand romantic journey she would have predicted.
For one, she's never been a huge fan of fake identities, even when she's seen the necessity of them. After their seventh switch, the seventeenth state line, she can only remember the name on their marriage certificate. That one isn't hers, either.
She can't go get a manicure, or visit a salon, even when she feels grubby and half-barbaric. They need to save the money for food and gas and bribes, and nobody can afford to sit still for forty-five minutes at a time.
She knows her photograph shows up in post offices sometimes, because she's seen them herself. (She stopped sending her parents postcards after that.)
And one day, Max bursts into their latest trailer and tells her they need to separate. Just for a little while, and here's a couple hundred dollars and a bus ticket.
He kisses her forehead, her lips, and presses their cheeks together.
"Where do we meet? When--"
Max smiles, and kisses her again. "I'll find you."
She's halfway to Dallas when she realizes she forgot to ask how.
*
She settles in a gas-station town in the middle of nowhere. She lives in a crappy motel room. During the day, she serves up hamburgers in a crappy diner, and at night, drinks at a crappy bar.
In her bleaker moments, she thinks it's like being home, except without the tourists.
Her feet always hurt, her hands are always chapped, and Max doesn't come for her.
For five and a half months, Max doesn't come for her.
Liz isn't the type to give up hope, but pessimism is a creeping temptation. She keeps a careful journal of every angry thought she has, every languishing desire.
Each night, she scribbles down her thoughts. When she's done, she rips the page out. Tears it to pieces, burns it in an ashtray, and flushes the ashes down the toilet.
Then she goes back to work.
*
One night, the bar is noisier than usual. There's a small crowd in the corner, by the jukebox. Some older guy in a suit and a couple of teenagers, hunched over coffee at their table. Standing by them is a brunette, about Liz's age, and she's tapping the jukebox with her fist.
Liz pauses, her hand still on the tap. The woman has her back to her friends, but she's laughing. The music is tinny and weak, but her hips sway to the beat. She lifts an arm above her head, twists.
And she sees Liz watching her.
Liz turns back to the mugs in front of her, notices the water spots clouding the glass. Soon the foam obscures them, and Liz slides the mugs over to another waitress for distribution.
"Work here long?"
Liz gasps. The woman grins, leans over the bar. Liz blinks and tries not to stare down the woman's cleavage.
"Sorry," she replies. "What?"
"I just wondered if you've been working here long." The woman reaches out, taps Liz's nametag with her fingernail. "Liz."
"Um," Liz says. "A while, I guess. Long enough."
"I'm Faith." Her finger is still tracing the letters of Liz's name. "I'll be in town a couple of days." She looks over her shoulder. "With some friends."
"That's nice," Liz responds automatically. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Thanks, Liz." Faith tugs on the nametag, twice. "I think I might."
Liz watches Faith sway back to her table. Then she hides in the kitchen for the rest of the night.
*
When she gets back to her motel room, halfway to dawn, there's a car parked next to her door. Sitting atop it is Faith, smoking a cigarette.
Liz halts, tries to decide if Faith looks like an FBI agent. When Faith tosses the cigarette stub to the pavement, Liz decides against it, and folds her arms.
"Are you stalking me now?"
In a flash, Faith is off the car and facing Liz. For a millisecond, her teeth are bared, her expression is grim, and Liz is afraid.
Then Faith recognizes her, and her entire body relaxes. "Nah." She jerks a thumb down the row of rooms. "Staying over there for a while."
"Oh." Liz loosens her death grip on her purse, starts to rummage for her keys. "Okay."
After a minute, she looks up, and Faith is still standing there.
"What?"
Faith shrugs, then smiles. "Do you like tequila?"
*
Somehow, even though she doesn't really drink or do stuff like this, Liz ends up in Faith's motel room. They pass a bottle between them, and Liz tries not to look at the Pay-Per-View movie Faith has on, volume low.
Faith doesn't ask about the ring on Liz's finger, and Liz doesn't ask about the absence of Faith's friends.
Instead, Liz thinks about close to six months of silence, and the way she's been craving warm skin and somebody's touch. She thinks about the way Faith's flicks her tongue to the rim of the bottle, and the warm roiling low in her belly.
The bottle reaches half-empty and the movie is showing something, Liz is sure, is anatomically impossible.
Faith touches Liz's collarbone, and her lips brush against her jaw.
"You don't do stuff like this a lot, right?" she asks.
Liz shakes her head.
Faith lets her hand drift lower. "What about tonight?"
In answer, Liz presses her hand over Faith's, and nods.
She doesn't take her wedding band off, but Faith divests her of everything else.
Liz closes her eyes, and tries not to think.
*
When the sun hits her eyelids, Liz groans and hides her head under the pillow.
A hand slides up her spine, and that's when she remembers everything.
"I should never, ever, ever drink," she mumbles.
Faith laughs, and then her hand slips down again, between.
Liz considers protesting, but bites the pillow instead. She's been wanting this, or something like this, for months.
At some point that morning, Faith deadbolts the door, and Liz calls in sick.
She's not going to waste any more time.
*
A day and a half later, Faith's car is gone.
Liz leans her forehead against the window of the now-empty room and sighs.
When she goes back to the bar, there's a note waiting for her.
Thanks, it says. Stay safe.
It isn't signed, and Liz isn't surprised.
She ties her apron on, and begins to wait again.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Galway Kinnell's Telephoning in Mexican Sunlight. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Linked on femslash06 and here.
Title: Burst The Insulation
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Roswell/BtVS
Ship: Liz/Faith
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: A flush rising into my face, for a word.
Notes: Post-series for both
Being married and on the run from the government, Liz finds, isn't the grand romantic journey she would have predicted.
For one, she's never been a huge fan of fake identities, even when she's seen the necessity of them. After their seventh switch, the seventeenth state line, she can only remember the name on their marriage certificate. That one isn't hers, either.
She can't go get a manicure, or visit a salon, even when she feels grubby and half-barbaric. They need to save the money for food and gas and bribes, and nobody can afford to sit still for forty-five minutes at a time.
She knows her photograph shows up in post offices sometimes, because she's seen them herself. (She stopped sending her parents postcards after that.)
And one day, Max bursts into their latest trailer and tells her they need to separate. Just for a little while, and here's a couple hundred dollars and a bus ticket.
He kisses her forehead, her lips, and presses their cheeks together.
"Where do we meet? When--"
Max smiles, and kisses her again. "I'll find you."
She's halfway to Dallas when she realizes she forgot to ask how.
*
She settles in a gas-station town in the middle of nowhere. She lives in a crappy motel room. During the day, she serves up hamburgers in a crappy diner, and at night, drinks at a crappy bar.
In her bleaker moments, she thinks it's like being home, except without the tourists.
Her feet always hurt, her hands are always chapped, and Max doesn't come for her.
For five and a half months, Max doesn't come for her.
Liz isn't the type to give up hope, but pessimism is a creeping temptation. She keeps a careful journal of every angry thought she has, every languishing desire.
Each night, she scribbles down her thoughts. When she's done, she rips the page out. Tears it to pieces, burns it in an ashtray, and flushes the ashes down the toilet.
Then she goes back to work.
*
One night, the bar is noisier than usual. There's a small crowd in the corner, by the jukebox. Some older guy in a suit and a couple of teenagers, hunched over coffee at their table. Standing by them is a brunette, about Liz's age, and she's tapping the jukebox with her fist.
Liz pauses, her hand still on the tap. The woman has her back to her friends, but she's laughing. The music is tinny and weak, but her hips sway to the beat. She lifts an arm above her head, twists.
And she sees Liz watching her.
Liz turns back to the mugs in front of her, notices the water spots clouding the glass. Soon the foam obscures them, and Liz slides the mugs over to another waitress for distribution.
"Work here long?"
Liz gasps. The woman grins, leans over the bar. Liz blinks and tries not to stare down the woman's cleavage.
"Sorry," she replies. "What?"
"I just wondered if you've been working here long." The woman reaches out, taps Liz's nametag with her fingernail. "Liz."
"Um," Liz says. "A while, I guess. Long enough."
"I'm Faith." Her finger is still tracing the letters of Liz's name. "I'll be in town a couple of days." She looks over her shoulder. "With some friends."
"That's nice," Liz responds automatically. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Thanks, Liz." Faith tugs on the nametag, twice. "I think I might."
Liz watches Faith sway back to her table. Then she hides in the kitchen for the rest of the night.
*
When she gets back to her motel room, halfway to dawn, there's a car parked next to her door. Sitting atop it is Faith, smoking a cigarette.
Liz halts, tries to decide if Faith looks like an FBI agent. When Faith tosses the cigarette stub to the pavement, Liz decides against it, and folds her arms.
"Are you stalking me now?"
In a flash, Faith is off the car and facing Liz. For a millisecond, her teeth are bared, her expression is grim, and Liz is afraid.
Then Faith recognizes her, and her entire body relaxes. "Nah." She jerks a thumb down the row of rooms. "Staying over there for a while."
"Oh." Liz loosens her death grip on her purse, starts to rummage for her keys. "Okay."
After a minute, she looks up, and Faith is still standing there.
"What?"
Faith shrugs, then smiles. "Do you like tequila?"
*
Somehow, even though she doesn't really drink or do stuff like this, Liz ends up in Faith's motel room. They pass a bottle between them, and Liz tries not to look at the Pay-Per-View movie Faith has on, volume low.
Faith doesn't ask about the ring on Liz's finger, and Liz doesn't ask about the absence of Faith's friends.
Instead, Liz thinks about close to six months of silence, and the way she's been craving warm skin and somebody's touch. She thinks about the way Faith's flicks her tongue to the rim of the bottle, and the warm roiling low in her belly.
The bottle reaches half-empty and the movie is showing something, Liz is sure, is anatomically impossible.
Faith touches Liz's collarbone, and her lips brush against her jaw.
"You don't do stuff like this a lot, right?" she asks.
Liz shakes her head.
Faith lets her hand drift lower. "What about tonight?"
In answer, Liz presses her hand over Faith's, and nods.
She doesn't take her wedding band off, but Faith divests her of everything else.
Liz closes her eyes, and tries not to think.
*
When the sun hits her eyelids, Liz groans and hides her head under the pillow.
A hand slides up her spine, and that's when she remembers everything.
"I should never, ever, ever drink," she mumbles.
Faith laughs, and then her hand slips down again, between.
Liz considers protesting, but bites the pillow instead. She's been wanting this, or something like this, for months.
At some point that morning, Faith deadbolts the door, and Liz calls in sick.
She's not going to waste any more time.
*
A day and a half later, Faith's car is gone.
Liz leans her forehead against the window of the now-empty room and sighs.
When she goes back to the bar, there's a note waiting for her.
Thanks, it says. Stay safe.
It isn't signed, and Liz isn't surprised.
She ties her apron on, and begins to wait again.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Galway Kinnell's Telephoning in Mexican Sunlight. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.
Linked on femslash06 and here.