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You Always Wanted

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list December 20, 2000

Title: You Always Wanted
Author: Elizabeth
Category: Slash, Future fic
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Distribution: My site ( Anywhere else, just ask. Thanks: To Amy, for the inspiration. And to Mare, for being so amazing.
December 19, 2000

You never wanted lust.

Not the slippery tentacles of half-remembered dreams from Tess, that was lust and you ran from her, ran from her hints and echoes of memories. You still remember how it felt the first time you had a flash from her, remember the way your face burned, to think of yourself like that. Wanting without thought, without reason. Without love.

Not me, you thought. Not me, not ever. Not this--feeling that everything has been hidden from you until now, that you've only really finally seen how things could be, should be. Your heart pounds in your chest, so hard that you're afraid you can hear it, that everyone can hear it.

With love, you can remember things. Your name, the name of the person you love, the day you first met, the color of your beloved's eyes.

Lust blinds you, fills you up till all you can feel is your own need, coiling inside you endlessly. Lust colors everything you see, makes you forget who you are, where you are, what you are supposed to be. Lust reduces everything--you, your life, your plans, your dreams--to the inside of a moment. To the feel of another person's hair under your fingertips, to the curve of an ear that your hand skims over. To the depths of a mouth that you'd never thought about, never imagined, never let yourself think about under any terms, at any time.

Lust shows you that control is an illusion. Lust shows you that you don't know anything about yourself.

Lust is pulling away from someone, gasping for air, and resenting the breath you take because you want back in the moment you just had. You want back in, want your tongue inside someone's mouth, want your body twisted up in anticipation, your mind full of images and promise. Lust is the way you gasp and listen to the tiny part of you that's still talking, that's still who you want *you* to be, that's screaming to go, to run, to get away, that says you aren't yourself anymore, that you don't do this, you won't do this, you can't do this.

You do anyway, and you know it's not love.

Lust is inhaling and noticing nothing, only that you are breathing and that the person you kissed has a mouth made for it. You look at the bruised curve of it, think that you did that and a feeling sweeps over you, so strong that you want to build worlds, destroy them, and then create them again. You're leaning in and you realize that you aren't going to start this kiss with your mouth closed, you aren't going to be respectful and polite and loving. You're going to demand and take and you do and you like it.

This isn't love.

And you don't care.


You always believed in love.

As a child, you were the one that begged for more fairy tales at night. Isabel wanted stories about Paddington Bear and Eloise, not stories about frog princes and beautiful princesses. Your parents read to both of you from a book of fairy tales and you can still remember the illustration for Sleeping Beauty--a glass coffin, a beautiful woman inside, and a man gazing down at the woman with adoration in his eyes.

You liked that picture, wanted that scene. A princess to rescue. Someone to look at with adoration.

Now you find yourself thinking--and safely encased in glass so nothing bad could ever happen?

You look down at your hands, and you don't know them. You've used them before, touching in joy, in anger, in sadness. In love.

But now you use them in a new way. They used to shake when they touched your princess, but they don't now. Now they roam of their own accord. You can't stop them.

Worse, you don't want to.

They pull open the top button of a shirt and there's a voice in your ear and it's nothing, not hesitation or pleading or even your name. It's just a sound, and you don't need to recognize it; you don't feel urgency like this. But your own throat closes up, and there's a vibration moving out of your mouth and you tell yourself that it's not urgency you feel, but you know you are lying and you let your fingers slide forward.

Down under the first button, then second, and then you pull and maybe buttons pop free, flying into space and yes, you notice. With love, you don't notice. With lust you do and you note it and it just makes the coil inside you string out tighter. Your hands touch skin and you've touched skin before, warm and yielding, you've learned the arc of flesh with your hands. With love, touch is like a blessing.

With lust touch is forgetting. It wipes out everything but the feel of discovering someone's skin. The definition of now is explained to you; you draw a fingertip down the valley of a chest and the mouth you are kissing pushes forward, and teeth meet and clash. It hurts and you don't care and that scares you more than anything.

But still you don't stop


You never liked conflict.

You fought with Michael, but only because he seemed to want to so badly. He needed something to keep him going, needed something to believe in, and you could understand that. If he accepted everything you said, he might have to work on his own life, turn his gaze inward on the corners he kept hidden. Wonder why it was so easy to push people away and so hard to let them move closer.

You fought with Liz and it hurt and you both cried and you spent miserable hours agonizing over her, wondering why she didn't want you. You listened to the Counting Crows till your mother said she was worried and Isabel said she never wanted to hear another song by them again. You thought of her, in bed with someone else, thought of the smooth skin of her shoulders. Thought of someone else, touching her, and you wept again. You could remember the scene, the light running across her face, her eyes filled with surprise and pain and you hurt. But you could get past it, eventually. It wasn't that hard, in the end.

Lust is conflict. Your mind tries to fight, tries to reason, tries to remind you that you don't even like this person, that you sometimes hate them and used to be afraid of them, afraid of what they could do to your life and you want to care. But you can't. Your own shirt is unbuttoned now and there is bare skin pressed against yours, chest pressed against chest and you want to create space. But more than that you want the resistance of skin, the glide of another's nipple against your own, you want the friction of hips pressed against yours, the ache of your erection buried for a moment.

You have it.

Love is peace. You touched Liz and the world was there, cradling you both. You fit in, you belonged, it was what you were supposed to do. You had a home, a future, everything you wanted to need. You didn't have to worry about anything. You slid your hands up her thighs and she smiled. Inside her, you breathed easily and her hands rested on your shoulders, the tips of her fingers an anchor to reality. You couldn't ever slip away with her near you. You were always the you you wanted to be.

And so here you are. You want something to anchor this moment, you want to pull yourself back, you want to only know love. But you are here, and you can't pinpoint where here is on a map, not on one that you can hold and not on the one in your heart. This is you and you are unbuttoning the button on a pair of jeans and your tongue is sliding over the flesh of someone's abdomen and the hands on your shoulders aren't touching with just fingertips, there are palms on your back and you are yourself. This is your mouth moving past the opening on a pair of boxer shorts, your mouth sliding down onto flesh, your eyes open, you watching.


Love is memory. Every moment you had with Liz, you remember. Seeing her for the first time, a girl in a cupcake dress, her eyes skimming over you. Leaning over her in the Crashdown, knowing you could save her and being glad to do it. Touching her and seeing into her mind, letting her memories climb inside you. The look in her eyes when she realized what you are; not horror, not fear, but wonder. Acceptance. She knew she was beautiful when she looked at you.

Lust is forgetting. You don't remember seeing anyone, don't remember how you met, don't remember how you came to be here. You can only remember how you stood, how you were angry and upset, how you said, "Damn it, I'm sick of you interfering! Liz might want you to be in our lives, but I don't. I don't trust you. I never have. I never will." And then there was laughter and blue eyes flashed at you, and the slow drawl of a voice said, "Guess what Evans? I don't care if you trust me. And if I want to interfere, I will." You forgot all that you wanted to know was true about yourself and lunged forward, snarling and threatening and remembering that when you saw Liz with someone, there was *someone* there and you couldn't look at them, didn't want to see their skin, didn't want to see their eyes staring at you. Didn't want to think about the fact that when you looked at Kyle Valenti, it was always more than anger. Always more than fear.

It was always wondering, it was always what-if.

It was always a thin line that you walked, the edge of control, of remembering who you were. Tonight you forgot. Tonight you lunged forward, angry, and when your hand grabbed his collar you pulled him in close and instead of hitting him or shoving him or even doing nothing you forgot and you pressed your mouth against his, so angry that you could see stars. You fell into yourself and only found wanting. Without thought. Without reason. Without love.

And you like it.


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