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Belied With False Compare

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list February 23, 2001

Title: belied with false compare
Author: loki
Email Address:
Rating: PG
Category: Futurefic
Summary: what defines beauty?
Spoilers: Nothing
Distribution: my site ( and anywhere that's been archiving my stuff. otherwise, just ask!
Disclaimer: No one belongs to me. Not in the slightest. It's so, so sad, I say. They are belong to the WB and a bunch of other folks.
Author's Notes: Much thanks to the folks at thethirdkind... I think it works. I hope.

Dedication: To Brian Krakow, wherever you are...

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

I must have been staring - I usually catch myself before she does. She gave me a funny look and I knew I had to come up with a quick explanation to cover myself. It's like, no matter how open I am with her, there is still something that I need to keep to myself. A million lame excuses came to mind - the tangle in her necklace, the leaf in her hair, the white powdered donut crumbs that still held residence in the corners of her mouth. But before I could say anything, I made the mistake of looking in her eyes.

There is nothing innately remarkable about her eyes. Just a normal green - no sparkly emerald filled with fierce vengeance. I've seen them like that, too. I've seen them filled with tears, refusing to let the wall crash down her cheeks. And I've seen them lit up - sometimes at the sight of me. There was a hint of that this morning and it was that hint that made me pause. Made all the excuses and lies fly so far from my consciousness.

"You're beautiful."

Her eyebrows scrunched up and she took a quick look around to see if anyone else had heard the same words come from my mouth. If there were other people in the hall, I certainly didn't see them. Not clearly, anyway - just hazy forms that whizzed past.

"Why?" she asked.

I couldn't get over the doubt in her voice. I didn't get a chance to respond - the bell rang a split second later. So I went to class and asked myself the same question.

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

Am I supposed to list off particular parts of her and give her a scientific rationalization of why I'm attracted to her? How am I supposed to pick one part over another - I've seen them all and can attest to the fact that each one makes my heart beat faster. The base of her spine, the scar on her hip, the back of her knee. These are some of my favorites because they are the places other people don't get to see. But do they make her beautiful?

I've heard so many guys talk about her... and her lips in the crudest way possible. You'd really think they'd come up with something new by now, or at least use a little imagination. She's had that pout as long as I've known her and I don't think it's going away any time soon.

She plays it up, though. Meticulously gliding the lip gloss stick over and under ever. so. slowly. In class, I've drifted into a place between fantasy and memory as I watched her rub her shiny lower lip with her fingertips. But once I see some guy doing the same, I stare them down and laugh as they immediately turn their attention back to the teacher.

I don't know what they think of my ferocity, but I don't care. That's my place to take glorious shelter from the world... not theirs.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

I've seen her comparing herself to others, wishing she had more or less of something. I don't understand it... the way she poses in front of the mirror or arches her back when another girl is around. Have the guys in her past made her feel inadequate? She hasn't said a thing. In bed, she is constantly rearranging her body so as to attract my gaze to them. As if I could forget...

Forget the way they urgently press against my skin. My fingers trail down the curves of her body when she wraps herself around me. Her nipples harden from the slightest touch and they send shivers down my body as she kisses a path toward my waist... I can barely breathe just thinking about it.

More than that - when I think of her, *being with her,* my face flushes with the anticipation of the first moment when I can slide my hand over her breast and cradle such a tender part of her as my very own. She always yields to my touch, arching her back and whimpering in desperate desire. Every time. And every time it makes me want her more.

Every day, I need her more.

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

Her hair isn't natural - I should know better than anyone else. How could anyone possibly believe that it would grow so much in such a short period of time? I'm still surprised that she wanted it... but I guess she needed a change. We all did, around then. Something mundane to shake us out of the gravity shackling us to a world no seventeen-year-old should know. Something to remind us that everyone else kept spinning around in a blissful ignorance - and that we best pretend we were too. I'm still trying.

It's different, and it looks good on her. But I liked it better before...

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

Have you ever seen her blush? It's not all sweet and delicate - like you'd read about in poems or songs. No, her whole face turns beet red and it's so completely obvious that she's embarrassed. The more she protests, the redder she gets.

Then her hands flail everywhere and that tends to take your attention from her face. But if you watch (like I do), you can see the crimson slowly fade out. Her nose regains its natural colour first, then her forehead and chin until it looks like she's simply a little wind-burnt.

Once, at the café, I reached over and touched her cheek. It was still warm - she pulled away and faced the counter. Later she told me that I made her shake for the rest of the afternoon and she almost dropped her tray six times. I tried to apologize but she pushed me down on the couch and kissed me before I could get the words out.

My favorite blush is the one she gets over her whole body. That one lasts for hours.

And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

She drinks too much coffee with the occasional cigarette. I smoke too much with the occasional coffee. Neither one of us is much of a prize come the rare morning when we wake up together.

I let her drive so I can smoke. I still can't believe I do that... smoke. It's her fault, really. She was so angry that she stormed out of work and into the nearest store. I caught her lighting a cigarette on the way back. It was amusing, really - she coughed more smoke out than she breathed in. I took the pack from her for her own safety. Two days later I found myself in a similar fit of frustration and ended up finishing the pack. Not enough that she affected my soul - she needed to infect my lungs too, apparently.

She takes the occasional drag as she drives and I swear I can taste her when I put it to my lips. It's such a strong association now - I can't *not* think of her when I'm out on a break. The tobacco calms me like her kisses and the smoke swirls around my mouth, teasing with my tongue playfully. I told her that once and she smiled. Said it was an even trade for invading her dreams. I reminded her that I didn't dreamwalk her anymore.

Leaning over, she nibbled on the spot below my earlobe. Said that wasn't what she meant.

I need a cigarette.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

I've never seen her perform. Not with that band, not at karaoke. I've never given a reason and she's never asked for one. But that doesn't mean I've never heard her sing.

My hands travel across her body and she sings to me. My tongue grazes over her nipples and I can hear notes that few have been privy to. Her hips thrash against mine and I roll over as she slides away from me. She moans arias into my mouth, breathes melodies into my ears. I press my lips to her throat and she murmurs in a pitch that sets something afire in me.

I don't need to see her on a stage. I already have her in the spotlight.

I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

I watch her scurry around the café and I still can't believe she's so, well, ungraceful for someone so small. For someone who can dance with actual rhythm, she stomps across the floor nearly taking out customer after customer. She's only slightly better in school where it's mainly straightaways.

I remember the time she caught us talking about her in the quad. She tripped and dropped her books - trying to recover before anyone noticed. It didn't work.

Inconspicuous is not part of her vocabulary. She would never make a good spy. But her eyes pull emotions out of me and her voice lulls me into a safe place I haven't felt before.

And there, we're always dancing.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

She asked me this morning why I thought she was beautiful.

I still don't have any idea what to say. I'll sit here and pick at my lunch and search for the right words and hope that they mean something to her. Because I want them to... I want her to know.

I wonder if I'm hopeless, if I get the same look in my eye that Max does. That pathetic, midway between lost-puppy dog and utterly smitten glaze. When she's around, do I look caught between awe and fascination? Can you tell that I get serious goose bumps when she brushes against me? Do I glow when I've been recently loved?

She does.

Her body settles down across from me and I look up in surprise. She opens a can of soda and explains she needs to study for a quiz next period. I smile - off the hook. Back to pushing my lunch around.

A few minutes pass and I notice that she's been staring at me.

"So, Isabel..." She asks me, almost nervously. "Why am I beautiful?"

My jaw falls and I realize that all this introspection did nothing to develop an answer that would appease her. Trembling fingers reach for her hand and I shrug to keep from shaking. But still she waits.

"Because you always have been."

It doesn't make any sense while making all the sense in the world. I count the seconds until she gets up and walks away.

Until I feel her squeeze my hand back. She is smiling.

She knows she doesn't need to wonder anymore.

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