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Reply to LucyAdded to the Roswell Slash Archive September 6, 2001
Fandom: The Forsaken.
E-mail address for feedback: firstname.lastname@example.org
Other website: http://members.tripod.ca/~angelspace/Lucy.html
Disclaimer: Not mine.
He takes something every time we make love.
The first time, I made him lift up his head and looped the dog-tags around his neck, silver glinting dully against his skin. That was the first time I'd taken them off since - since I'd gotten them, I guess.
"Why?" he asked, but he was smiling at me, fingers twisted around the chain.
"I don't know," I said. It was a little embarrassing, to tell the truth. I didn't really know why I'd done it; it wasn't like a marriage proposal, or anything. "I can still feel them," I shrugged.
"Even though they're on me."
Ever since, he's taken something, something of mine. It was the second - no, the third time that I caught him doing it; I must have been asleep the time before that, and missed him taking the bandanna out of my bag. The third time, I saw him reach into the pocket of my discarded jeans and pluck out a book of matches I'd taken from the last diner we'd stopped at. Fire can be good, against them.
"What are you doing?"
He just grinned at me, and wrapped the book of matches carefully up in a bandanna - my bandanna - tucked it into his bag, then slid into my arms and kissed me. "Mine, now," he said.
And we made love again.
Two weeks ago, he took my watch. After that, when I wanted to know what time it is, I had to ask him, so I asked him about twenty-five times a day, just to annoy him. It never did, though, even if I'd ask again ten minutes later, when I knew very well what time it was. Even if I was facing a big Elvis hip-swinging clock in some greasy diner somewhere and we both knew I could see for myself very well what time it was. He'd still just smile at me, and look down at my watch on his arm, and tell me the time.
I woke up first a couple of mornings ago, and that never happens, but I had to piss and he didn't even move when I got out of bed. He was still sleeping when I came out of the bathroom with wet hands and - I guess I couldn't help myself. I undid the knot in the little bundle of cloth and picked through the things he'd taken, my things that weren't mine anymore.
The watch was on the night stand beside the bed and the dogtags were around his neck, but besides the matches there was a tidy little pile of stuff, a comb and a half-finished roll of mints, a button that had come off of one of my shirts and an empty pot of lip balm I thought I'd thrown out. There were a few other things, junky little things I'd picked up along the road, a postcard from some completely unmemorable town and napkins from diners and even a fork I'd filched somewhere - and an empty condom wrapper, which, of all of the things that were there, seemed the most appropriate token.
I could feel his eyes looking at me, on the floor. I nodded at the stuff, and asked, "Why?"
He just smiled. "You're not real," he said. "Eventually I'll wake up, and you'll be gone, and that - " he looked at the bundle I was re-wrapping " - will be all I'll have left of you."
I crawled back into bed. We were usually gone by now, hours before they had a chance to kick us out of the rooms that were only barely habitable, but I wanted to stay. "That won't happen," I said, and kissed him so hard I thought I could make him believe me.
We made love again, and he took a picture out of my wallet.
When I woke up this morning I was glad he had taken all those things, and sorry that I hadn't done it myself, 'cause then I'd know exactly how many times we'd made love, and I'd be able to pick up each thing and remember where and when, and maybe I'd have taken something that still smelled like him, a shirt or something else that had touched his skin.
I'd taken the watch back while he was asleep, and left a penknife, instead - it wasn't the same, but I hoped he'd understand. I knew he did; it was the reason he'd taken all those things in the first place. I wondered if he'd stop and heave the little bundle into a dumpster somewhere - it's what I'd do.
No. It isn't. I'd keep it, open it up every night and look at it.
I wonder, when he does, does he smile?
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