RATING: NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Metz, Katims, WB. Don't own 'em. Soooooo wish I did!
Isabel took a deep breath and readied herself for it. She stood over her bed, looking thoughtfully at the outfit laid out on the comforter. The beginnings of fluttery nervousness and excitement stirred deep in her belly as she drank in the sight of it. It was leather; she loved leather. It was solid and rich in a way no cloth could ever be; it was made for beauty and power. With a practiced eye, she just looked and knew. It was something she did that gave her that control, gave her that power, she looked at the clothes and knew that they would make her look fabulous. She turned and strolled to her stereo, turning it on and letting the pounding, pulsing music sing through her veins and take over the panicky voice in her head that wouldn't leave her be during the daylight hours when she was supposed to be normal. Swaying slightly, she drew the small halter and pants over her smooth skin, shivering at the sensation of the cool garments slowly becoming warm from her body heat. Her dark eyes took on a distant quality as she absently drew her hair up onto her head, spearing it gently with two lacquered hair-chopsticks that let small tendrils of blonde silk hover near her face and neck. She pulled on her high-heeled boots, distantly admiring the long line of her legs as she did so. A sudden, insistent rapping came at her door, jarring her from her near-hypnotic state, and she winced in annoyance, ignoring it.
"Isabel?" Max called out, knocking again, and Isabel's placid expression screwed up in anger.
"Leave," she barked shortly, not bothering with pleasantries. She sighed raggedly as her brother used his powers to unlock her bedroom door, and his eyes widened when he saw her.
"You're not going anywhere dressed like that," he informed her matter-of-factly, and she smirked at him, grabbing her jacket and slipping her sunglasses on as she brushed past him without a word.
"Isabel, I'm serious. I cannot let you leave here with that on," he repeated, looking a little embarrassed at her choice of attire.
"Sorry, Max, you can't stop me."
"Oh, yes I can. And I am, I forbid you-"
"You forbid me?" Isabel laughed humorlessly as she plucked the keys to the jeep off of the countertop. "Drop the king bit, Max, it's tired."
"What the hell has gotten into you lately?" Max demanded angrily, and she shot him a dark look before slipping out the front door.
"I'll pretend you care about the answer to that one," she called over her shoulder and dashed to the jeep, peeling out of the driveway before Max could do something stupid like blow it up.
She kept the music blaring as she sped down the highway, assaulting her senses with the raucous noise so that she wouldn't lose her nerve. She needed this, she needed an escape, and she couldn't afford to chicken out now. The first time Isabel had made up her mind to go, she had turned back halfway there. The same thing happened the second and third times. She had heard about the place from that Tammy girl with the horrible split ends who sat behind her in English. She said that normally she liked bad, dirty fun as much as the next person, but that place was just too bad.
Isabel had thought it sounded perfect.
She cried all the way home the first time she had made it in the front door. That club was kind of like sex incarnate; it hurt like hell the first time, but just kept getting better and better. The bitter taste of fear still filled her mouth when she approached the entrance, but she'd learned that the benefits that could be found inside far outweighed her initial fit of nausea at the idea of what she was really about to do. Throwing open the door, she peered inside as smoke from the interior curled around her, smelling like a dare. Another deep breath, and she was in. Allowing her practiced icy veneer to fall into place, she could spend the night as she pleased, seeming to watch herself from a short distance as little more than a casual observer.
She had no name here.
Nobody knew how old she was, and nobody cared.
Her hips swayed, her fingertips lingered here and there, her eyes were cloudy and aloof.
She owned this place.
She mentally calculated the number of men whose eyes followed her languid movements as she leaned over the bar, requesting a shot of liquid courage, didn't matter what kind. As long as it burned her throat, warmed her stomach, and dulled the pain just a little bit more, it would do. A few brave souls wandered up to her, but she pretended they all didn't exist until one came over who struck her fancy. She chose whom she would dance with. It was almost laughable that the men never caught on: she liked them muscular but not too beefy, self-absorbed and haunted, the kind who would try so hard to never let on that they cared about the outcome of the night. She used them and they used her, and that was how it went in places like this. These places were all too common, there was one in every city, one off of every interstate, and Isabel let that comfort her a bit. She reveled in the sweat that clung to her, mixing with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes to create a sour scent in her hair and on her skin that took three showers to completely erase, gloried in the feeling of being one of a million people to do this.
She tried very hard to forget that she was the only West Roswell High teenager to do this.
She played out the same scenario over and over again. Dance a song with this guy, dance a song with that guy, let them both buy you a drink at the bar. Do it again. Take it from the top. Lather, rinse, repeat. They would paw and grab, and she let them. Anybody got too brave without her say-so; she shot them down with a dangerous glare. She wasn't going to leave with any of these guys until she was done in here. She danced and drank just until she felt that she was losing control over the dancing and then she would pick the best one. The one who reminded her most of him, of course.
It was bad. It was every kind of normal bad she could muster. She became the person her mother warned her about. Slut, tramp, lush. She was the Bad Girl. She screwed men she didn't know, just because they looked like one guy in particular. She drank the horrid liquids with a smile on her face, and she danced with a sensuous grace that she didn't feel. Inside, she was frantic, trying too hard, forcing this performance out.
She had her guy picked. That one, in the plain, grease-stained tee shirt and jeans, the one wearing the work boots. He didn't really look like him, but it was close enough that she could pretend. When he was engaging in a mockery of lovemaking with her, he'd be close enough so that she could close her eyes and make him someone else. That was all that mattered.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice behind her quavered with barely repressed rage, and Isabel's face went white suddenly.
This. This was definitely not part of the plan.
She couldn't bring herself to turn around and look into the eyes of the face that the voice belonged to. She kept her eyes fixed on the man that would've become her prey had this night not gone horribly wrong, like a seasick person clinging desperately to the horizon with their gaze.
"Turn around. Right now," the voiced ground out, and Isabel felt herself begin to shake. Her face flushed with humiliation as she turned around in slow motion to face him.
Michael.
Isabel thought that she might physically split in two, so torn was she between violent anger and sheer mortification. How dare he? How dare he come here, haunt her here too, in the only place she had found yet that would never, could never remind her of him. He was too good for this place, she thought suddenly, and the realization made her want to cry. Her heart felt as if it had been clamped in a vice; the sadness and anger and disgust and worry in his expression twisting her guts into knots. His gaze swept over her barely clad form, and a look of distaste spread over his features. Isabel choked back a sob. He never uttered a word, just closed his large hand firmly over her upper arm and deliberately walked with her out of that dive, that place where she had gone to get lost with all the other lost souls in there. She was reminded fleetingly of the gates of hell as she watched the puffs of smoke escape the slamming door. He half-dragged her to the passenger side door of the jeep and opened it for her, standing there next to it so she could get in, not looking to see if she did or not. She hung back lamely for a second, trying to pull her swimming brain together enough to find something to say to him.
"I don't have to give you the keys," she said defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest like a child snubbing the food her mother has made. Michael sighed and ran a hand through his unruly hair.
"That's okay. I didn't want to have to hot-wire the jeep, but if you're going to make me, I will," he said patiently, and Isabel scowled.
"How the fuck did you even know I was here?" she demanded petulantly, and Michael searched the sky in exasperation.
"Max is way too white bread to know about this place, but I didn't grow up with the Cleavers. You do remember Hank, don't you? Big angry guy, likes to drink a little? When Maxwell told me you took the jeep out looking like a two-dollar hooker, I assumed you weren't heading to the Crashdown. This was the only logical place left to look. Now will you please get in the car? Don't make me put you there," he threatened wearily, which only inflamed Isabel further.
"How dare you treat me like a child! I don't need you to come rescue me, I know what I'm doing," she yelled at him, stumbling a bit in her drunken indignation.
"Sure, that's why you were looking at that mutated Marlboro Man in there like he was dessert! Isabel, you're smarter than that!" he snapped, advancing on her.
"You think so? Really? Well what if you're wrong, huh? You don't know everything, Michael, you don't know even close to everything, so don't get on your moral high horse with me!" she screamed, turning away in humiliation as the tears she'd been holding back spilled over her eyelids, scalding her cheeks.
"What? You're not making any sense at all, okay? You're drunk, Isabel, and I'm taking you home now, so get in the car," he insisted, reaching for her arm again. Yanking herself out of his grasp, she upset her delicate sense of balance and toppled to the dusty ground.
"You don't get it, Michael, you don't have to," she sobbed brokenly, slapping away the hand he offered her to help her up.
"I don't have to what?" he started, then shook his head as if to clear it. "Never mind, I'm not going to have the drunken revelations talk with you."
"You don't have to do this, you don't have to get what it's like to have to let her out-"
"Isabel, that's enough. In the car, now."
"No, I am not just drunk, I'm serious! How could they do this to me? They tell me that I'm supposed to have you, and then all of a sudden I can't ever have you because there's this whole part of me that's bad!" Michael furrowed his brow in confusion.
"Isabel, what are you talking about?"
"God, Michael, don't you get it? I'm talking about Vilandra, she was evil and horrible, and she's me, Michael. She's me. And I can't do that, I can't let myself be her, I won't. If I could have you like I'm supposed to, I would only hurt you and betray you and mess everything up for everyone. How do I live like that?" Michael looked at her almost sadly for a moment, then shook his head.
"Get in, Isabel."
"I knew you wouldn't understand, I don't know why I even tried to tell you," Isabel whispered brokenly to the cold stars.
"Isabel, please? Please, just get in the jeep." Michael's voice was so full of concern and weariness that Isabel stopped her rambling short and just looked at him. Even with that look of defeat on his face, his shoulders stooped, looking so tired, he was so beautiful that it brought a lump to her throat that made it hard to swallow.
"What about your bike?" she asked softly, looking over at the motorcycle lying haphazardly on its side as she climbed unsteadily to her feet. It looked abandoned, she thought, and for some reason it made her feel very empty and spent.
"Forget about it," Michael said quickly, and Isabel nodded slowly, walking carefully towards the car door and hoisting herself inside. Michael shut the door for her and climbed in the other side, looking expectantly at her.
"Can I please have the keys?" he asked her with a bit of a smile in his eyes. Isabel sighed and reached a hand down into her exposed cleavage, fishing the key out of her top and holding it out to him. She stared out the window blankly for a few moments before she realized that the car wasn't starting and the key was still in her hand. She looked questioningly over at Michael, and quickly looked away, her whole body flushing at the heated gaze he had leveled at her.
"Do you want this key or not?" she asked, her traitorous voice quavering a little as she said it. She looked out the window again and he took the key from her hand, exhaling loudly as he turned the engine over and began to drive back into Roswell.
Isabel was silent as they drove, resting her clearing head against the cool window as the desert flashed by. She was just so tired, inside and out. She could still feel the insistent throbbing of the familiar anger inside of her, but it was tired too. It had been allowed to come out and play for a while; it wouldn't wake her in the middle of the night now, wouldn't make every room she occupied seem ten times too small, wouldn't roar so loudly in her chest that she couldn't hear anyone else, and she was spent. After some time of blissful lack of thought, she caught the image of her house passing by her window and sat up straight.
"Michael, you passed it," she notified him wearily. He said nothing and continued driving.
"Michael, that was my house you just passed, you missed it," she said again, louder this time. When he still didn't answer her, she gave up and leaned back into her seat, not surprised when they pulled into the alley behind his apartment complex.
"I don't need a lecture, okay? Can we please skip this part?" she complained softly as Michael got out of the jeep and opened her door up for her.
"Come on," he said, gesturing for her to get out.
"I'm serious, Michael, I'm really not in the mood to hear you lecture me," she said again, feeling her throat tighten, heralding the onset of more tears.
"I'm not gonna lecture you, Iz, I was hoping to spare you that from Max," he sighed in explanation, unlocking the back entrance and holding the door open. "You coming in or not?"
Isabel sat in the jeep, defeated. She rubbed her forehead with one hand, cursing herself for not being more in control. It wasn't that she had to think about her answer to that question… as if she hadn't dreamed of moments like this, of Michael inviting her to his place. She couldn't have refused if she wanted to, but she didn't know if she could spend any significant amount of time in that place, thinking about all the things that she was so close to, but didn't deserve to have.
"Yeah," she whispered in agreement, hopping out and slamming the door behind her. The ascent up the stairs, in her already exhausted state, left her praying for a surface of some kind to be under her when she passed out on her feet. She let her eyes drift closed, swaying a little, as she waited for Michael to unlock the door. The task accomplished, he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled affectionately at seeing her very nearly asleep on her feet.
"Hey," he said softly, and her head snapped up, her dark eyes struggling against sleep. She made no move towards the open door, and he chuckled a little as he reached back around her, guiding her into the apartment with one hand on the small of her back. A drowsy smile flitted across Isabel's face as she took in the welcome sight of the couch, making a beeline for it and laying down.
Michael sighed. She looked so ethereally peaceful, and he really hated to wake her, but the fact of the matter was, she smelled awful. Besides, he really doubted that sober and alert Isabel would want to sleep in that outfit. He reluctantly reached out to shake the sleeping girl.
"Isabel," he sounded, and she moaned.
"Sleep."
"Isabel, you gotta get up and take a shower. You'll hate me tomorrow if you don't," he clarified, still shaking her.
"Stop it," she whined, and Michael exhaled forcefully in aggravation. Moving purposefully, he grabbed her left arm, slinging it over his shoulders, and hauled her up into his arms.
"Hey," she said indignantly, but in her half-asleep state it came out less than convincing. He marched straight to the bathroom, using an elbow to flip on the naked incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling and making Isabel groan and throw a hand over her eyes.
"Hurts," she complained.
"Good," Michael growled, depositing her on her feet in the middle of the bathtub.
"Michael, what-" she said dazedly, really looking around at her surroundings. Before she could utter another word, Michael grabbed the faucet handle and wrenched it up and all the way over to "cold". As the needling spray hit her, she screamed loudly, throwing her hands up to try to stop it from hitting her. "WHAT THE FUCK??"
"You need to sober up and get yourself together. I'd let you sleep it off here if I could, but I don't want to keep you out any later than I need to. If I didn't deliver you back home until tomorrow morning, Max, not to mention your parents, would kill me," he ground out as she floundered for the knob to turn the water off. Unfortunately, it upset her balance, and her boots didn't give her much traction, tossing her unceremoniously to the bottom of the tub. He winced as he saw as well as heard her head crack against the porcelain. Taking some pity on her, Michael reached over and turned the water off.
"You-you BASTARD!" she sputtered at him, trying to swipe the matted, wet mass of hair out of her face.
"Heard worse, sweetheart," he said without much humor, tossing a washcloth and bath towel at her. "Clean yourself up. There's soap and Pert Plus in there already. Not your first choice, I'm sure, but it'll have to do… I'm going to make us some coffee. Help yourself to any of the clothes in my room when you're done," he finished, heading for the door. He stopped for a split second in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at Isabel… almost like he wanted to say something else. Before she could ask him about it, he was gone.
Isabel sat where she was for a few moments after the door had closed, breathing hard. The rage was back, and she clenched her fists, slamming one hard into the tiled wall behind her. The pain exploded through her hand, and she sighed, her eyes dropping closed. Lifting her other balled hand, she studied it for a moment with something like curiosity before slamming it as hard as she could, knuckles first, into the tiling. She heard a satisfying crack and didn't care whether it was the tile or her hand that had made the sound, letting the pain suffuse her body, washing all the anger out of her bit by bit. It hurt; it hurt a lot, whatever it was. Isabel no longer cared. She absently reached for the shower handle, turning the freezing water back on. She sat shivering under the spray for a few long moments, replaying scenes from the past night in her head. Somehow, all of them were hazy except for the ones of Michael. Isabel's face screwed up in anguish as she recalled the looks of disgust, sadness, and pity he had given her. A small, choked sound escaped her throat, before she forced the emotions down again, rocking herself slightly under the water and making the smooth, blank planes of her face return. If she closed her eyes tight, she could almost pretend it was rain. She smiled a little, reaching for the shampoo bottle and pouring a good amount into her palm, smelling it. It smelled just like Michael's hair. She hummed a non-tune, working the shampoo into a lather in her hair. She was walking in the rain with Michael.
Wake up, sister. You're sitting, fully clothed might I add, in Michael's bathtub.
Isabel frowned, her methodical circular hand motions stopping at the faint sound of that voice. So what, she thought back. I'll never walk in the rain with Michael. Maria might, but not me.
The voice from the back of her head laughed, and Isabel shivered. Did you forget that Michael dumped that silly human? She could never compare to you, not in a million years. You were engineered, darling.
Tears came to Isabel's eyes; the outer edges of the shower spray hit the side of her head, making the soapy lather run down her leather-clad side. Doesn't that disgust you? Being made instead of born? I was just molded, created, to perform a function. I don't even belong here, let alone have the license to make people suffer.
Oh, but you're so much more than that, the voice whispered. Did you never wonder why you… why I was blended with your human genetics to make you what you are? There are so many other species out there in the universe, ones that are much less susceptible to emotion and sense. Why this form?
Isabel began to furiously scrub her hair again. I don't know! I don't know anything about that, stop asking me!
The voice laughed. Well, of course you don't. I don't know either… but I know enough to know that the people who made you out of me did everything they did for a very specific reason.
"It doesn't matter," Isabel pleaded with the empty room. "I can't just do whatever I want to. I'm living here like a human, so I have to follow their rules, too."
Michael looked up from his cooling mug of coffee. Isabel was taking a pretty long time… although he really didn't know much about female showering habits. Not that he wouldn't like to.
He sighed. He'd been sitting here for almost a half an hour, trying to come up with a reason why Isabel would have been doing what she was. He couldn't come up with a single thing. To his knowledge, Isabel had never gotten drunk before. She used to tell him all about how she would strategically appear to be drinking with the rest of the crowd at parties and not actually drink at all. She didn't like to be out of control, and they had both agreed that the things that could slip out of their mouths while drunk could be fatal. So why this, why now?
Michael sighed again, and rested his forehead against the cool wood of the kitchen table. The thought of Isabel showering in his bathroom at that very moment, with him sitting here just a few feet away, didn't help either. He'd tried very hard to hide how he felt about Isabel… which actually wasn't too difficult to do, since he really didn't know what it was that he felt for her. It wasn't quite what he had felt for Maria, and it wasn't quite what he used to feel for Isabel… it was something entirely new. At least, most of it was. The feeling he got when he watched her slowly draw that key out from between… Michael swallowed hard. Well, suffice it to say that that feeling wasn't a new one. He knew that one. Groaning quietly, he thumped his head against the table a few times until he thought he heard something from the bathroom. He lifted his head slowly, cocking it slightly to one side, listening. He waited like that, not even breathing for a bit, and then heard it again. Like Isabel was talking to someone. He furrowed his brow in confusion and walked over to stand by the bathroom door. Standing there, he heard it again, but still couldn't make out the words. He rapped softly on the door.
"Isabel?"
Rules? Little girl, you must be kidding me. Nobody, human or otherwise, who plays by the rules, gets what they want.
"Don't you get it? You're bad. I'm bad. I don't deserve anything I want," Isabel whispered, rubbing her arms in an effort to stave off the chill. It didn't occur to her to turn off the water.
Bad? How old are you? Bad is just a word that people use to get a moral one-up on people they don't like. Do you know why they don't like people like me?
"Why?" Isabel asked pathetically, not really wanting to know the answer, but needing to.
Because I always get what I want. Everyone wants to be able to do that, but very few people have the courage. People are weak; they think that other people matter.
"They do! They do matter!" cried the soaking girl, putting her hands to her ears in a futile effort to block out the voice, but she wasn't hearing it with her ears.
Nobody matters but you. Don't you see? You're a princess, little girl. You deserve everything you can get your hands on.
"No…" Isabel wailed, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in them.
Yes. Anything you want. You can have that boy out there. He wants you, even if he's not totally aware of it. You can make him aware of it.
"No! Not Michael! I won't do anything to hurt Michael, I can't, please…" she sobbed, first with self-loathing, and then mixed with relief because the voice seemed to be gone.
"Isabel?" Michael queried, louder this time, and rapped hard on the door. The talking continued, like she didn't hear him calling. He still couldn't quite hear all of what she was saying, but she sounded scared. He tried the doorknob; it was locked. He remained outside the door for a moment, debating whether or not to go in.
That's when he heard his name.
"Isabel!" Michael yelled, extending his hand out to the door and blasting it inwards with his powers. He took two long steps towards the figure huddled in the bathtub before stopping dead in his tracks. When he fully realized what he was seeing, he was so shocked, so frightened, that he couldn't move a muscle.
Isabel hadn't even acknowledged that he was in the room. She was sitting on the floor of the tub, her knees tucked under her chin, and she was rocking herself back and forth. She was still fully dressed, right down to the boots on her feet, and she was soaked through. A strange noise penetrated Michael's shock, and he looked closer, realizing that it was her teeth chattering. His attention turned to the clothes she was wearing suddenly. They were streaked with a pinkish-white substance, but it wasn't coming from the shower…
Michael moaned aloud as what he was looking at hit him. The injured hand was partially covered, that's why he hadn't seen it right away. He searched the area around her for what had done it and zeroed in on it almost immediately. One of his normally cream-colored wall tiles had been shattered inward, and the wall below it was streaked with red, as were Isabel's face, neck, and arms. Michael choked on a sob as he put two and two together. As impossible as it might seem, Isabel had punched the wall hard enough to shatter tile, lacerating her hand. After that… she must have proceeded to start washing her hair, explaining the pink soap suds that covered her.
"Oh, Isabel…" he choked out, taking halting steps towards her. She was mouthing something that Michael couldn't hear, and he reached out to turn the water off. He recoiled from the spray when it hit him initially – it was ice cold. He shut it off as fast as he could before climbing into the bathtub and kneeling next to the broken girl. He combed large handfuls of hair away from her face with his fingers, tears blurring his vision as he felt how cold her skin was.
"Iz… god, Iz, what happened to you, what happened, please tell me," Michael babbled softly to her, and caught the faint motion of her now blue-tinged lips again. He still couldn't hear her, and he ducked his head down, placing his ear as near to her mouth as he could. When it finally became clear to him, Michael Guerin wrapped his arms around Isabel, drawing her in as close to him as he could, and wept openly.
"I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad…"
Michael's breath shuddered in and out of him as he spent the last of the tears. He swiped at his face, his nose stuffed up, eyes burning, and head pounding as he disentangled himself from around Isabel and stood up. His first thought was that he needed to call Max right away, and he started towards the door of the bathroom, but something stopped him from leaving. He wasn't sure why, and his mind screamed at him to call the Evanses, but he suddenly felt that calling Max was a really bad idea. He shook it off and took a few steps away from the bathroom, but stopped again, sighing in agitation and cradling his aching head in his hands. He knew he should be calling Max right now. He knew that Isabel's family should drive over here right now to pick her up and take her to a hospital, or home, or something. He knew that he couldn't possibly be able to fix anything here.
But his heart still wouldn't let him do it.
He stood there for a moment, helplessly looking at the phone in his kitchen and back at the bathroom. Making his decision, he made his way into the bedroom. He cleaned himself up as best he could and changed into an old pair of swim trunks before heading back into the bathroom. Isabel still sat in the bathtub, staring blankly at her feet, shivering. Michael reached over and turned on the bathtub faucet, letting the water heat up as he turned his attention back to Isabel. He first unzipped the boots she wore and removed them, sticking a small pair of hand weights inside them in an effort to keep them from being completely destroyed. Looking down at the old black Pantera t-shirt in his hands, he distantly wondered if Isabel would fight him. Deciding he didn't care, he tried prying her arms off of her drawn-up knees. He met resistance at first, and just rubbed his hands over the chilled skin of her arms, murmuring soothingly to her. His heart leapt in anticipation when her eyes darted to his face for the briefest of moments before fixing steadily on the wall again, and she allowed her limbs to be rearranged.
Michael first lifted Isabel's arms above her head and breathed a sigh of relief when she let her arms stay where he put them. He efficiently slipped the large t-shirt over her leather halter before lowering her arms back to her sides.
"Okay… here goes nothing," he whispered to himself, placing the plug in the drain and watching the tub fill up with warm water. Thoughtfully, he glanced at the small linen cabinet behind him and opened it, rifling through old towels and razors and such to find what he wanted. The small bottle was concealed underneath a pillowcase, and Michael let a small smile cross his lips in gratitude to Maria for being allergic to eucalyptus. The bottle of bubble bath was another of Max's tips on how to be a great boyfriend… Maria had been pissed at him for days afterwards for not remembering her allergy. Michael uncapped it and poured a generous amount under the running tap, the bubbles seeming to magically appear and multiply. Gathering up his resolve, he climbed into the bathtub, positioning himself behind Isabel. He made short work of the tie at the nape of her neck, pulling the halter top out from under the t-shirt and throwing it on the floor. His hands traveled down to the waistband of the leather pants she wore before hesitating there. Michael drew in a deep breath, cursing himself for being such a stupid teenager about this. The eucalyptus, he noted, had a wonderfully calming scent. That was good.
"Come on, Mikey, get a grip. There is nothing even remotely sexual about doing this… right, Iz?" he asked softly, glancing at her face. Isabel's expression remained shuttered and unchanged. "Nope. Didn't think so." His long arms reached easily around her waist, and he fumbled a bit with the button on her pants, silently willing his jumping nerves to relax. Once done, he slid his hands, palm-down, around to each hip, pushing the garment down as far as it would go. Seeing that the water was approaching an overflow level, Michael depressed the water handle with one foot. He used what little buoyancy the water afforded him to shift Isabel onto one of his outstretched legs and maneuvered the leather down further. A detached part of his mind informed him that the girl sitting in front of him wasn't wearing any underwear… and the rush of heat he half-expected to come with that revelation was swept away in a wave of sadness, the knowledge of why she was going out sans undergarments making both sorrow and sheer anger bubble up inside of him briefly. After the ruined pants followed the shirt, Michael brushed Isabel's hair away from her face and towards him, grimacing at the stiff feel of it with the soap almost dried. Tipping her had back, he began pouring handfuls of the water over her blonde locks. He watched, transfixed, as the pinkish-red shampoo trickled out of her hair. Michael lost himself in the sight and sensation of the well-known strands returning to their former shade of burnished gold, made dark by the water but still gleaming with that inner light that always seems to give away wet towheads. When his awareness had been brought back around to full, he was inexplicably pleased to see that Isabel had begun to rock back and forth slowly in the rhythm of the water that he poured repeatedly over her head. Michael smiled shortly, reaching for the shampoo bottle and pouring a healthy amount into his palm, working it into a lather before using his fingers to work it into her hair from roots to tips. Once he was satisfied that Isabel's hair was good and clean, Michael reached over the side of the tub, groping around on the floor for the cereal bowl he brought in from the kitchen to rinse with.
Isabel was having a wonderful dream.
She was seated on a large satin pillow that made her feel almost weightless. Before her stretched the desert; red and gold and brown and seeming to continue until the end of the world. Max and Michael were there… they were playing catch with an old baseball. Max had his back to her, which bothered her quite a bit, and she felt like crying. But then she saw Michael, who was facing her. He never took his eyes off her for a second, never looked at the ball as it traveled a perfect arc to Max's hand and back to his palm. And someone was sitting behind her, brushing her hair.
"He's worried, you know." The voice came from behind her, she felt the vibrations carry through the fingers that stroked her hair.
"Who are you?" Isabel murmured, not wanting whomever it was to stop. The person just hummed, a tune that Isabel felt she knew, but couldn't remember the notes to. She craned her neck to see, but a firm hand on her neck prevented it.
"You cannot see me, child," the voice continued almost sadly.
"Why not? Who are you?" Isabel repeated.
"Just look," the voice whispered into her ear, and Isabel instinctively knew to look at Michael. When her eyes met his face, she started, sitting bolt upright.
"Michael! What's the matter with him, why is he crying? Michael! Michael!!" she yelled, hoping to elicit a reaction, but he simply stared at her, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
"I told you," the voice said in a resigned tone, and Isabel became more agitated.
"What? You didn't tell me anything. Who are you?" Isabel demanded, trying once again to look over her shoulder.
"I told you, you cannot see me. You are not yet ready," the voice responded calmly, once again stroking her scalp and making her relax.
"Why is Michael crying?" Isabel whimpered as Michael reached out his left hand to her.
"Because he is beginning to know what it is that he truly wants," the voice explained lowly, and Isabel's eyebrows knitted in confusion.
"But wouldn't that make him happy?" Isabel queried guardedly, leaning back further into the stranger's embrace, unsure as to why she trusted them. She felt the person's head shake in the negative.
"Not necessarily. He has been so confused for so long that he is unaccustomed to being certain. The certainty scares him… as well as the uncertainty that the future holds for what he has chosen." Isabel let out a soft hum of near-comprehension, her eyes falling shut as the stranger's hands began to massage her tense shoulders.
Michael took the bar of Ivory soap in his hands, rubbing them roughly together to lather it before raising them tentatively to Isabel's arms. Slowly and still a little uncertain, he smoothed the soft bubbles over her skin.
"Iz… can you lift your arm up for me?" he asked in a quiet voice near her ear. She showed no sign that she had heard him and he sighed dejectedly. He was still more than a little nervous about bathing one of his best friends… especially considering it was the one best friend who embodied his so-called destiny. The best friend that he sometimes held more than best-friendly feelings for. More to ease his nerves than to soothe her, Michael began to hum a tune that he knew Isabel liked. That is, she used to like it… he would hum it for her when they were just kids, and she always looked up at him in rapt fascination while he did it, red-faced with embarrassment, for her. He never would have attempted it if her reaction to the wordless song had been anything less than the unvarnished enthusiasm she always showed, clapping and laughing with delight every damn time. For her, for Isabel, Michael could always dredge up enough courage and dignity to sing, something that anybody who knew him now would laugh out loud to think of. Michael Guerin singing, yeah right, tell me another one.
Lost in the almost tactile memories, Michael's hands became surer, more confident, as they swept over Isabel's skin. While just minutes earlier he had come up blank for an idea of how to accomplish this task, he did it now without conscious thought. Holding her left wrist out slightly above shoulder height, he reached around the top of her shoulders to gently scrub that arm before letting it drop back into the water and rinsing it off. The same action repeated on the opposite arm, and he replenished his supply of soap before swirling the lather around her neck and over her collarbone and upper back, his hands disappearing briefly underneath the black t-shirt. He reached as high as he dared to wash the smooth expanse of her stomach and back, smiling slightly at the feel of muscle and bone under the perfect softness of her skin. The hummed tune grew louder, the rich baritone of his voice gaining confidence as Michael marveled at the eerie rightness of the moment. And this time, when he asked if Isabel could lift her leg on her own, she complied even though she remained silent and he tasted the salty tears that collected in his throat. He took in the sight of the soapy water trailing down the line of her long leg, snaking an uneven trail around the full curve of her calf, pooling again in the water that held them both. Letting his large hand encompass the side of that leg, he drew it up slowly to the gentle crease of flesh where it joined her hip and felt the first-expected heat settle into his blood. Isabel jerked suddenly in his arms, like one of those shivers that sneaks up on you, and he stilled for a moment, trying to discern any change in her state of consciousness and detected none. Michael wondered at how perfect this felt, how the desire that had begun to stir him did not make him uncomfortable or shadowed by guilt. It washed over him, and he resigned easily to the rejection of shame. He hummed, and he engaged in this strange dance with this woman who invaded his dreams and haunted his waking hours with tickles of deja-vu.
Isabel gasped when she saw it, the faintest outline of form that hovered just behind Michael.
"What is that?" she queried tremulously of the figure behind her.
"It is the shadow of his former self," the person replied simply, but the voice was heavy with sorrow. Isabel shifted uneasily in her seat, the wheels in her mind turning that piece of information over.
"So… is that what you are? Are you…" Isabel couldn't vocalize the last word, and she felt the person behind her give a long sigh.
"Am I Vilandra?" the voice finished for her, the timbre of it still indistinct and androgynous. "Yes and no." Isabel stiffened, her hackles up and ready to defend herself if necessary.
"What do you want with me?" Isabel bit out, hating the fear that colored her voice. The soft hands that caressed her stilled, and Isabel could feel the pain coming off of the entity behind her in waves.
"I… Vilandra no longer exists. You have no need to fear her, or me," the roundabout answer came. Isabel felt the familiar tears of injustice rise, and hated them too.
"What do you mean? I thought I was Vilandra," she half-questioned, hoping against hope for the answer she desired.
"You do ask difficult questions," the voice sighed again before continuing. "You are Vilandra… and you are not Vilandra, in much the same way that I am and am not. The fundamental difference is that you belong to the living and I do not." As the body behind her spoke, Isabel heard the voice change and take on a more definite shape and tone.
"I don't understand. You sound like a woman to me now, were you hiding from me? Did you think I wouldn't be able to handle it?" Isabel demanded angrily, and impossibly felt the woman smile.
"My dear, you aren't handling it at all," the voice informed her gently, and Isabel doubled over as a sharp pain devoured her and then disappeared in a flash.
"What – what is this? Why do you want to hurt me?" the blonde pleaded tearfully, the echoes of pain still reverberating in her bones.
"You have it all backwards. I have not caused this pain, you have. This is not your hair I'm stroking, and this is not the desert you are sitting in," the phantom drilled, and Isabel cried out when the pain consumed her again, receiving images of herself and Michael in a bathtub. The sight caused a strange shifting in her mind, and the desert sunset in front of her wavered a little, like a still pond that has been broken by a tiny pebble.
"I don't understand!" Isabel repeated, holding her head in her hands.
"Do not try. It is far beyond any one being's ability to comprehend… the ramifications are much too large," the voice explained distractedly, and Isabel's heart twisted as she looked at Michael and Max, who had been joined by Tess at some point, and they all looked at her like they were expecting something.
"Make sense!" Isabel screamed, trying to look away from her comrades' expectant gazes and finding herself unable to.
"You are not the first person to contemplate these mysteries. Humans, Antarians… intelligent life across the universe is limited. Those who would expect other species from other planets to know more about such things are fooling themselves. The fact of the matter is that any given system is incapable of the total comprehension of a system that is more complicated than itself… and frequently does not understand itself. You will never find the exact answers you are looking for. In the same way that humans here on Earth are unsure of how genetics, biology, and chemistry affect or determine what we call personality, the same doubts and questions hold true on your home planet. The replication of the Royal Four was an unprecedented experiment – the last acts of a desperate people. The Antarians who created you will never know if the experiment was a success for the simple reason that they had not the faintest idea of how it would all turn out. You're alive – that's a good start. But you fight too much. There are some things that need to be fought, but there is no need to battle yourself. For all intents and purposes, you are not Vilandra. You are Isabel Evans, part human, and therefore possessed of a free will, as are your brother and your friends." As the voice's diatribe came to an end, Isabel reached up to her face, drying the tears on her face with the wave of her hand, and felt that smile again.
"I won't remember this, will I?" she asked calmly, the image of the desert already fading out, giving way to impossibly real-looking tiles.
"Perhaps someday…" the voice trailed off, and Isabel inhaled deeply, gulping in air like she'd not been breathing for days.
The sight of Michael's bathroom became very clear, almost frightening in its lucidity, it's solid reality, before fading away and leaving the edges of her mind fuzzy. Her mouth felt wired shut as memories of the past long night rapidly replaced the memories of her dream. She remembered the bar, and Michael coming to find her, and forgot the desert and the eerily perfect game of catch. She remembered Michael's bike lying forlorn and forgotten on the edge of the dusty clearing and forgot about the gentle yet formless hands that sifted through her hair. She remembered punching the wall, the pain starting to invade her consciousness suddenly, and forgot about the voice altogether.
"Perhaps someday," she said out loud, and was vaguely surprised to hear it come out as nothing more than a husky whisper. Fear coursed through her as she registered an arm around her waist and a large hand on her shoulder tightening on her hard enough so that she could feel the pulse beneath the skin.
Michael's lilting hum was cut off suddenly when Isabel thrashed in his arms, inhaling sharply and raggedly like a drowning victim who has begun taking in air again. Once her breathing had resumed a more normal pattern, he held her tightly; almost not wanting to look into her face for fear that he'd only see that blank expression again and find it was all his imagination. But then he felt her tense up in his arms again, and closed his eyes, hoping that meant what he thought it meant.
"Isabel?"
In response, the blonde girl let out a long breath she'd been holding and turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. When Isabel fixed her unreadable but unmistakably lucid eyes on his, he wanted to cry, to hold her close, to shout for joy; however, he couldn't seem to move.
"Can you stand?" Michael asked her quietly, and she looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding her assent, finding her feet with his help. He found the plug with his toes, pulling it free and hearing the familiar hollow sound of the water draining down the pipes. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a bath towel from off of the sagging towel rod, turning back to her and freezing in place as desire coursed through him anew. Isabel stood before him, wearing nothing save for a soaking wet t-shirt of his, fiddling with the peeling logo above her stomach and searching him with those huge, scared brown eyes. Michael's mouth went suddenly dry as he moved closer to her, draping the towel over her shoulders and rubbing her upper arms gently through it, and she shivered, the vibration carrying through the shared contact. He silently soaked up her beauty as she stood so near to him, the draining water splashing coolly against their ankles. Seconds or minutes later, Michael felt a small but insistent tugging at his hands and realized that he had ceased drying Isabel's shoulders and had just been standing there, resting his head against hers, reveling in the knowledge that she had come back to him, and she had begun tugging on the towel that was still trapped under his palms.
"Sorry," he whispered to her, and she smiled brokenly, blushing a little and avoiding his gaze, still tugging on the towel. Michael got the hint and stepped back from her hastily, inhaling deeply and grabbing a towel of his own to hold in front of him as he stepped out of the bathtub.
"I'm just gonna…" he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the remainder of his apartment, and Isabel just nodded, still holding him steadily in her deep brown gaze. He took one last heated look at her before turning tail and fleeing the premises, heading for his bedroom and sinking down onto the bed. He berated himself internally as he willed his libido to calm down.
"How could you be so stupid, Guerin?" he whispered to the empty room, cursing himself for not being more in control. All she really needs right now is another horny guy wanting to make it with her, right? That's the whole reason why she sat, catatonic, in your bathtub for the past forty-five minutes. Really slick. Let's see how much more you can psychologically scar her while she's here, Mikey. How many ways can you prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you should've called Max when you had the chance?
"Michael?" He sat up abruptly, regarding her as she stood in the doorway to his bedroom, backlit from the hallway and holding onto the doorframe tightly.
"You need some real clothes, huh?" he asked her carefully, still afraid that he would do or say something to set her off again, but she just nodded silently. Rubbing one hand tiredly over his face, he motioned to the open closet, indicating that she should help herself. Halfway to the closet door she stopped, turning around to face him with an inscrutable expression on her face. Michael didn't move as she slowly made her way over to where he sat on the edge of the bed, coming to rest directly in front of him, her legs mere centimeters from his. He didn't know precisely what she was doing, but his body didn't really care, he noted. Swallowing hard, he looked up into her face, and was still trying to figure out the look in her eyes when she took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly. His initial shock gave way quickly as her tongue traced his lips, silently asking for permission that he granted immediately, reveling in the feel of her silken tongue exploring his mouth and wrapping his arms awkwardly around her waist. Attempting to accommodate the both of them, Isabel inched her way forward, straddling and coming to sit on his legs. Michael moaned into her mouth as he felt her uncovered heat so close to where he was already painfully hard. Isabel snaked one arm under his, cradling his broad back and pushing them backwards so that he was lying down on the bed. It was soon too much for him, and he caught her around the waist, flipping them over deftly and devouring her mouth hungrily with his, soaking up the small mewling sounds she made that only inflamed him further. They both broke apart for much-needed oxygen, and Michael slid one leg in between hers, concentrating on fully tasting the bit of exposed shoulder he had revealed by tugging the arm of the t-shirt to one side. His mind rebelled, telling his body that what he was doing was wrong on about a dozen different levels, but he couldn't make himself stop. This was what he'd wanted for so long… what he was doing to her, the way she was kissing his neck was the sort of thing that would keep him awake at night and fantasizing. Every emotion he'd ever felt towards Isabel… every romantic feeling that he'd kept bottled inside, every instinct he'd repressed since the pods, their childhood, their dreams; it was all coming back to him, washing over him in waves and pulling him under. A moment of clarity came to him as Isabel suckled the spot just behind his left ear, and he froze, thinking about how Maria had done the same thing to him the last time they had made out. It seemed like years ago, and oddly he felt no guilt.
"Michael?" Isabel inquired breathily, trying to look into his face, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "What do you want?"
"Huh?" he said intelligently, but she had really caught his attention. He turned a quizzical expression onto the top of her head.
"What do you want, Michael? What do you want me to do?" she continued, punctuating each question with another kiss on his collarbone. "Do you want to hurt me?"
Michael's head snapped up sharply at that, and he rolled off of her, taking her shoulders roughly in his hands and searching her face.
"What did you say?" Isabel's face looked calm… almost frighteningly so, he noted. Even when she was relaxing at home or during lunch at school she never looked that calm. He wanted to kick himself.
"I asked you what you want. Do you want me to dress up? I can do that if you want," she trailed off, fiddling with the tie on his still-damp swim trunks. He pulled away abruptly and walked stiffly to the wall, flipping on the light switch and turning back to her. She blinked owlishly a few times, her eyes adjusting to the light.
"No, you asked me if I wanted to hurt you. If I wanted to hurt you. Why? Why would you ask me something like that, Isabel?" he asked tensely, straining to keep himself from yelling. Engrossing herself with picking lint off the ratty blanket on the bed, she just shrugged.
"Some guys like that," she whispered, the answer barely audible. Now Michael was torn between kicking himself and kicking someone else. Hard.
"And I suppose some sick fucks like for you to dress up, huh? And do you? Do you dress up for them, do you let them… let them hurt you? Do you?" he asked, almost pleading with her to say no. Begging silently for her to say no. His heart broke when she nodded yes.
"Why?" he queried brokenly, and she didn't answer. He moved quickly over to the bed, sitting opposite her and stilling her nervously active hands with his larger ones, pulling them in to his chest, asking her without words to look at him. When she did, the tears she'd been holding back spilled over her lower lashes.
"Because they were you," she whispered back, and Michael shook his head violently.
"No, Isabel, no… I'm right here. I would never hurt you, never. Never. And I would never want you to be someone other than yourself, so you know they weren't me, they couldn't be. Right? You know I would never… I could never do something like that to you. You know that, right?" Michael was startled when she yanked her hands back, hugging herself with them and speaking angrily to him.
"How would I know that, Michael? I didn't have you. I wanted you more than anything, and you weren't mine to have, I would take you any way I could, even if that meant… pretending," she finished softly, wiping furiously at the tears that doused her cheeks. Michael was speechless for a long moment. He never imagined that his emotional walls were that good… and that they could ever hurt someone more than they hurt him.
"Isabel… I don't… how could you not…" Michael exhaled forcefully, searching for the right words. "You've always had me." Isabel rolled her eyes contemptuously.
"Please, Michael, don't pretend now that you thought I was talking about friendship," she said bitterly, and he sighed in aggravation.
"No, I know what you meant. And you've always had it. Well… maybe not in the actual sense," he amended, frowning in confusion, "but you could have had me that way… pretty much any time."
"No, Michael, I couldn't have had that. And it doesn't matter anyway," she said brusquely, pulling some clothes out of the closet. "I don't deserve you, so it doesn't matter." Michael's eyes widened at that statement as he tried to figure out what she meant.
"Isabel… what in the world would make you think that you didn't deserve me?" he asked in exasperation. That was one thing he never thought he'd hear coming out of Isabel Evans' mouth.
"God, Michael, you still don't get it? Vilandra," she told him. He just looked blankly at her.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he asked, honestly befuddled.
"Vilandra. You know, me? In my other life I betrayed you… I betrayed all of you: Max, Tess, all of you, for my own selfish reasons. I won't let myself do that again. If I have what I want, it will mean that I'm following my destiny, and that ultimately led to all of us getting killed up there." Her voice reached a fevered pitch as she explained herself, pacing the floor.
"Isabel, you're not Vilandra," Michael stated softly, watching her agitated movement.
"Yes I am, Michael! I am, and she was… a horrible person, she did terrible things and she was bad, and that makes me bad too." Tears filled her eyes as she spoke, the self-hatred in the words cutting Michael deeper than any knife. He got up, rounding the corner of the bed slowly, and reached out to her, watching as she trembled more the closer he got. Isabel nearly jumped out of her skin when his hand came in contact with the side of her face, and he stood there, motionless, until she calmed under his touch. Bringing his other hand up, he cradled her sweet face, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"Isabel… I'm not the greatest with words. You know that. But you know that I would never lie to you, don't you?" He waited for a response, and sighed deeply when she nodded her assent. "You. Are. Not. Bad. Do you understand me? You could never be a bad person. Iz, you have so much love inside you… you care so much for people that it hurts you to see people hurt. You have a big heart; it's what makes you beautiful, not just your body or your hair or your clothes. Now, I don't know who Vilandra was, and I don't care. Because I know who you are, Isabel. I know you, I trust you… and I love you." Isabel searched his face with wonder, soaking up his words like a child hearing their favorite bedtime story.
"How… how can I ever live something like that down? How can I pay for what I did if I'm happy?" she whispered, the tears spilling over her eyelids. Michael leaned in and kissed them away.
"You don't have to… you didn't do any of that. Nobody thinks that you did. Max, Tess, Liz, they all trust you," he reassured her, murmuring softly in her ear.
"But I don't deserve-" Isabel started, shaking her head, and Michael silenced her with a feather-light kiss.
"I know exactly what you deserve," Michael said with certainty, and she looked at him questioningly. "Let me show you… please? Let me show you what you deserve," he entreated in a low voice, making shivers run up Isabel's spine, and she could only nod dumbly. A fleeting smile crossed Michael's face, and he secured his arms around her waist as he walked them backward to the bed again, turning them so that his back was to the bed and she faced him. Cautiously, not breaking eye contact, Michael slid his hands over her shoulders and saw her shudder quickly, taking in a deep and uneven breath. He smiled again; knowing the cause was not fear or sadness, but desire. Desire for him. She stared him down evenly and he felt a rush of heat consume him, feeling that thrill of knowing that Isabel wanted him, drawing it out to savor and remember. Still moving deliberately, he skimmed his hands over her sides and stomach, resting his fingers on the hem of the still-damp t-shirt, asking once again for permission. A delectable flush stole up Isabel's neck and cheeks as she nodded once again, and Michael was overwhelmed by the need to find out how much of her body that blush covered. He hooked the edge of the shirt between his thumbs and forefingers, allowing his hands access to the warm skin of her midsection as he revealed it inch by inch, drawing out the exquisite torture by stopping just short of her breasts, waiting for her to raise her arms. She hesitated for a moment, and Michael sensed that it wasn't reluctance to carry through with the encounter but simple human shyness; she worried about what he would think of her. He deftly caught and held her gaze again; not knowing what to say to ease her concerns and instead concentrating on letting her see his love for her in his eyes. He thanked the powers that be for that small ability when she allowed a slip of a smile to grace her features, taking the shirt out of his hands and shedding the remainder of it of her own volition.
Michael's vague and fuzzy memory of the dreams they shared and the limited scope of his own fantasies could not have even halfway prepared him for the sight of Isabel, standing gloriously nude in front of him. He actually felt faint looking at her, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of her like a man who has spent an eternity parching in the desert.
"So beautiful," he breathed, stretching one trembling hand out to caress the skin of her abdomen, and she shivered in response; he could feel heat coming off of her, even barely touching her. Again he looked up at her, searching her visage, unsure of what he was looking for. In answer, she leaned over him hesitantly and he swallowed hard, watching as her full breasts swayed with the movement. One slender hand found the waistband of his shorts, tented with the evidence of his arousal, and he stopped her with his own hand. She looked at him, confused and bordering on hurt, and he caught her by the hips, guiding her down to sit beside him on the bed and kissing her gently; coaxing her lips to dance with his. When Michael broke it off, he noted with relief that her eyes were bright and clear, the little lines of worry on her forehead erased. He was inexorably pleased when Isabel initiated the next kiss, her ethereally soft lips sliding deliciously over his, her tongue coming out to play with his, their kisses becoming more and more urgent. When the need to breathe overcame them, Michael busied himself with tasting the skin of her neck, once again guiding her hips further back onto the bed and urging her with his hands to lie back on the bedspread.
"Michael-" she half-protested, and he shushed her, trailing his fingertips lightly, so lightly, over her legs, arms, torso.
"Let me," he repeated huskily, and she drew in a ragged breath, humming a bit to let him know to proceed. He felt her dark eyes on him as he half sat up, his hands becoming bolder, his lips following them. He kissed her ears, the hollow of her throat, the insides of her elbows. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, to worship her entire body with his mouth. When his lips met the soft, translucent skin of her wrist, his tongue snaked out, laving the vein that pulsed with her life's blood. He made his way back up that arm, his fingers hovering over her breasts, tracing the round outside curve gently, tenderly, kissing the warm flesh in between them. Isabel cooed gently, shifting her hips a little on the bed, and Michael smiled. He used the back of his hand to caress the inside edge of them, softly and then with more insistence, circling closer to her hardened nipples, leaving them until last and leaving no part of her chest untouched, unkissed. When he finally lit upon the tight nubs, Isabel cried out loud, cradling Michael's head in her hands, clenching handfuls of his soft hair gently in her hands and releasing it rhythmically.
"M-Michael," she stammered, a little too loudly, and he looked up at her. She tugged at his shoulder, pulling him up and over her, wanting to feel the full weight of him covering her. He tried to pull away, but Isabel wouldn't stand for it, she wove the fingers of one hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him tightly to her with her other arm and kissing him hungrily. She gently mauled his mouth, nibbling at his lips and sinking her tongue into the hot cavern of his mouth, making faint but desperate noises in the back of her throat, loving the feel of Michael moaning back into her mouth. Isabel shifted slightly then, rearranging their legs so that Michael was cradled in between her thighs, his hardness nestled snugly against her hot center with only his shorts in between them.
"Iz… god, Iz," Michael gasped, shaken by their proximity. Again he tried to pull away, but Isabel locked her ankles around his legs, keeping him there.
"Please, Michael? Please," Isabel whispered huskily to him, her want for all of him warring inside of her with the shadow of a voice that kept telling her that she didn't deserve any of this. Michael lay still for a long moment, trying to piece himself together, to gain some semblance of control again before he carried through with this. It wasn't like he'd never done this before… he wasn't exactly Mr. Experience, either, but he'd never anticipated how intense and fundamentally right being with Isabel would be. Michael was in a place he never thought he'd get to be: he was home, a place he was totally unfamiliar with and it rattled him. Isabel somehow sensed his dilemma and carefully unhooked her legs from around his, pushing herself up into a sitting position, dropping light kisses over his face, shoulders, hands… just loving him, and knowing with an eerie certainty that he just needed this moment to collect. When the tremors in his shoulders eased and he looked back up at her, her heart ached with the gratitude and vulnerability she saw there. Somehow, their emotional positions had been reversed for a brief time, and she was inexplicably grateful to him for being able to understand her in a way that nobody else could. This time, when she reached for the drawstring of his shorts, he didn't stop her. She smiled, and he lifted his hips to accommodate their removal. Isabel cupped his engorged member in her palm, wrapping her slender fingers around it experimentally. Michael groaned, and claimed her lips roughly with his as she guided them slowly back onto the bed.
They paused for a long moment, looking deeply into each other's eyes before Isabel raised her hips and Michael slid inside of her. They stayed still for a bit, breathing raggedly and reveling in the feel of being complete before they both grew impatient and Michael started to give himself to her in a slow, steady rhythm. Isabel could do little more than moan as she felt her consciousness spiraling out of control, so immersed was she in the wonderful sensations, she was lost in the tide of Michael's love. Michael crushed her gently to him, marveling at the miracle of finally being with Isabel, of knowing that he was exactly where he belonged, in a way that was so much deeper, so much more right than could be explained by the fragile term "destiny". Isabel began to thrash beneath him, and Michael reached between them to the apex of their bodies to circle the little bundle of nerves there, and Isabel flew over the precipice, crying out his name and wailing in ecstasy when she felt him follow her over, brilliant colors and hues she never knew existed exploding behind her eyelids.
The two lay cradled in each other for a fragment of eternity, and Isabel didn't know exactly when it was that Michael had drawn up the sheet over them, spooning her with his arm draped possessively across her midsection. She felt his breathing become slow and even, and shut her eyes tight against the echo of a voice that told her with solemn certainty that she didn't deserve the man behind her.
"Perhaps someday," she whispered suddenly, surprising herself at the strange statement, not knowing where it had come from and not caring as it silenced the already weakened voice, sending her off into the deep, feathered oblivion of sleep.
end