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TITLE: Utopia AUTHOR:
Firecracker
PAIRING:
Liz/Isabel
RATING:
PG-13
FEEDBACK:
Much welcomed, but don't bother flaming. To
falling_star_1013@hotmail.com
ARCHIVE:
RSA and Guilty Pleasures, otherwise want, ask, take, have
DISCLAIMER:
Neither Liz or Isabel belongs to me, sadly. Nor does Max,
luckily. They and all other characters mentioned in this
story are not mine. They belong to Jason Katims and his
production company, who do not make the best use out of
them. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun. This
story contains two consenting adult women in a romantic
relationship. If this idea disgusts you, grow up, and
come back when you have done so.
NOTES: I
haven't seen season 3, so there may be continuity and/or
logic errors relating to things that have happened in
episodes I haven't really bothered to read the
transcripts for. This is more or less intended to follow
canon up until sometime after Interruptus, and definitely
before Who Died And Made You King?
Tonight
the sunset is especially fine. Not that it's ever less
than stunning; though by now they have stopped watching
it, for the most part. This is a throwback to the first
days, when they gazed mesmerised every evening. They sit
together silently, one resting her head on the other's
shoulder. Silence is golden, as they say, and speech
would break the moment, the glow sweet with melancholy.
It dips, falls, and one of them finds herself wishing she
could taste it; it would be molten, warming in the
throat, and making her radiant. Like honey, like
apricots, like nothing on earth. It spreads its rays over
the land, over the sea, over the dirty city beneath.
Where they have chosen it will not be cold for a long
time yet, and both of them are somnolent and made still.
So they wait, wait until the last scattered remnants of
fire are disappeared and the night is vast and dark; and
the stars like so many motes of dust, suspended, as if
you could destroy their patterns with one wave of the
hand. But they don't move, their breaths calm, not
wanting to disturb the peace. Side by side they watch the
universe - light years back in time, and unimaginable
distances in space. Each knows what the other's thinking,
what they feel when they see these points of light, and
it's the same. Hurt rises. Sometimes it's red and
sometimes it's white, or black, but always the same old
pain. They're silent, this shared, unspoken suffering
stretched between them. Taut and tense, but still
connecting them; like spiders' webs, and thus it is
strong enough to hold them there, and also to hold them
together.
* * *
Their
days are varied but the same, and in this way they merge
into each other. Usually they don't spend them together,
but each one will leave separately and disappear into the
maze of the city. Its noise and filth are seductive,
vibrant; this is why they are here. They can lose
themselves easily; among the melee of inhabitants, locals
and misfits, they wander, the strange tongues washing
over them, although they have picked up much of the
language. Sometimes they sit alone in bars, drowning
themselves, withdrawing into a haze; sometimes they bring
people home from these bars, and throw them out in the
morning. These two are the unit, and the ones who stay
the night are brushed away. Unregistering, now, on their
relationship, which goes deeper than that. Often these
people are not the recipient of their names, or rather
they do not see their real names. It is liberating, when
they put on this cloak, masking themselves with letters:
Clare, Laura, Marisa, Kathryn, and sometimes, when one of
them especially wishes to make a point, or to punish
herself, she will become Tess. It is more appropriate
than it might once have been. Nor does anything they
carry have their identities on it; they alone know who
they are, and carry that knowledge safe within them, and
call each other by those names. They resonate in the
night air and are important: Liz, Isabel, they whisper
them to each other, and each is surprised at how it
changes, how their being is defined by a name. Although
Isabel has been aware of this before: Vilandra is not an
easy name to forget. This is also more appropriate than
it was.
They
don't talk about Roswell. Really it is the only thing
they have in common, this shared past, but it is
unmentioned and unmentionable. It hangs in the air, ever
present and touching everything they do, exerting its
influence over thousands of miles. They push thoughts of
it down. So it lurks, under the surface; bubbling up,
churning, and never letting them lie at peace, racking
them with guilt and bitter pain. The husband, the
brother, the parents, the once eternal soulmate. There
are words too for what they have done, words that evoke
emotional reactions: desertion, betrayal. Or else escape.
This last is how they see it; it was suffocating, choking
them to death, and they got out just in time.
Still,
although they left it, it produces ties that were sewn
into the veins, and the ripping of those bonds leads to
pain, which reminds them. They have little purpose now,
but they cling to each other in the chaos, survivors of a
shipwreck. Bound tightly by shared wounds, with a love
deeper than any based on joy.
* * *
And why
this escape? When Isabel thinks of those years in the
notorious small town it is as if she is drawn back into a
black hole of despair, blank hopelessness. The death in
life is impossible to describe, and the futile sense of
duty, and the husband she truly tried to love, and most
of all the brother. The king. His reproach, her guilt,
from the day they broke their way out of those pods and
he led her. And she followed him, because he was Max, and
maybe deep down she knew he was the king. He certainly
knew it, and he played with it, attaching his strings and
jerking her like a puppet. Power, power, and what could
she do? All her resistance, and she never truly did
anything he didn't want her to do. She must atone for
past sins, then she will be absolved. She must not fall
into the pit of betrayal like the evil bitch her former
life was. She feels this. Every day, then, with her
husband, she grows greyer in tone. She tries to fight it,
and it is a pit that doesn't end. Because what days can
she count, what cut-off point is there? Once upon a time,
she tried to instil passion and love into that
relationship, but she stopped bothering, as it was too
much effort for nothing. She settled for surviving while
what was she was drowning. Acceptance, but rage tends to
build up very high and push at the boundaries. Molten and
churning, lava, and volcanoes may be dormant but they do
not lie still forever.
Of
course she knew beyond hope that who she wanted could
never be, because who could possibly hope to compete with
her brother? His deep, soulful eyes, his heartfelt words
of eternal love, the stars and flowers that he could put
into her mind? She certainly could not, known only for
her brash beauty and lusted after by boys with brains
between their legs. This is not what her brother's lover
wishes for. She sees him constantly, kissing her,
controlling her, and deep anger seethes.
That
day, then, began like any other, with the sun rising over
the desert and leaving long shadows of residual cold
while she slept. It ascended further as she woke, kissed
her husband goodbye and reluctantly rose from her bed,
began another day with no purpose but to live. Spread the
thin mask of make-up over her face, as is required. Naked
would be unacceptable. And so it goes on, she leaves the
house and goes into the walled town, and of course they
end up at the Crashdown. She never knew why they insisted
on this relentless masochism, every image in the place
reminding them of who they were. No doubt it was Max's
influence; and who could get away from aliens in Roswell
anyway? They are the town's industry. The day in
question, they are sitting round one of the familiar
tables; Isabel herself is in detachment, floating a
little distance away and observing. The sun shines its
blocks of light through the window and catches on
different people, illuminating Liz, and Isabel watches,
as is her habit. To gaze on forbidden fruit and imagine
biting into it, bursting the glistening skin. She
observes; hears but does not take in; today though there
is no talk of other planets or ends of worlds, because
Liz has a new friend, one who is not initiated. Isabel
sees from her vantage point Max sitting silent and
morose; he does not like his soulmate engaging in
friendships with other men. Or friendships at all. Even
though he has once again let her go for the good of the
world, and such is Max's power that Isabel would never
dream of stealing Liz in one of these off periods. Also
she knows that it will not last long, because they are
Romeo and Juliet and will always be drawn back together.
But now Max is moody and emanates disapproval; and what
Isabel feels is a growing bitterness, and a resentment,
which take over her mind. As the party disperses and some
of them leave, they retreat into a more private place.
Max is there, and Liz, and Isabel herself of course, and
a few of the others, and Isabel is in a strange place,
her anger spiralling up high and the air is thick and
stifling. As she remembers this, it is both vague and
intensely detailed, feelings and details jumping out.
Max's silence becoming more active, and the quiet
becoming noise, and the ever-faithful Liz responding to
what he wants. She asks him what is wrong, and he brushes
it off in that way which requires a second question. Liz
asks the question again; and Max sighs, sets his face in
seriousness, and says
"We
need to talk." So Isabel and Michael get up to
leave, because these lovers' every whims must be
gratified, but Max stops them. "No, you stay - it
concerns you too." Isabel has a bad feeling, knows
she will not like what he is going to say. He is grave.
"I'm
worried about Jon," he says, referring to Liz's
friend; Liz looks surprised, and asks why. He pauses, and
then with an air of let's-get-it-over-and-done-with, says
"I don't think you should be seeing him
anymore." Isabel is incredulous, and interrupts.
"Why
the hell not?" she says angrily; Max looks at her,
his eyes saying 'This is none of your business', but she
stares back at him, so he turns back to Liz and continues
to address her.
"Liz,
I'm sorry, but it's too dangerous: if he finds out,
anything could happen, you know that. We don't know if we
can trust him." He speaks in a sorrowful tone, as if
he really means he's sorry. She looks as if she's about
to reply, but Isabel gets there first, with her best
bitingly sarcastic tone.
"Oh,
so this would have nothing to do with the fact that he's
male; you're not at all worried that he might steal Liz
away from you?" He looks weary and long-suffering.
"Don't
be stupid, Isabel..." Her anger rises up in her
throat and into her eyes, and icily, menacingly, she
speaks.
"Don't
you *ever* call me stupid. You just can't stand the fact
that Liz might want to spend time with someone other than
you... even though you won't have her, you still want to
hang on to her, not let her find any fucking pleasure in
life if she isn't getting it from you." She pauses
for breath, the others staring at her. Michael
interrupts.
"He
does have a point..."
"Oh,
but it was OK with Maria?" She challenges him
fiercely, and he doesn't respond.
"Maria,
Alex, Kyle, Valenti... oh, and how could I forget - Liz!
That's right, Max, you're the one who decided to
jeopardise us all by telling her. You started it, but
it's OK for you, because you're the *king*." It's
like a fountain spewing out from a bottomless lake. The
lid has finally blown and all the hate and shit is
falling over itself to go over the top of the waterfall.
"You
don't know what you're talking about, Isabel," he
says, dangerously now. She is more than capable though of
returning his danger.
"I
know *exactly* what I'm talking about. You, Max, the
fucking hypocrite, you think you can do whatever you want
but you can't. So maybe you can tell us what to do, but
you sure as hell can't tell her what to do. She's not an
alien, you're not her king, but now you expect her to
follow you day and night? What, now she's never gonna be
allowed to make a friend ever again?" She's standing
stunned, and clearly hating being in the middle of this.
Well, she'll just have to take it.
"Don't
you dare tell me anything about Liz. She has nothing to
do with you, and what goes on between us is my damn
business."
"I
wouldn't have to tell you anything, if you treated her
like you should! But you just jerk her around, you dump
all your shit on her and she deserves way more than that
- you just want to control her, like everyone else in
your fucking life!" She stands there, breathless and
wild.
"You
know nothing, do you? I've always done everything for you
and the others, sacrificed everything..."
"No,
bullshit," she interrupts with force. "You
don't care about anyone but yourself, you never have.
You're a fucked-up power freak, and God, I am sorry to be
any relation to you. You're not my brother. You're
sick." She looks at him with one glance that is
contempt and fury and bitter hate, and she pushes past
them, storms out of the room and outside. And there the
world suddenly opens at her feet and she knows with an
absolute revelation that she will leave. She feels
Roswell bearing down on her, crushing her, killing her.
It's nothing like joy she feels but just the satisfaction
of certainty; and her head is spinning, split open to the
raw exhilarating air of the stars.
She
walks steadily, heady with this knowledge, round the
town, and with every step she fells it more, how it is
sucking her in and she is being choked. It is late before
she returns home, and Jesse is away tonight. There's an
unimaginably huge hurt underneath, but her resolution is
keeping it down, and she finds a bag. Packs in clothes,
necessities, but nothing of any sentimental value. She is
shedding this skin, and as she descends she only glances
around; stops, and with a strange feeling of righting
what is wrong, pulls the ring off her finger and lets it
fall. It spins slowly, reflecting facets of light, and
echoes. She watches it, then opens the door; and Liz is
there. They stare at each other, each caught in the act.
"What
are you doing here?"
"What
are you *doing*?" Liz asks the obvious question, her
eyes darting from Isabel's bag to her face. She debates
quickly with herself the best response, but what purpose
would denial serve?
"What
does it look like I'm doing?" she says scornfully,
and tries not to dwell on the realisation that she will
be leaving this girl behind, never again will she gaze on
her. They are silent, then Liz looks up into Isabel's
eyes.
"Take
me with you," she says, softly but with a deep
decision. And the huge night shrinks, draws into a circle
cocooning them.
"Don't
be stupid," Isabel dismisses her after the initial
shock. "How could you leave? Everyone you love is
here, Maria, your parents, your whole cosy life, your
eternal soulmate..."
"Everything
you said this afternoon, it's all true," she says
quietly. "I just... couldn't see it..." Isabel
is suddenly overcome with visions of the two of them
together, alone somewhere on a beach, and floats in the
fantasy for a moment before coming back down.
"You
couldn't do it, I couldn't let you," she says, but
less forcefully now. Liz stands tall, and suddenly Isabel
feels so much younger than the other, overcome by a new
sense of wisdom and maturity.
"I
can," she states. Isabel considers, but there is
nothing she can do now to stop it. She is far too selfish
to let go of the only person she's ever loved for their
own good. It's inevitable, they will walk off into the
sunset. They are of one mind now, and bound. And it will
be such revenge upon him. As she raises her head, their
eyes meet, and consent is shared. The next words are
simply said.
"You
know there'll be no goodbyes."
"I
know."
Two
pairs of brown eyes falling into each other, tumbling
into their fate. No turning back now.
* * *
They
left that night, sneaking out of the town like fugitives,
which of course they were, in the original sense. Fugito,
fugitare, to flee hastily, to flee from. Liz had nothing
but the clothes she stood in, Isabel little more than
that. As if programmed, they took a bus out of town. Then
they flew out of the country, with new names and new
passports, and that was no problem because what Michael
could do, Isabel could do, with a lot more sense and a
more serious intent. They moved without thought until
they were sat on the plane. In silence they stared out
the window, watching the banks of clouds go past, tinted
with rose. They were hit by the enormity of what they'd
done and where they were; trapped in a plane over some
sea, on their way to some unknown land, with only the
company of someone they marginally disliked. For a few
hours, waves of panic floated through them both; but some
things are too vast to comprehend, and so they didn't.
It was a
liberty neither had imagined; they went anywhere because
it didn't matter. They walked down streets where no-one
knew their names and no-one cared. Both had always loved
the heat, and so they were always enveloped by warm
blankets of air, comforting and sleep-inducing; nights
were like honey, and they would sample different places.
They lay on cooling beaches in the twilight, and tasted
paradise. Nothing between them was planned, but they were
drawn together and they accepted it as something
inevitable. They drank a lot, so the world grew warm and
vague, and in the alcoholic extension of their Eden, they
kissed deeply, again and again. Isabel tasted the apple,
and found it everything she had imagined and more; Liz
tasted the tang of a feeling she'd denied so long, and
denied it no longer.
This was
indeed love, and they were beautiful together. They
forged a new life for themselves, and travelled, moving
somewhere different every few months. They tasted the
flavour of rainforests, of mountains, of villages, of
cities. After a while they stuck more to the cities,
because the quiet of the remoter parts gave them too much
time for reflection. In the cities they were always
surrounded by noise. It numbed their minds and drowned
out the whispering voices of guilt; as far as whispering
voices of guilt can ever be drowned out.
* * *
The
constant struggle of repressing memories means that
sometimes, when they are tired, they succumb. Especially
at nights, when they are drifting off, and the visions
come of their own accord. Sometimes they think that not
thinking about Roswell is not worth the effort, but
ultimately the pain is too high a price to pay. It's not
the memories they mind, so much as the imaginings of the
present. They are under no illusions as to the impact
they have left; like a hit-and-run driver, they have fled
the scene of the chaos. They see it, a tight-knit group,
bound together by secrets, sharing solidarity, and they
have shattered it. Left behind unimaginable wreckage, a
nuclear-force explosion, with the shards raining down and
the poison spreading over the land. They don't like to
count up the people whose lives they have ruined. It
hurts too much, and they left them behind. They are now
disconnected, they don't care, as each repeats to herself
when the quiet of darkness is drawing in. maybe the
others have fallen into drink, drugs, meaningless sex,
which would somehow be infinitely worse in Roswell's
small-town cosiness than in any one of their own faceless
cities. Maybe they are dead.
Liz
tries not to see Max's face in her mind, the pain in his
deep eyes that she has seen before. She tries not to
imagine his disbelief and suffering. She tries not to
remember his kisses, and those flashes. It is difficult,
when she is transported into other worlds and universes
of flying stars by his sister's kisses. She tries to
forget the pain she felt when she saw him with Tess, when
the rot began to set in. Her anger and betrayal, when he
told her of his child. She tries to repress the great
guilt in her stomach, black and poisonous, knowing that
she has now done the same to him and worse. She hates him
for being everything he was, but that does little to
change her love, which is undying. As great as her love
for Isabel, although so very different.
Isabel
herself tries to forget she is different, tries not to
dwell on the powers she uses every day. When she buys a
drink, she tries to forget that she made the money she
holds with her own hand. Most of all she tries to forget
that she was once a princess, that she is part of a group
who were destined to be together forever. She should be
there, protecting them from evils. If one day the sky
falls, if the earth is burnt by alien invaders, she will
know that it is irrefutably her fault, that she through
her selfishness has condemned 5 billion people to death.
And she knows that as before, the evil came from within:
within the Royal Four, and within her. She tries to miss
the irony of her double betrayal. She tries not to hear
the name Vilandra echo through her head.
So they
stay together in this guilt, strength through unity.
Still they would not go back and change it, but they
should have known they couldn't leave it behind. One does
not tear blood ties and build oneself up again from
scratch. They escaped, but their punishment is to be
haunted. And haunted they are.
They lie
on warm sands under tropical suns. They watch the
silhouettes of trees grow sharper and darker against the
sky, and old familiar longing return as the stars come
out one by one. Somewhere out there, they know, is
Isabel's home, which she has abandoned and will never
see; and Liz draws her arms round tighter, feels the
other's head buried in her chest. She strokes the hair,
golden this week, and light flashing off it like a candle
flickering. They lie surrounded by a world of dreams, a
heaven on earth, and they are washed with desolation. The
sun sinks and disappears. It will rise over Roswell, a
thousand miles away, and be seen by those they have left
behind. They cling to one another, anchoring each other
to the world, eyes closed and carrying each other through
the seas of pain.
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