Author's Note:
For Femslash February. Loosely based this fic on the last lines of Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing." The plan of this series is that there will be around two or so more parts, with pairings being Bonnie/Rochelle and Nancy/Sarah Bailey. Basically this is my response (and cure) to the misogynistic second act of the film. I hope you enjoy it. If you have any constructive criticism, feel free to tell me so. :)
Acknowledgments: threeoranges of Tumblr was sweet enough to offer to beta read this for me. Couldn't have done it without her encouragement. If there are any mistakes, those are of my own doing.
When Bonnie had those scars, she would insist that the lights be out whenever she and Rochelle made love (and how Rochelle liked to tease Bonnie about that phrase, "Make love? Are we a historical romance book? Do I get to be lord of the castle or am I maiden that will shatter his icy exterior with my tempting virgin body?") And even then, Bonnie still insisted on doing it under the blankets.
Rochelle never did tell her that she liked how her scars felt as they pressed against her skin; she never told her that she felt her scars told a story.
She never said anything because she knew how Bonnie would respond-she would get quiet, then laugh nervously, she would even make a joke.
What Rochelle felt, she refused to be laughed at about.
Rochelle felt too much for that to happen.
When Bonnie lost her scars, as soon as that happened, she wore less. Shirts that bared a pale strip of her belly, short sleeves or no sleeves at all, skirts short enough they barely followed school code, and her mother supported her. Maybe in some other life, Bonnie's mother would have put her foot down at how her daughter dressed but it was in this life that Bonnie's mother got just how important the clothes were for her, the same way she got that Rochelle was important to her, even as mother and daughter still walked on eggshells around that topic.
The only thing Bonnie's mother ever got after her for was to just put sunscreen every time she went out ("And plenty of it, the doctor says your skin is still very sensitive. Just be careful, sweetheart.")
Another effect of her nowadays-smooth skin was just how she was with Rochelle. She initiated contact more; she stopped asking for the lights to be off and to do it under the sheets. She even started communicating more, whispering into Rochelle's ear as they had sex ("That's good, you look so beautiful, keep fucking my hand like that, you are so beautiful. No one gets to touch you like me. No one.")
One morning, Bonnie woke up before Rochelle did. She shrugged on a bathrobe over her naked form, swinging her legs over the bedside before standing up to loosely tie it up. Bonnie walked out to the window and looked out.
It was raining and Los Angeles never looked so quiet, so beautiful. And even then, it still thrummed with something like arterial blood. Bonnie's mouth parted slightly as she pressed her hand against the cold glass.
Bonnie heard a sigh and looked back to the bed where she was met with Rochelle's back. Bonnie took in the curved plane of brown skin, Rochelle's rich curls, and the sideswell of her breast as she bunched her shoulders and shifted in her sleep, the slight tuft of dark hair at her underarm .
Bonnie felt warm and light, like the crack and spit of fire in a hearth, as she took in Rochelle's form. She was hers, Bonnie thought with pleasure thrumming through her like the magic of Los Angeles.
Mine.
Only mine.
No one touches her but me.
The window glass cracked beneath Bonnie's fingers from the last thought.
She didn't notice that.
Only Rochelle in sleep.