Title: "Cotton Candy Kisses"

Author: Allison Lindsay

Pairing: Chelsea/Raven (a.k.a. ChRave)

Rating: M

Disclaimer: That's So Raven belongs to many people, none of whom is me. The fic, however, is mine.

This is a FEMSLASH. Let me reiterate that for you one more time: This is a FEMSLASH.

If the thought of two women in a romantic and/or sexual relationship makes you go ewww, this story is not for you. Please click the back button now or forever hold your peace. In other words… No anti-femslash flames, por favor.

To my fellow ChRavenites – This is my first TSR fic, and I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. :o)

Chapter One

Gaudy rainbow lights.

Canary-yellow canopies.

The infectious giggles of throngs of children.

"Isn't this fun, Rae?" Chelsea Daniels turns to her companion, awaiting the grimace, the grumbles, the plea to flee. Instead, she is greeted with a smile, a pair of twinkling pupils, and a squeal of excitement.

Clutching her best friend's hand, Raven Baxter drags the teen along the trampled grass of the fairgrounds. Their destination: a rotund clown in a striped rayon costume and curly orange wig. "You pick the animal; I'll pick the color."

Chelsea contemplates her options. "Ummm… how 'bout a giraffe?"

"Okay. We will have one purple giraffe, please," Raven requests of the man with the greasy white face and shiny red nose.

The clown sifts through his assortment of balloons and plucks one from the pile. Using a pump to puff into the orifice, he causes the material to expand and elongate.

"Hey, Chels, did you know that giraffes are vegetarians?" Raven queries as the balloon artist twists the squeaky rubber into the shape of a long-necked herbivore.

"Ohh. I see someone's been reading up on the animal kingdom."

"I'm like a sponge," Raven boasts. "Just soakin' up that knowledge stuff." Her eyes stray from Chelsea, scanning the various attractions in the vicinity. "What you wanna do next? You wanna try and win something?"

No response. Chelsea is distracted by a group of adolescents tossing neon green ping pong balls into columns of glass fish bowls. Plink. Plunk. Splash. The corners of the girl's lips begin to sag as she observes the gaping mouths and translucent scales of the coveted aquatics.

"Aww, man, they look so sad in there," the redhead laments. "They're probably scared to death with those little balls flying everywhere. And the bowls are so small. They're like little scaly prisoners. Poor fishies."

Raven nudges her forlorn friend in the arm. "Chels? Call off the rescue mission, okay?" Her companion nods absentmindedly. "Oh, no." Raven taps Chelsea's noggin with her knuckles. "What kind of free-the-fish scheme are you hatchin' in there, girl? 'Cause I want no part of it. I got other fish to fry. Get it? Other fish to fry?"

Chelsea is hardly amused. "Yeah, I get it, Rae. Har-de-har-har."

"Sourpuss," Raven grouses. Sucking in her cheeks, she puckers her lips in imitation of an aquarium dweller. "Glub, glub, glub."

The redhead retains her composure for all of three seconds before dissolving into laughter.

"We'll find a game with prizes you don't have to feed, okay?" the psychic proposes. No sooner do the words pass through her lips than she is propelled into the future.

The Midway. A cacophony of voices, each attempting to drown out the others in their quest to lure customers to their game booths.

"Hey, Red!" one of them calls into his microphone. The girls take notice of a tan, lanky, zit-faced teenage boy with shaggy brown locks and a salacious smile. "What's your name, cutie? Come on over here. Lemme get a better look. If I like what I see, I'll give you a prize for free," he propositions, taunting her with an enormous stuffed gorilla.

"Oh, I know he ain't talkin' to you. You gonna let him talk to you like that? I'm not gonna let him talk to you like that, the little nasty." A scowl etched into her features, Raven prepares to pulverize the pipsqueak.

"Rae, calm down. You're getting all worked up because he called me 'young lady'?"

"Huh, what?" Raven glances from Chelsea to the cowering clown then back to Chelsea. Both regard her as though she is several eggs short of a dozen.

"He said, 'Here you go, young lady,' and handed me the giraffe," Chelsea elaborates, extending the inanimate object in the designer's direction.

"Oh. Oh, my bad," Raven mumbles in apology, steering the redhead away. "I had a vision," she explains when the baffled bozo is out of hearing range.

"So that's why you were trippin'," Chelsea deduces, garnering a raised eyebrow from Raven.

"Yeah, that's why I was… trippin'. I saw this guy hittin' on you, being real disrespectful. No one talks to my girl that way."

Chelsea's cheeks resemble one of the many tomatoes she'd consumed at veggie camp. Her protector. Her savior. Her knight in studded denim. "Aww, Rae," she gushes, blushes. That deserves a hug. The teen envelopes Raven in her arms, nestling her chin in the other girl's shoulder.

"So, um, how was your date last night?" Raven inquires when the two part.

As they approach the Midway, their eardrums are besieged by discordant, amplified shouting. My vision. "Uh, let's go this way." So saying, the psychic escorts the redhead to a row of refreshment booths.

"Ooh, yum!" Chelsea exclaims, inhaling the aroma of freshly popped kernels and fried funnel cakes.

Raven surveys the vendors. She chuckles as she observes a five-year-old boy in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt sink his teeth into a churro the length of his arm. "I don't think you're gonna find any of that organic, all-natural, glutton-free stuff here."

"Gluten," Chelsea edits, sprinting to the candy floss kiosk and placing her order. "And to answer your question… the date went okay. He was nice and all, but… well, there just…"

"Wasn't any magic?" the psychic supplies.

"Exactly. I was getting more of a friend vibe, you know? More buddy-buddy than lovey-dovey. I wasn't really all that interested."

"How tragic," Raven grieves, a superficial semblance of sympathy. She drapes her arm across Chelsea's back, squeezing her shoulder. "I was so looking forward to designing your wedding dress."

"You still can," the redhead affirms as they wend their way through the teeming crowd. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this psychic and this vegetarian in holy macaroni… and cheese. If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold your horses." Chelsea pauses. "Anyone?" Five more seconds elapse. "Okay, then. I guess we're good to go. Do you want my name, or should I take yours?"

"Oh, I know that's a rhetorical question, Chelsea Baxter."

"Chelsea Ophelia Baxter. Yeah, that works for me."

Raven twines a strand of fiery auburn hair behind the shell of Chelsea's ear. The gesture of affection is met with a bashful smile and a bowed head. "My blushing bride," Raven teases.

"Remember when you stole the bride's dress at Devon's dad's wedding?"

"Borrowed," the designer corrects her. "Yeah, I remember."

"Do you…" Chelsea hesitates before voicing her next question. "Do you still miss him?" Please say no, please say no.

"As a friend, I miss him, but not as a boyfriend. I'm over him like that."

Raven releases Chelsea's shoulder.

Don't do that.

A hand slides against pale skin. Fingers intertwine.

Never mind. I like that better.

"I don't wanna lose you," Raven says.

"I don't wanna lose me either," Chelsea says.

"You mean you don't wanna lose me either."

"Yeah, that's what I said… Biscuithead."

The psychic stops in her tracks, resembling a vehicle grinding to a screeching halt. "Oh, no, see, you're Biscuithead, okay?"

"Well, what goes with biscuits? Umm… oh, I know! Gravy! You can be Gravyhead. Biscuithead and Gravyhead. Isn't that cute?"

"You call me that again, I'm filing for divorce. Am I clear?"

Chelsea gulps, tucking her tail between her legs. "As a crystal ball."

"Fuchsia."

"Puce."

"Chartreuse."

"What? No. Rae, come on. I love chartreuse!"

"I know. But, girl, please tell me you wouldn't even consider makin' your bridesmaids wear a dress that color."

"I would if I could, but I can't, so I won't."

The statement sets Raven's head spinning like a dreidel. "Say what?"

"Be glad you're the bride," the redhead replies.

"All right, I got you. Back on the same page."

The line for the merry-go-round begins to move forward. "You having a good time, Rae?"

Say something hug-worthy. "I always have a good time with you."

"Awww!" Chelsea's insides dissolve into grape jelly. She embraces her companion with such fervor that she knocks the girl off balance and into the railing.

"Ow! Biscuithead!"

"Gravy… bowl… boat… train… Phew. Good thing I didn't say Gravyhead. Oops…"

Raven sighs and shakes her head ruefully. "So close, yet… so sorry. Splitsville, here we come."

Chelsea's lower lip quivers. Her shoulders droop. Pout. Whimper. Grovel. Repeat. "Please can I have another chance? Please, please, please?"

The psychic pretends to ponder the mercy plea. "I don't know, Chels. I mean, we had a deal, and you didn't hold up your end of the bargain." Leaning back, she rests her elbows against the rusty horizontal bar, corroded from age and exposure. "Why don't you try kissing up? That might help you redeem yourself."

No problema. The redhead stands to Raven's left, duplicating her companion's pose. "Chelsea Dan… Baxter thinks that Raven Baxter is super talented, super sweet, super smart, and super funny." Super bossy, too, but I'm just gonna keep that one to myself.

The designer beams, her ego rapidly expanding. "Continue."

"Oh, I could go on forever."

"Keep on keepin' on, then."

"Hmmm… Should I? Could I? Would I? Will I? Won't I? May I? What say I-?"

"What say I go ahead with that annulment?" Raven threatens, harsh, yet playful.

All righty. You asked for it. Chelsea's hand covers Raven's. Her chin perches atop Raven's shoulder. Her lips locate Raven's ear. "Tu eres muy caliente," she whispers, rolling the r the way Señorita Rodriguez had taught them.

Quiver. Wobble. Wow. An audible squeak escapes, mingling with the sultry night air. Raven crooks her head slightly, to meet Chelsea's gaze. "Gracias."

It is now their turn to ride. Chelsea leads Raven through the entrance gate, in search of an unoccupied saddle. Rectangular mirrors adorn the hub of the carousel; luminescent bulbs shine from the rafters. The girls weave through the eclectic menagerie – zebra, ostrich, leopard, stork, and the merry-go-round mainstay: mechanical horses, painted sandy blonde, snow white, and chocolate brown.

"Marital dispute over?" the redhead inquires, vaulting a stationary giraffe.

Raven mounts an adjacent mare, eyes vacant and voluminous, teeth bared mid-whinny, legs suspended mid-gallop. "Si."

"You know I meant it, right? The caliente comment. I wasn't just saying that."

Nod. Smile. Melt like an ice cube. "I know."

The platform proceeds to rotate; wordless, distorted organ tunes wafting through concealed speakers.

Chelsea swings her legs, back and forth, to and fro, peals of laughter erupting from her slender frame. Wound around the white paper cone in one hand is a web of bubblegum-colored sugar, from which she plucks a sticky tuft and guides it to her mouth.

Raven is enamored with her innocence, the childlike aura that she no longer perceives as immature, but endearing, enchanting. Chelsea senses Raven's visual inquest, and her eyes drift toward her companion.

"Ride with me," Chelsea says.

"What?"

"Get off yours and get on mine." She scoots forward on the stiff, teal saddle, making room for Raven.

"Chels, that's-"

"Not allowed? So what? C'mon, Rae. Be a rebel. Ignore the one-horsie-per-heinie rule."

"But-"

"Rae, it's okay. Mine doesn't go up and down."

Ensuring that the ride attendant is inattentive, Raven allows the mare to descend before dismounting. She approaches the inert giraffe, with its yellow body and patchy brown spots. "Hey, how y'all doin'?" she addresses the animal and its rider, sliding her foot into the makeshift metal stirrup and straddling the spacious wooden saddle.

"You all right?"

Raven wraps her arms around Chelsea's waist. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Oh, by the way, Rae, I like the way you mounted that horse," the redhead remarks, nodding at the abandoned mare. "Very graceful. I see equestrian in your future."

"Hey, I'm the psychic here, you poser."

"Technically, I'm a wannabe, not a poser."

"Oh, whatever." Raven bops Chelsea on the head with the balloon animal.

"Ooh, let's see if it sticks!"

Following her companion's suggestion, Raven rubs the tubular sculpture against the copper-colored locks, generating static electricity. When she releases it, the balloon clings to her saddle-mate's hair.

"Okay, now take it off. I wanna see if I get that finger-in-the-light-socket look."

The psychic seizes the balloon, detaching it from Chelsea's head. Strands of hair are now standing at attention, and the girl resembles the offspring of Albert Einstein and the Bride of Frankenstein.

Raven smoothes Chelsea's tresses with her palm, guiding them back into place. "We are gonna make some marriage counselor very, very rich."

"Just don't you get going when the going gets tough, ya hear? And don't leave me for Eddie."

"I promise," her companion vows. "Nothin' to worry about there. You know how I kissed him at my party? It was like… kissing my arm or my pillow or something. No sparks, no fireworks. Zip, zilch, nada."

I know. You told me. But it certainly didn't hurt to hear it again. Chelsea pops another wad of wool-textured floss into her mouth. There is nearly an inch of space between the two teens. I can fix that, she decides, receding until the rivets of her back pockets collide with the nexus of the designer's denims.

Raven is rendered speechless, immobile. Breathe, girl, breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth… Whew. That's better.

To gauge the girl's reaction, Chelsea angles her body to the side, head pivoting forty-five degrees. "You know, you're pretty cute when you're mute. Hey, that rhymes. How poetic."

"How pathetic," Raven retorts.

"Hey!" Chelsea brandishes the fluffy confection like a sword, thrusting the saccharine-sweet treat in her friend's face. "Don't make me give you cavities!"

Five… four… three… two… one. Detonation: cackles, chortles, giggles, shrieks.

But when the laughter fades, so, too, does the music, the chatter, the crowd. Everything evaporates, evanesces, disintegrates into oblivion.

The pair gravitate toward one another, Raven's arms tightening around Chelsea's midsection, Chelsea's hand tightening around the faux gold pole, smudged with the fingerprints of a thousand strangers.

Their lips connect.

The transference of pink sugar granules from one pair to the other.

Cotton candy kiss.

A prolonged exchange.

Cotton candy kisses.

They disconnect.

Two sets of lungs grapple for oxygen. Two tongues emerge to collect the remnants of sugar. Two mouths curve into giddy grins.

Neither inquires What just happened? There are no exclamatory proclamations. Regret, tension, awkwardness – all are absent. The cotton candy kisses are understood to be a tacit, tactile activation of their coupledom.

The natural progression of their relationship.

The carousel is no longer kinetic. Raven is the first to alight, offering her hand to Chelsea, assisting her descent to the platform.

As they cross to the exit, the hushed whispers of witnesses go unnoticed. Raven holds the gate open, releasing it when Chelsea is once again beside her.

Both have lost interest in the other attractions. They pass the thrill rides. Swirling, twirling, whirling. A mirage of fluorescent, coalescent colors. A bleeding rainbow.

"So… where do you wanna go for our honeymoon?" Chelsea queries. Then, hastily: "Unless it's too soon for that, 'cause I mean, we did just have our first kiss like five minutes ago, so maybe you're not ready for that yet…" Please be ready, please be ready. I can't wait. I mean, I can wait, and I will, but please be ready.

Oh, I am so ready. "I'm ready," Raven answers, her broad smile and sparkling eyes belying her calm demeanor.

Woooo! Phew. "Well, I hear that, um, 519 Miranda Place has some pretty swanky accommodations," the redhead suggests, referring to Raven's place of residence.

"You heard right," her companion confirms. "Those are tip-top, top-notch, five-star digs. And the bedroom - puts the grand in grandioso, okay?"

"Ooh, sounds excelente!"

The girls trek through the throngs as they make their way to the parking lot. Linked, attached, affixed to one another, like paper dolls.

"Rae, wait a minute. Doesn't the wedding night come before the honeymoon?"

"Don't worry about it, girl. We can kill two birds with one stone."

"Rae!"

"It is just an expression, Chels. Stop-"

"Trippin', I know, I know. I don't need a tree to fall on me… again."