Last night I had the urge to write some Gemma/Kartik, so here it is. I actually was planning on tricking you all into thinking it was a Gemma/Kartik and then actually have it be Fee and Kartik, but I just couldn't. So here it is. The Gemma/Kartik a lot of you have been waiting for. I hope it lives up to your standards, but remember, next time I'll be back with a new wacky ship, or at least one that doesn't get enough thunder out there.
Story Seven
Title: The Dance
Rating: K+ to T
Summary: Gemma's relationship with Kartik is a dance, but a rather dreamlike one.
Our relationship is a dance.
It is not like the dance we shared on that Christmas morning, Kartik pulling me closer than required, but the events of that morning and of our entire lives have played into the dance in one way or another.
We flirt and we tease one another constantly, but one minute we're perfectly amicable and the next we're spitting fire and treating one another like scum. I don't know why we do it—perhaps simply because we can. Perhaps it's because we like the taste of one another so much that we know if we were to kiss and get along all of the time, an addiction would surely form.
I must admit that I long for the feel of Kartik against my body. It's not a ladylike feeling, but I hardly care. I long to kiss him nearly every time I see him, and quite often I long for other things that aren't really necessary to mention. I long for him to want me half as badly as I want him and deep down I know that the feeling is mutual.
Our relationship no longer has to be strictly businesslike now that he's left the Rakshana. We are free to talk and kiss and fall in love and make love—behind closed doors, of course. I'd do this all in a heartbeat, but what pain would it cause me? What pain would it cause Kartik? As much as I want to love him, I know that being with him wouldn't lead to my happiness, or to his. It would cause so much rushing around and secrecy that it hardly seems worth it.
Oh, but it does.
Some nights I dream that we are together. I wake up with the smell of him on me, which I can't quite explain. Cinnamon and cloves and a clean, soapy smell mixed with that earthy, smoky smell often associated with young men. I inhale deeply, resting in my bed, and imagine that perhaps we had been together. Perhaps I had sought him out in the stables behind my house or in the cave near Spence or perhaps he climbed up into my bedroom or dormitory.
I know that this didn't happen, but I want it to have so badly.
Our relationship is a dream as much as it is a dance.