A/N: For Amber. Here, lovely; have some creepy!Roxy. I don't even know anymore, I really don't.

On another note, I only have six prompts left before I finish this boot camp. Oh, how far we've come... *throws confetti*

Pairing: Roxanne/Dominique

Prompt: 18. Obliviate

I've been watching you for too long.

It's been so long that I have mapped out your movements in my mind. I recognise the way your shoulders twitch when you smile, the curl of your fingers when you're annoyed, the way your head tilts to the side when you no longer want to listen. You are easy to read, to understand.

You are my map and I am your cartographer.

And that's not enough for me, for us; I want to memorise the map of you with my hands, cross bridges and bones with my fingers, trace the rivers of your veins back to their source. I want to be pin point all the darkest corners of you and know them inside out. I want to be lost in you.

"I think about you entirely too often," I tell you, and my voice doesn't even shake.

"What do you mean?" And I have already catalogued the rise of your left shoulder, the quirk of your eyebrow.

"Too often to be considered normal."

I wonder if you have catalogued my movements in the same way. If the tremble of my hands and the stutter on my tongue were expected.

"Roxy," you say softly, and I know this is the voice you use when you are nervous, when you are scared. Please don't be scared. "What's going on?"

"I think I might love you," I whisper. My heart beats louder than my voice rings and I hope you can hear it.

I reach for you, my fingers wrapping around your arms. I pull you close to me, press our lips together, and there is a brief moment of joy where our borders blur, where you are no longer a foreign place and if I were to map your body now, I would be right alongside you, brushing every mountain peak and every valley with my skin.

"Roxy," you murmur, and I feel your hands rise to my chest, palms out, arms stiff. "Roxy, no."

Silence falls. There is only the dwindling fall of my heart and the panting of our breaths.

"No?" My voice is hoarse. This is the voice I use when I am nervous, when I am scared. Please don't do this.

"No," you say, and, for once, I don't see it coming.

The way your hair falls in waves as you shake your head, the shape of the no on your lips. This is foreign to me. I have never had to map confusion, or shock, or anything but affection between us.

I thought you would understand.

"I'm sorry, Dom, I don't know what – Obliviate."

And I am gone before you can blink again, left to wander the edges of my own map and wonder how many oceans away you really are, how many times I would have to fly around the world to feel you warm against me.

My lips still hold your kiss, but it tastes like no and wrongness.

But I don't know how not to watch you; so I do, keeping my maps tucked beneath the globe of my heart, wondering where in the world it would be okay for me to love you.

Wondering where in the world you would not be scared to love me back.

(Wondering if you ever could.)