Persistent rustling wakes Lisa, and when she opens one eye, she catches the clock on Roseanne’s bedside table: 3:15. That wasn’t sleep – that felt like a five-minute nap, she thinks, before barely registering the warmth that is now pressed up against her.
Shit. Her eyes may be heavy, but her brain is now wide awake, as Roseanne snuggles closer, backing into Lisa and fitting herself into the careless curve of Lisa’s body on the bed. It isn’t clear to Lisa how they got from the kitchen to here – much less, from party dress to Roseanne’s oversized shirts – and the dull throb in her temple reminds her of the previous night’s drinks.
Damn. I am never drinking again, never drinking again, never--
Roseanne shifts closer and Lisa tries to stifle a groan. The last thing she wants is to wake Roseanne in the middle of the night, and with a confusing sound at that. Lisa tries to breathe in deeply, if only to calm herself – a mistake, actually, since the only thing it does is fill her with Roseanne’s scent, and if there’s anything more damaging to her calm, it’s that. Like this, Roseanne smells so… human. Stripped of makeup and perfume and sunblock, this is Roseanne at her purest form, and if Lisa hadn’t woken up with a racing heart, right now it throbs mercilessly against her chest.
Fuck. It’s not even like this is supposed to be new – she’s held Roseanne hundreds of times: For dozens of on-cam scenes. While napping at the sidelines, waiting for their next turn to shoot. While in their trailers, after a full day’s work. This thing right here, Lisa reminds herself, trying to not be so attuned to the rhythmic rise and fall of Roseanne’s chest as she breathes, it isn’t new. Get a grip. It means nothing.
Why would it, right?
Roseanne sighs and stretches, and it freezes the blood in Lisa’s veins. Her hand stills where it is perched upon Roseanne’s hip lightly, forearm tensing as Roseanne’s shirt hikes up slowly along with her movement, sleepy and languorous, and fuck, Lisa can’t bring herself to take her hand away, not even when it is pressed against the bare skin of Roseanne’s side.
It means nothing.
Before Lisa could even count down from ten, Roseanne is shifting again, and Christ, how is this girl not awake yet? Lisa thinks, lifting her hand momentarily off her so she can move however she likes – and by however, it means that Roseanne soon ends up with her face buried in the crook of Lisa’s neck and her hand—
Christ. Lisa does not hazard a look, but she feels Roseanne’s hand move anyhow, brushing against hers as it goes lower. It means nothing, Lisa repeats in her head. Just a fantastic story to tell the grandkids, maybe – oh hey, I was a young actress once upon a time, and one night I got drunk with a co-star and ended up spooning her, and at one point in the night I woke to find her sleeping with her hand halfway down her pants. Yes, that is a terrific story to tell our grandchildren.
Lisa shudders at the word our. Fucking go back to sleep, Manoban. Forget all of it in the morning.
Sleep comes for Lisa after a handful of lifetimes. Roseanne doesn’t move from where she is nestled softly against Lisa, legs tangled together under the covers, and at some point the steady rhythm of Roseanne’s breathing helps lull Lisa into slipping back into slumber.
//
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Be Mine
FanfictionLisa Manoban is in love with her co-star, Roseanne Park. Of course, it's a disaster. // This is converted only. All credits belong to the rightful owner.
