DISCLAIMER: don't own 'em.... wish I did... the fun I could have with the two of them.... oh boy *grins*.... some guys called Jerry Bruckheimer & CBS own it all....lucky stiffs!! To whom all rights belong.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: There was a discussion (on a yahoo group I'm in) about why in the fanfic posted whenever marriage is proposed it's always Sara who asks. This was a bit of fun that resulted from the mischievous mood I found myself in because of that.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Which One Gets To Ask
By Jac H.
Catherine leaned against the doorframe and watched her lover of two years. Sara was humming to herself as she prepared dinner for the three of them. Absently Catherine ran her fingers over the small box which was clutched in her - suddenly sweaty - left hand. 'Yes', she thought to herself, 'the time is right'. Straightening she took a step into the kitchen.
Spotting the movement from the corner of her eye, Sara stood closing the oven door on her lasagne.
"Hey there sweetheart, dinner in 40 minutes." She looked at Catherine and beamed that amazing smile, the one that showed off the gap in her teeth and drove the older woman crazy.
Wrestling with her sudden urge to throw Sara down on the floor and ravish her, Catherine took a deep breath. 'Nope, can't do that. Firstly because Lindsey's in the other room and secondly because I have to do this right.'
"Sara, I need to talk to you about something really important," she began, holding the little box out.
Sara shook her head. "No, no, no, Catherine you can't."
"Can't?" Catherine was deeply hurt. "I thought you loved me."
"I do, Cat, I really do. But you can't do the asking. You're the femme. I have to ask because I'm the butch one. Those are the rules."
"Wha...how...rul...." Catherine found herself completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
"I'm the butch. All the fanfic says so. In fact I was even reading on one of those fan forums the other day that they thought I was a long-haired guy when they saw me from behind wearing my utility vest, what with the way I walk and all that."
Catherine found her voice.
"Sara Sidle I'm astonished that you would hold to an archaic, patriarchal stereotype such as that."
Now it was Sara's turn to be dumbfounded.
"Have you been reading Germaine Greer again? Look, you're the one who wears all those tight fitting skirts and trousers with low-cut blouses. I'm the one in tank-tops & combat pants. That means you're the femme and you get to wear the dress. I don't own a dress.
"I ask, then I get to wear the tux. Besides, stereotypes are there because they do present a view of an archetype. If the archetypes weren't common in real life they wouldn't exist as stereotypes. You should embrace your position on the butch-femme axis. Although it is acceptable to be neither, or indeed, both. But you're not really androgynous..." She looked her partner up and down in a way that could only be described as letcherous.
Catherine was starting to feel as though she'd been dropped into a bad 'Twilight Zone' episode. It was true she had picked out a dress, not white of course, but a stunning blue number in wild silk. Plus the thought of Sara in a tux was quite appealing and was doing things to her pulse rate that she didn't want done at this precise moment.
"What on earth are you talking about Sara? Dress? Tux?"
"Actually I wasn't thinking of a tux. What I really wanted was morning dress. You know – the grey trousers and tail-coat with a top hat that stuffy English royalty types wear."
Catherine was sure she was starting to drool at the thought.
Oblivious to Catherine's condition Sara continued.
"Well, I wasn't going to wear the hat. But I did think that the trousers, tail-coat and vest would be nice. No shirt, just the vest. And barefoot, naturally....oof"
The exclamation was forced from her by the impact as Catherine threw her against the wall and latched onto her lips.
They were only dragged from their lust-filled haze by Lindsey's voice wafting in from the other room.
"One of you had better ask before dinner burns."
"Well..." Catherine tilted her head to one side.
Sara looked at the floor, nervously running a hand through her hair.
"Catherine..." she paused.
"Yes?"
"Catherine," she said again, sinking to one knee. "Will you do me the honour...oh hell...the ring...stay there." She leapt to her feet and rushed upstairs.
Catherine waited listening with alarm to the sounds of crashing and banging which echoed about the house. She was positive she'd heard Sara use some words that should not be said in front of Lindsey. She'd have to take that up with the younger woman at some later date.
More crashing as Sara returned, taking the stairs three at a time, before skidding into the kitchen and kneeling at Catherine's feet once more.
"Catherine," she said, panting slightly. "Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
She held open a small jewellery box containing a ring. Catherine looked at the gold band. A diamond set between two small sapphires.
"I picked them because they match your eyes." Sara spoke softly.
Catherine found that she was having trouble speaking round the lump in her throat.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, Sara, I would love to be your wife. Will you be mine?" She opened her own box which contained an almost identical ring. The only difference was that there were emeralds not sapphires surrounding the diamond.
"Yes," breathed Sara as Catherine bent to kiss her.
"Dinner's burning," came the voice from the other room.
The End