Title: Next Room Over|
Fandom: X-Men (Movie)
Setting: 2 years post movie
Series: Compass Points #8
Warnings: This is a Kalynn warning. Don't read this fic. :)
Thanks to: The lovely #X-Movieficcers who gave me all the info I needed since I don't know anyting that wasn't stated directly in the movie.
Promise: The next couple fics will be Strong Ratings. Then, I think I should warn you all that you are going to hate me. A lot. You 'shippers will not like where this goes. *Diebin, hoping to avoid a lynching*
Bobby is mad.
Not just a little upset--he's furious-angry mad. I think if he weren't so convinced he'd loose, he'd stalk outside and challenge Logan to a duel.
If it weren't making me so miserable, it'd be kinda sweet.
I guess I can kinda see where he's coming from. He always had a bit of a crush on me, and if I hadn't been so tied up in Logan, chances are I woulda felt the same way about him.
Now, though--he's just mad. I guess he always kinda hoped that if someone was gonna figure out a way for me to touch people, he'd be the one I'd be touching. After all, Logan was gone . . . and I guess I'd done better than I thought convincing everyone I'd left him behind.
It's been a week already. A week living on the knife edge of misery and joy. A week with everybody looking at me sideways. A week of laying awake at night, longing for the touch that I know I can have now.
I have dreams. For a girl who'se never been touched by a man, my imagination can come up with some pretty amazing things. I don't know what it would feel like to have all that skin of his stretched out against mine--but I bet it would be warm. He's always felt warm, even through all the layers of clothing that separate us.
He's hard, too. I'm always so surprised at that. I've hugged Bobby, but he's still a boy. I hugged Scott once--but he's strong in a different way than Logan. He's not hard. He doesn't make me feel like I'm surrounded by a blanket that won't let anything bad through.
He's finding so many reasons to touch me. I don't know if he knows what torture it is. Every time I'm in a room with him--and somehow it seems like he always is--he finds a way to lay a hand on my shoulder, brush a thumb against my neck. Sometimes he stands right behind me, and I can feel the heat radiating from him. Sometimes I lean back against him--but mostly I don't. Because then he touches me more--and it's never enough.
I still have to wear my gloves. If I touch someone now, I hurt Logan. We found that out the hard way after Jean touched me--and I won't let it happen again.
He sleeps in the next room over. I know that--I saw him go into it on the first night he was back. I live with some of the older students now--it seemed like a luxery to share my room with only three other people after the crowded dormitory rooms for the younger students--
But now I wish I were alone. Kitty and Jubilee are chattering away like they always do--I can't even concentrate long enough to figure out what it is they're talking about. Boys or school or clothes. Things that don't mean anything to me.
I'm running my hand over the wall, wishing I could be on the other side, when the room falls silent.
Jubilee gives a little squeak--and the next thing I know I can hear feet scurrying across the floor and the door slamming shut. For a few moments I consider turning over to see what made them go flying out like someone set fire to 'em--but I can't tear myself away from the wall. I think I have every line in the wood memorized now--and I still slide my gloved hands over the wall constantly, wishing I were Kitty and could slide through the wall without thought.
Because he's just in the next room over.
Or so I thought.
"Memorizing the wall, kid?"
At least I don't squeak. Rolling over, I sit up quickly and let my feet dangle over the bed, staring towards the door.
He's standing there, wearing sweat pants and a tight tank top that makes my mouth go dry. I can feel the need for touch in my bones, scaring me with it's intensity. With it's fire.
It could burn me dry.
He's got his arms draped across his chest, showing off every bulge of his muscles. He's been doing that a lot lately too--if I didn't know better I'd think he was taunting me.
God, I want to touch him.
"Just trying to sleep," I murmur, clenching my hands in my lap and staring down at the smooth cloth of my gloves.
"Why do you still wear these?" He's moving towards me--even staring at my hands I can tell. Every muscle in my body is trembling. Things are coming to a head. Somehow--I know it. Maybe I should be scared--but I'm too needy. There is no fear left in me.
He sinks to the floor in front of me, one hand falling to the bed on either side of my hips. His bare arms brush against my legs, the heat gliding through the flimsy nightgown and making me want to open my mouth on a gasp.
His eyes never leave mine as he slides an arm up to my shoulder, running fingers along the skin just above my glove. His touch is firm--sure. Confident. I have no idea what I'm rushing towards--but I somehow know that he does. That scares me a little.
His other hand slides up to brush the inside of my arm, his fingers hooking to catch the end of my glove. His eyes, still holding mine, grow darker as he slowly--so slowly--begins to drag the glove off of my arm.
People have been trying to describe touch to me for years. I remember it, of course, from when I was little. But I don't know about this kind of touch. The one that makes your body tremble and get warm. The kind that makes your mouth fall open as you try to catch your breath.
I can't help it. As his knuckles brush against the side of my breast, I let my voice out in a low moan. His hands freeze just below my elbow, his eyes growing almost pained as he draws a ragged breath.
"Marie--" The rest of the glove is pulled from my hand, and he lifts my fingers to his mouth. "Marie," he murmurs again, his beard rasping against my palm.
My hand drops to the bed limply when he releases it, reaching over and drawing my other glove off. Smiling smugly, he tucks them both in a pocket and rises slowly, leaning over me until I can feel his breath on my forehead. "You can't have them back unless you come get them," he breathes.
And then he turns and starts walking away.
My heart is pounding. My body is on fire. I /need/ him.
"Hey." He stops--half turning. "You running again?"
"Yeah." A half smile, and he continues his walk towards the door. "And you're following, if you know what's good for you."
The door slams shut behind him, and I turn to stare at the wall that divides me from the only touch my body will ever receive.
Rising to trembling feet, I walk to the next room over.