Fic: La Brea (1/1) PG-13 [slash, Rogue/other, L/R]
- Title: La Brea
Summary: Logan's not the first.
Distribution: My site, http://www.geocities.com/moonwhip -- otherwise, just ask. :)
Disclaimer: Brea's mine, and that's about it. The lines at the beginning are from Sharon Olds' poem "Love Fossil."
Feedback: I will positively adore you.
Notes: "La brea" means "tar" in Spanish, and is also the name of a famous tar pit near Los Angeles which contains the fossilized skeletons of animals trapped there in prehistoric times.
" ... to love / what was stuck, what couldn�t help itself, / what went down mute into time like tar, like anger."
Brea comes from somewhere in the south, but it isn�t Marie�s South.
For one thing, the girl has no manners. She doesn�t care to keep her distance the way most of the other kids do, carefully peeling their palms away from Rogue�s shoulders as if she�ll pull them in like tar in summer. They all try to be discreet. And Brea just doesn�t.
She touches. She pushes Rogue�s white streaks behind her ears when she wants to look into Rogue�s eyes, and she doesn�t even seem to realize that she�s touching something unholy, something wrong. She laughs at Rogue�s flustered face. Kindly, though. She likes these moments when Marie flits to the surface to knot Rogue�s honeyed tongue.
She says that, "honeyed tongue." And she doesn�t drawl.
And she never asks about Logan.
She writes Rogue poetry and makes her watch Masterpiece Theatre and strange British comedy that Rogue mostly understands and finds herself laughing at, startled and happy. Brea lives on a whole different plane. Sometimes it�s lower than the rest of them, sometimes it�s higher. But it�s definitely different.
Brea knows things. When she discovered Rogue�s limitations, she wrote out a detailed list of sex toys that didn�t require body-to-body contact and left it, folded only once, halfway under Rogue�s door. Bobby found it first. Brea turned his face green for a week. "For envy," she said, and winked at Rogue.
Brea�s careful, though. Right now they�re sitting on the couch in the rec room, watching Monty Python, and Brea�s got a sleeve-covered arm slung behind her on the back of the couch. And Rogue feels safe, leaning back against it. Leaning her head against the other girl�s shoulder and drowsing a little. Breathing in whatever�s growing in the room.
After a while, she feels herself being gently shaken, and blinks awake. It�s later. Brea�s bending down to her, standing in front of the couch in blue silk pajamas and bared freckles. The room is dark, and light from the hallway picks out messy hanks of short white-blonde hair, a cheekbone, an elbow cocked with a hand on one hip. Something is different about her.
"Rouge," she says in a light teasing voice. It�s one of her favorite things to call Rogue, because of her Marie-blushes. She used to think that Brea gave everyone multiple nicknames, but it�s just her. "Wake up, baby. You slept through eighty-five percent of the funniest parts, I swear to god."
"I did?" Rogue listens to her own rough, hesitant voice. "I�m exhausted, Brea. Can I go to bed?"
The girl sighs. "Fine." And she reaches out a hand, ungloved, to pull Rogue up from the cushions.
Rogue stares at it.
"I�m not wearin� my gloves," she mumbles.
"Oh, for christ�s sake, Rouge." Brea dives, and her body is close and hot and smells of spices. Maybe sandalwood? Rogue almost doesn�t realize that she�s being pulled upright by her waist until she�s cradled against Brea�s chest and there is a bare hand stroking down her spine through her thin shirt -- and it�s not the hand she wants but it almost doesn�t matter. "Come on," says Brea, "bedtime for cute Southern girls who kill with a touch."
Brea�s the only one who jokes about it, too, except Jubes when she�s real bored and feeling a little sad and mean. With Jubilee she knows it�s a mood, but with Brea she doesn�t even mind. Her life is funny when Brea says it right.
Her arm is tucked through Brea�s elbow when they separate, and it stays that way. She has to give in to Brea -- and besides, she always wants to. It�s like some natural force that Brea just exerts on her, the way the girl can change the molecular bonds in objects, rearrange them. The way Brea tinted Bobby�s face and sometimes tints the dust motes in the air, one by one, so they�ll do a spectacular prismed dance around Rogue�s joyful face.
Someday she�ll get up the courage to ask if Brea can change her, but not tonight.
Tonight she�s being practically dragged down the hallway by Brea�s arm in hers, and she has to tug hard back to get her friend to slow down. "You�re rushin� me, Brea," she whispers.
Brea stops. And when she turns, her face is right next to Rogue�s. Right next to Marie�s.
"I�m rushing you to where you should be right now, Marie."
"Why?" Marie mumbles. The hallway is so quiet and her left side is warming slowly where Brea�s hip presses against hers.
Finally, Brea lets out a long breath. "You don�t want to know, princess. Let�s get you to bed."
She knows it�s a near miss. Maybe a misstep, close to the edge of a dark hole. But she still knows and has to know.
When Brea moves into her room, leading her through the door still driven by that weird anxiety, she stops again. "I�m not goin� to sleep until you tell me what the hell�s happenin�."
"Stop it, Rogue." Brea�s black eyes are always startling in her cream-freckle face beneath that hair, but now she sounds angry and looks frightened and her eyes are open wide. She looks like a different girl entirely.
"You�re scared, aren�t ya?"
"I am not." Sullen, but pitched high in the air.
Rogue rushes forward until Brea�s backed up against the wall by the door like a trapped animal. "You are," she growls, because she knows how and she�s never been so glad to have that knowledge as she is right now.
Brea kisses her.
Those pale bowed lips on her own. Touch.
Floatingly incredibly good -- brief, but she�s gasping when Brea lets her go, and only half in panic. She realizes after a moment that Brea is panting, too, but alive. Staring at her with those tarry eyes and flicking her tongue over those pinkened lips -- alive.
"How... ?" she whispers, touching ungloved fingertips to her own kissed mouth. She doesn�t know what she was expecting, but it wasn�t this impossibility, this wet slide of their honeyed tongues.
The other girl breathes hard, propping herself against the wall as if she has a cramp in her side. "I figured it out," she rasps. "How to touch you. Tonight. I just figured it out, while you were asleep."
Rogue looks at Brea, whose pretty angled face is contorted but lit with a sort of gorgeous angry triumph. "But you�re hurt," she says slowly.
"It doesn�t matter."
"It does. I�I can�t�" She halts, breathing through the tingles in her mouth. "I�ll hurt you."
Brea surges up from the wall to wrap her arms around Rogue�s waist, laying her graceful cheek against the other girl�s so they�re staring brown into rich black. Her voice is low, calming. "I can do it, just not for long. I change myself, not you, and it really doesn�t hurt, Marie. It doesn�t." Brea pauses, and Marie�s just soaking this up, the heaviness of a body against her, the way she wants to sink into the pressure and let it coat her form. She wants to abandon herself in darkness. "And I want to."
"That�s�oh lord." She doesn�t mean to stop speaking but Brea�s mouth is on her neck for only moments and she has to memorize the feeling because she�s about to make it vanish. "That�s not what I was talkin� about, Brea."
The blonde girl shakes her head fiercely. "You don�t get it, Rouge. I know you love that wolf, and I don�t give a goddamn. I love you, and you need me. I was gonna be good and put you to sleep and tell you about this later but you pushed it and now you�ve got me."
Rogue sees the challenge/plea in the dark eyes and knows that she did push. But she wanted to, and she still does, though the determined quirk of Brea�s mouth makes her feel utterly guilty.
It�s bad to fuck a friend. But she slides her bare hands over Brea�s warm stomach under its silk covering, reveling, and gives her the smallest shove toward the unmade bed.
Rogue's watching Brea's face. The fringe of eyelashes over darkening iris droops like grass over the edge of a cliff, down and down, and she follows it. At the bottom, where she's been expecting some kind of certain death, she finds herself sinking into soft grasping flesh, in the dark, instead.
And they�re like that for a while before Brea leaves.
The news drips through the school from the upper levels, from Professor Xavier who has to know, and does, and simply smiles in gentle congratulation. From Scott, who finds them laughing and kissing in the Danger Room when he comes in to fetch some gear. Ororo gives Rogue a look, slightly suspicious but oddly warm, and all through the next afternoon of classes she thinks of white hair, of cropped flaxen blonde. Of the two blended on a dark pillow or her own stomach.
She's diving into this, because she likes it so much -- hands and skin and curved lips.
She likes Brea�s body, all whittled and tense with devotion. She likes the way it pulls her. Often, she even likes the way that the other students look at Brea�s lean prettiness and realize that it�s no longer Brea�s but hers, Rogue�s, Rouge�s, Marie�s.
She likes possessing a force of nature.
But at other times she realizes what the power means. Brea loves her and takes pain eagerly in order to brush fingers and lips against her devouring skin. And she doesn�t love Brea. She loves the girl�s desperation and her hitching breath and her shocking eyes and she loves being loved and it will never be enough.
The color in Brea�s eyes is growing thicker, darker. When she shows up in the doorway with a backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair severely mussed, Rogue only hurts for a moment, and it�s mostly from memory.
"Where to?" she asks softly, drawing her lover into the room with gloved hands.
"You knew, didn�t you?" Brea asks her, flipping a longer lock of hair from her eyes. Rogue is almost distracted by those sweet hard eyes, like dark candy she can suck, but she has to make this a perfect goodbye. She owes Brea that much, she owes it to their bodies twined together in darkened rooms. She owes it to love because she can�t feel it.
She murmurs, "I�ll miss you, Brea. I already do."
And for a second, still looking into those deepening eyes, she feels known. But then it�s gone and she�s only sad, for Brea, for Logan, and for herself.
"Will you come back?"
"No," says Brea. "I love you, Rouge. Fuck with them for me, will you?"
"Always," she says. And means it. Her hands are tangled with the other girl�s, and when they fall empty to her sides she�s not looking up, because she can�t, and she�s crying.
Much later, when she herself is a different girl entirely, it happens.
Logan comes back, and she does love him. She�s not even surprised. Brea was always right about her.
So she lets him think that his are the first hands on the curve of her belly, pushing her back against a wall and descending. Nobody else will tell him. But still she bites her lip to keep silent when she lets herself sink, and she doesn�t fight it when she feels as if her body is being swallowed, as if she is changing into something else forever.
She�s forgotten the exact timbre of Brea�s speaking, pulling eyes.
She�s sunk in happiness and she�s afraid, but she owes it to love.
Do You Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Auctions - Buy the things you want at great prices.
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]