FIC: The Space Between - 1/1 - [Rogue]
- Title: The Space Between
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: "She contemplates the personal bubble in which she is
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: If you've already got my stuff, yes. If not, please just let me
know you're taking it.
Feedback: Yeah, baby!
Notes: Thanks to Pete, Dot, Meg, and Jen. This one can be blamed on my
neighbors' appalling penchant for Jennifer Lopez tunes at 2 am. By the
time they turned the stereo off, I was all wound up and ready to write.
The merest phrase from "The Space Between" kept running over and over in
my head - I'm not much of a DMB fan, so I have no idea what the song is
about, or what any of the lyrics are, but I used the title anyway. <g> I
guess we all eventually do a story like this. Sorry for the rehash of
The Space Between
She thinks about it sometimes, even now. The soft glide of his lips over
the skin of her forehead. The desperation in his voice as his hand
strokes her cheek. She wishes she could remember it from her own point
It's strange, knowing how your own skin feels beneath your lips, but
it's all she has of touch now.
She thinks of David -- his lips pressed to hers, gentle and sweet --
before the horror began. That memory is hers alone, she thinks, until
she realizes she can also see it refracted through his vague memories.
Her mother's kisses, her father's hugs -- all have faded into a hazy
blur of long ago, like the ink on the last letter she received, smeared
from tears falling on it. The tears of her mother's apologies, which she
has yet to accept.
All her other memories of touch are theirs. Logan's. Erik's.
The salt taste of sweat on her tongue as it trickles down the valley
between his lover's breasts. The copper taste of blood as he bites her
and then laves her wound, her rough velvet tongue rubbing against his
The sour taste of bile tinged with metal -- a taste that never leaves
the back of his throat, even as his lover tries to ease his pain. The
feel of his bald head, smooth beneath his hands -- he lost his hair
young, and Erik wouldn't have him any other way.
She forgets sometimes, that she is not Logan, not Erik, when she calls
these memories up. She speaks in German, Japanese -- angry words she
knows the meaning of, but only if she doesn't think too hard. By trying
to hold the thoughts, she loses them, like grains of sand trickling
through her bare hands at the beach.
She smells the fear -- another gift he gave her, one that has lingered
far longer than the healing -- when she moves too close to the others,
especially the newer students.
Some have grown accustomed. They touch her covered arms or legs, and,
for the more adventurous, her hair. Her hair is amazing, they tell her;
she craves their bare fingers sliding through it, the closest she will
ever come to the familiar sensation of touch they have never even
She contemplates the feel of leather on her body. She touches herself
with bare hands usually, but sometimes she likes to pretend her hands
are his, and she knows he would wear leather gloves to touch her. She
rarely lets herself think of a day when he could touch her without
gloves. She's too pragmatic now to indulge in such unattainable
fantasies. And on her bad days, she silently thanks Erik for that. Her
life is painful enough without setting herself up for even more
She would think it's impossible that he wants to touch her at all --
gloves or no -- except that she's seen into his thoughts, and his
thoughts about her include things that make her heart race and her
breath ragged. It's possible he doesn't even know he has those thoughts;
it's possible he has those thoughts about every woman he meets. She
prefers to believe the former; the latter brings with it too much pain.
The pain of rejection. Something she has in common with all of them
here. They've accepted her cheerfully, and if she sometimes hates the
space they leave between themselves and her, she accepts that there are
risks some people are not willing to take.
She contemplates the personal bubble in which she is enclosed. Very few
wish to enter, and she's weeded out the ones she wouldn't let touch her,
even if they could. Those left -- Scott, Storm, Jean, the Professor,
Kitty, Jubes -- are all she imagines she needs on the bright days, when
she reminds herself that this is home now, this is her family, this is
She reluctantly lets Bobby in -- she knows it's not his fault, and she's
learned to be comfortable with him now, but she sees his face in her
nightmares, and passes him silently in the halls for days after. He
refuses to hear her apologies anymore; he sits, a lonely sentinel,
outside her door as she shrieks in the night, knowing that the others
will help, while his presence will only upset her more. He's given up
his hopes of romance with her. A year has convinced him that they're
better off as friends.
She loves the glide of wind or water on her skin. They leave her alone
now, when she escapes at night into the gardens during the rain. She
leaves her clothes behind, stripping as she goes, and no one disturbs
her. She suspects that Storm enjoys the rain, also; she never knows that
the weather goddess gives her the gift of rain so that she can remember
the sensation of something touching her bare skin without fear.
She's in the garden now, stripped down to her bra and panties. Soaked,
she spins like a child, arms out, face uplifted to the starless skies,
her tears mingled with the rain coursing down her face,
indistinguishable. She believes the sky cries for her when she's feeling
fanciful, and Erik lets her think it. He has some compassion, after all.
And then she stops. She senses it -- him -- before she even hears a
sound or catches his scent.
She smiles, beckoning him the last few feet to his home in her embrace.
He moves quickly, closing the space between them with eager steps, his
hands enclosed in leather, as she's always imagined, his hair plastered
to his head, and his eyes intense upon her.
She's aware, as never before, of her body. Not her skin, but her body --
the fullness of her breasts and the heat between her thighs. For him,
only for him. She senses that he knows this as he crushes her to him,
enveloping her in his arms without fear. He kisses her hair and inhales
her scent, freshened by the rain in the warm summer night, and she
The space between what she dreams and what she has is gone. He fills it,
and she is content.
"There's nothing I won't do, but some things are gonna cost you extra."
Mike Kellerman, _Homicide: Life on the Street_
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