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FIC: The Space Between - 1/1 - [Rogue]

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  • victoria p.
    Title: The Space Between Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: She contemplates the personal bubble in which she is enclosed. Rating: PG
    Message 1 of 1 , May 28, 2001
      Title: The Space Between
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: "She contemplates the personal bubble in which she is
      Rating: PG
      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
      old issues.

      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
      of view.

      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
      thought about.

      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
      her life.

      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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