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greenowl, me!

Fic: Girl (1st Part)

Posted on 2003.10.24 at 02:56
Affectus (State of Mind): busybusy
Camena (Music): "Girl" - Tori Amos
Tags:

Fic:  Girl (1st Part)
Series:  Little Earthquakes (songs inspired by Tori Amos)
Author:  Green Owl
Rating:  PG-13 – adult content
Word Count:  2,280
Summary: Doors are everywhere, but Rogue cannot seem to shut out the men who have consumed her psyche.

 


The pillows are soft and deep. You watch as he sinks into the comforter and stretches. The faint smell of shampoo and conditioner on the pillowcases and soap and lotion wafting up from the sheets was more than enough to make him get all hot and bothered.

You know that while you were tracing the line from Mississippi to Alaska that all he thought about was the smell of your skin. Baby powder and roses and that dark, delicious scent that makes you a girl. Late bloomer you may have been, but he could tell you were worth the wait.

Your body is what drew his attention at first, but it was the faintly fragrant cloud radiating from your pores that sealed the deal for him. Damn, he just might be content to lie next to you and breathe the sweet, dusky scent of your neck and shoulders forever.

Lips. Incredibly soft, gloss that smells like raspberries, color of strawberry wine. Taste of…

He had 2.6 seconds before It grabbed him. It knew what you wanted. It knew you wouldn’t stop, if you had your way. With your mother downstairs playing the piano and your father just a holler away.

You laugh and run a hand gently along the hollow where he lay convulsing.

“My first kiss,” you whisper.

“Mine, too.”

You can still hear your screams, echoes woven into the carpet and the drapes that come back when you let your mind remember.

But now it’s just you and him. Alone in this room where it all began.

“Do you hate me?” you ask.

He takes your right hand, pulls off the white cotton glove and places it against his cheek.

“No.”

He pulls you close and rests his forehead against yours. He is warm to the touch.

“Not anymore.”

You smile at him. Your hand slips to the back of his neck and you rise on your tiptoes to kiss his forehead.

“You are so beautiful.”

So is he. He will always be seventeen here. So much potential. So much time to dream.

“I have to go,” you whisper to him.

You pull away and put the glove back on. He leans back against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He gives you that smile. The one that caught your eye that first time in chemistry class.

“Come up and see me some time. I miss you.”

“I’ll try,” you promise as you turn to go.

“Hey.”

You turn around.

“It was worth it. Best damn kiss I ever had.”

He gently closes the door and sets you free.

 

Down the stairs, through the hallway, out the door, through the laundry room – straight shot to the garage. The hood of your father’s 1977 Camaro is up and there’s someone working on it who’s not Daddy.

Of course, you should have guessed.

“Hand me that socket wrench, willya?”

He’s wearing jeans that are older than you are and boots that come pretty close. His white T-shirt is stained with grease and oiled dust and Lord knows what else. Damn fine view.

“Have a seat, darlin’,” he says, gesturing blindly. You climb up onto the stool next to the tools.

“How’s she running?” you inquire.

He grunts, swears and emerges from under the hood. He reeks of sweat. You shiver even though it’s not cold in here.

“Fine.” He looks you up and down. “Take off a layer, kid. It’s a fuckin’ sauna outside, in case you haven’t noticed.”

You blush. Off comes the smoky chiffon scarf, the black cardigan and the gloves.

He picks up his Molson, looks you over again as he takes a long pull.

“That’s better. You were crossin’ the line between glowin’ and sweatin’. New piercin’?”

You look down and notice the tight black camisole has ridden up out of your jeans, exposing–among other things– your belly button ring with its diamond stud set in stainless steel that sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight.

“Nice,” he comments, and takes another long swallow. And another leisurely look.

“Are you ogling me?” you ask, and the blush gets hotter.

“Ain’t doin’ nothing you weren’t when you first walked in.” He grins, leans back against the car and finishes his beer.

“You have eyes in the back of your head?” you shoot back.

Oh yes, that would be your scalp on fire now.

“No.” He taps the tip of his nose. “Just a keen sense of smell.”

He walks up to you, sets the empty bottle down carefully next to the tools he’s laid out. You remain absolutely still.

“You never run away from me,” he says, looming over you. “Why?”

You swallow, albeit with difficulty. You position your elbows on the edge of the table, letting your wrists hang loosely. “Maybe…I’m just not that kind of girl.”

He grins, leans in closer. You can smell the hops on his breath and the salt on his skin.

“Doesn’t it make you the least bit jumpy, darlin’? The thoughts I’ve had about you?”

His pinky finger slips through the ring and he gives it a slight tug. Your hips pitch forward and the insides of your jean-clad thighs meet the outside of his.

“No,” you reply. Your tone is breathy and an octave lower than usual. His eyes go dark and hot. Jubilee doesn’t call it the “sex phone operator” voice for nothing.

His breath wafts over your collarbone, just above your right breast. The very spot where he pierced your skin, penetrated your muscles, became intimately acquainted with your bones.

You shiver again. He notices.

“I can’t believe you could trust me after that,” he says as your back archs into the heat of his breath.

“I can’t believe you would touch me after that,” you reply.

“Damn, darlin’,” he whispers. “I wanted to do a lot more than just touch you…before and after.”

“I know.”

He pulls back, puts some space between the two of you. He’s distant and in control.

“You were jailbait then, baby. Ain’t no fuckin’ way I was gonna steal what was left of your innocence.”

You get off the stool and begin putting on your defenses with speed and efficiency borne of much practice and necessity. It infuriates you now just as much as it did then to admit to yourself that he’s right.

You did need some time to grow up.

But you will have the final word on this matter.

“Well, I’m not seventeen anymore,” you say to him and your tone is sharper than you know. “And I think we both know why you ran away from me.”

He may play the Big Bad Wolf, but Little Red has just very effectively scared him into a cold sweat.

“I would have, you know. Willingly. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“You were a child,” he insists. “It was wrong.”

“Fine time to grow a conscience,” you shoot back without pity.

“I know.” He hangs his head. “But I couldn’t have lived with myself afterwards.”

You begin to walk away, but you stop for a moment and look over your shoulder. Even now, after all these years, he still feels guilty.

“Not like this,” you tell yourself.

You run to him and he catches you in his arms, holding you tight against him.

“Babydoll,” he sighs as he rubs your back and kisses your hair. “If I could take it all back, you know I would.”

“But I wouldn’t,” you counter, and his hold on you tightens. “You kept your promise.”

This is your favorite place to be, but it is also the most frustrating. Trapped forever between child and woman in his eyes, there will never be any resolution to your hunger with this rendition of him.

“I will always be here to protect you,” he swears.

It’s time to go. You both know it. You ease away from each other.

“I’ll come back,” you assure him.

“You know where to find me.”

 

Into the house, past the first door. You pause before opening the second.

“Good evening, my dear. Won’t you have a seat?”

It’s cold in here. You know in the back of your mind that it’s the middle of July, but it feels like the ass-end of January in this room.

“Lovely decorating scheme,” you comment.

The table, chairs and hutch are all made of steel and the table is decorated with glass plates and stemware – Martha Stewart and the Ikea designers were having an orgy and they decided to invite Louis Kahn.

“Isn’t it?” he agrees cheerfully. He gestures to the place setting at the foot of the table. “Come now, I’ve been expecting you.”

You pull out the chair and sit. You look at him down the long expanse of polished metal. Off come the gloves.

“I’m sorry about the beverage, but you aren’t old enough to partake just yet. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Of course,” you answer, eyeing the glass of thick red liquid to your right.

Your plate displays a thick cut of meat, medium-rare by the looks of the juice that has seeped out of it. There are vegetables and a dinner roll with butter as well.

“Napkin first, young lady,” he chides as you pick up your fork.

You slide the white linen from under the fork and spread it on your lap.

“And now, a toast.” He raises his glass. “To life.”

La chaim,” you reply tonelessly and raise your glass. You do not drink.

He is positively gleeful as he digs into the piece of warm animal protein before him.

“Filet mignon?” you ask, picking up your knife.

“Oh, it’s not beef,” he says after clearing his palate with a sip of his drink. “Just a lesser life-form we mutants may dine upon now and then.”

Sweet Jesus Lord.

You put down your utensils.

He takes another bite and chews with relish. He swallows again and dabs his lips with the napkin.

“Not exactly like chicken now is it? More like pork, if you ask me. But then again, I’ve only experienced that taste and texture from your memories, my dear. Never touched the stuff myself – just not kosher. You understand.”

You bolt from the table to the door. You can feel the acid lapping against the back of your tongue. Damn it! The knob is too smooth and your palms are too slippery.

“Come now, don’t tell me that you don’t understand the delicious irony of it all, dear girl.”

“What are you talking about?” you demand, turning to face him.

He smiles and you feel as if a thousand insects were marching up and down your spine singing “Tomorrow Belongs to Me”.

“You must embrace the nature of your gift if you are to master it.”

His eyes are silvery blue and you feel your skin crawl under his electric gaze.

“You are a predator denying her instincts.” He has another slice. “You do realize that it is entirely natural for you to feed upon them.”

“You’re a monster!”

“And so are you,” he says soothingly. “We are all monsters here. Even that young man up in your bedroom.”

“But he’s not a mutant, he’s normal—”

“Do you never wonder where he got those teeth from? My, my, you are quite slow when it comes to these things, aren’t you?”

You sag to the floor, your hand still gripping the doorknob.

“Your gift was originally meant to be empathy, sparked by touch and strengthened in time. But those teenaged hormones kicked in and he got quite a shock when he went in for the kill.”

Try as you might, you just can’t seem to take a full breath.

“And ever since you have synthesized him, you find that instead of emotions coming to you, the lifeforce and all that implies, crosses over the connection and collects here. Why, we’ve almost run out of room. I expect we’ll soon have to build an addition, what with your appetite and all.”

“Why?” you manage to choke out, “Why you? Why did you have to be the one to tell me?”

His eyes were not unkind.

“I’ve eaten shoe leather to stay alive. Rats. Worms. Yes, even the unspeakable, when it was all that stood between me and death. There is no shame in having the will to live. You must accept that there is a part of you that needs to feed every now and then.”

“No!” You have to get out of here before he has your sanity for dessert. “Never!”

“You say that now, but who knows when the hunger shall take you?”

You scramble to your feet, clawing at the doorknob.

“You cannot escape me, little one. I am you and you are me. We are part of each other.”

“You lie!” you scream at him. “I am nothing like you!”

His gaze is almost tender. He places his left arm on the table, undoes the ornate steel cufflink and pulls the sleeve up to expose the faded indigo markings on the inner flesh of his forearm. “Do you know how it feels to have yourself, your identity, everything you are, reduced to a series of numerical ink stains?”

He recites the digits without looking at them. Of course, he had memorized them ages ago.

“The showers had no water. The ovens cooked no bread. And the doctors cured no illnesses.” He refastens his sleeve. “But somehow I managed to survive. Someday, you may find some use for my wisdom. Food for thought, you might say.”

You fling open the door, and search for the way out.

“‘To thine own self be true’,” he calls after you before you slam the door shut.


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