X-Men First Class fic: Mystique and Logan, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Written on a prompt from possibly_thrice (see title.) Set during 1968.
Logan/Mystique, PG, 757 words, warning for cynical attitude toward vets and protestors
"First, you have to pinky swear that you're not a baby killer," Mystique says. She swings her legs so that the meat slides back and forth beneath the creamy skin. She considered being mocha-colored today, but the college kids stomping around with their placards below can only handle one social issue at a time.
The veteran stares her down. His eyes are softer than any soldier's she's heckled before, but they don't tell her stories, either. He's older than most vets and most students, broken in enough that you can't tell where his wrinkles come from. Maybe he smokes too much. Maybe he has a lot of secrets. Maybe he has so many years in him that no single one is particularly outstanding.
Mystique prefers the young vets, with trauma like a big smooth ball taking up their insides.
"I can't sit in trees with baby-killers," she says, still holding out her pinky. "My mama would get upset." She can't help smiling every time she makes up some new concerned parent. It's like trying on hats for Halloween.
"I dunno, is a pinky swear legally binding?" he asks. His accent is a subtle flavor of not-from-around-here and his smirk is as well-practiced as hers. He wraps his pinky around hers for the briefest second necessary, then settles back in the crotch of the tree, loose and unoffended. Mystique isn't surprised; she could tell by the way he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops while watching the protest that his sense of irony was well-honed. It was still a risk using infanticide as a pick-up line, but she brought insurance: her sweater and the things in them and how her legs dimple against the tree bark. He probably isn't really listening to her, anyway.
Mystique doesn't think he listens to anyone. She's been watching him for a while, using different faces as mirrors to catch him looking for his own reflection. It's been hard; he's only in school because the GI bill makes it an easy place to be. He sits in the back of the lecture halls, leaves early, and never takes notes. His classes have no common theme and he laughed once, during a lecture on the Great Depression, and no-one knew why. When he leaves campus he goes to empty bars where there's no casual way to slip onto the stool next to him, and tips the bartender well enough that an un-casual attempt gets you booted.
Thank God for hippies. They've got their tents and their gumption blocking the campus exits
Mystique can't remember what they're protesting. She made a joke about him getting treed like a cat when she first clambered up to the branch below his, but even then it was obvious he was a lion killing time. It's kind of romantic up here; the sunlight is dappled and translucently green and the protesters are invisibly milling around twenty feet below, their chant blending in with the cicadas.
Mystique smiles up at the vet, examining the way his mouth curves in response and wondering if she's laid enough groundwork. She doesn't want to talk anymore; this voice isn't as sultry as she thought it'd be and it's too late to change now.
The vet tilts his head, amused and expectant, so Mystique digs her kitten-heels into the bark and arches up to the branch where he is. He sticks out his arm out automatically, like he could stop her falling with one hand. He curls his other arm around her back when she settles in his lap, even though he raises an eyebrow.
"The bark is really rough," she says, figuring she may as well work the sweetness in her voice if she's got it. "I'm worried it's gonna scratch me all up."
"Uh huh," says the vet. He slips his hand under her sweater. He's matter-of-fact and polite about it: his palm curls low around her hipbone and doesn't tickle. Mystique looks at him for a bit, enjoying the slope of his nose and the divot between lip and chin and how his eyelids crease like expensive slacks. His eyes are nice. Maybe she'll try out that green tomorrow.
She leans in, not just her head but her body, too, pressing into him to test the strength of the muscle there, and because it feels nice. She remembers her manners with an inch to spare: "My name's Nancy, by the way," she says.
"No, it's not," says the veteran, and looks a little older than he did a minute ago.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/327893.html (
comments.)
Logan/Mystique, PG, 757 words, warning for cynical attitude toward vets and protestors
"First, you have to pinky swear that you're not a baby killer," Mystique says. She swings her legs so that the meat slides back and forth beneath the creamy skin. She considered being mocha-colored today, but the college kids stomping around with their placards below can only handle one social issue at a time.
The veteran stares her down. His eyes are softer than any soldier's she's heckled before, but they don't tell her stories, either. He's older than most vets and most students, broken in enough that you can't tell where his wrinkles come from. Maybe he smokes too much. Maybe he has a lot of secrets. Maybe he has so many years in him that no single one is particularly outstanding.
Mystique prefers the young vets, with trauma like a big smooth ball taking up their insides.
"I can't sit in trees with baby-killers," she says, still holding out her pinky. "My mama would get upset." She can't help smiling every time she makes up some new concerned parent. It's like trying on hats for Halloween.
"I dunno, is a pinky swear legally binding?" he asks. His accent is a subtle flavor of not-from-around-here and his smirk is as well-practiced as hers. He wraps his pinky around hers for the briefest second necessary, then settles back in the crotch of the tree, loose and unoffended. Mystique isn't surprised; she could tell by the way he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops while watching the protest that his sense of irony was well-honed. It was still a risk using infanticide as a pick-up line, but she brought insurance: her sweater and the things in them and how her legs dimple against the tree bark. He probably isn't really listening to her, anyway.
Mystique doesn't think he listens to anyone. She's been watching him for a while, using different faces as mirrors to catch him looking for his own reflection. It's been hard; he's only in school because the GI bill makes it an easy place to be. He sits in the back of the lecture halls, leaves early, and never takes notes. His classes have no common theme and he laughed once, during a lecture on the Great Depression, and no-one knew why. When he leaves campus he goes to empty bars where there's no casual way to slip onto the stool next to him, and tips the bartender well enough that an un-casual attempt gets you booted.
Thank God for hippies. They've got their tents and their gumption blocking the campus exits
Mystique can't remember what they're protesting. She made a joke about him getting treed like a cat when she first clambered up to the branch below his, but even then it was obvious he was a lion killing time. It's kind of romantic up here; the sunlight is dappled and translucently green and the protesters are invisibly milling around twenty feet below, their chant blending in with the cicadas.
Mystique smiles up at the vet, examining the way his mouth curves in response and wondering if she's laid enough groundwork. She doesn't want to talk anymore; this voice isn't as sultry as she thought it'd be and it's too late to change now.
The vet tilts his head, amused and expectant, so Mystique digs her kitten-heels into the bark and arches up to the branch where he is. He sticks out his arm out automatically, like he could stop her falling with one hand. He curls his other arm around her back when she settles in his lap, even though he raises an eyebrow.
"The bark is really rough," she says, figuring she may as well work the sweetness in her voice if she's got it. "I'm worried it's gonna scratch me all up."
"Uh huh," says the vet. He slips his hand under her sweater. He's matter-of-fact and polite about it: his palm curls low around her hipbone and doesn't tickle. Mystique looks at him for a bit, enjoying the slope of his nose and the divot between lip and chin and how his eyelids crease like expensive slacks. His eyes are nice. Maybe she'll try out that green tomorrow.
She leans in, not just her head but her body, too, pressing into him to test the strength of the muscle there, and because it feels nice. She remembers her manners with an inch to spare: "My name's Nancy, by the way," she says.
"No, it's not," says the veteran, and looks a little older than he did a minute ago.
This entry is cross-posted from http://kayliemalinza.dreamwidth.org/327893.html (
comments.)