(no subject)
Universe: X-Men - The Movie
Genre: Angst/Romance (Wolverine/Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Description: Wolverine dreams about a dance with Rogue.
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Neither the comics, nor the movie.
Dance with the Untouched
One of the most typical human flaws is to long for something you can’t have. That’s the only way I can explain this feeling. This almost irresistible urge to reach out to her. She is so young but carries a burden others would have been broken by: staying untouched forever. But this burden makes her wise beyond her years, makes her seem ageless ... just like me.
The only time I held her it almost tore me apart to think that she will probably never again be so close to anyone in her whole life. She walks this world, not being capable of physical contact. There will always be a barrier between her and the world that surrounds her. She’ll never be held by a lover, never be able to hold her child in her arms. I don’t know how she can live with that knowledge, but she does and I’m glad of it.
But there are those dreams I’m having. Not those nightmares of the experiments I got my metal skeleton from, but almost as scary, even though they are of a completely different nature.
In those dreams we stand facing each other, so close we almost touch. Almost. Her gloves are gone as is her scarf. Nothing about her reminds of her mutation. Our faces are only inches apart, and I look at her closed eyes, at her features that hold such a sadness that I wish for nothing more than to reach out and touch her to make her feel better. But I can’t and I hate it.
She suddenly opens her eyes and I’m sucked into their clear depth. It’s amazing how she can touch my soul with a simple look.
We start circling each other as though we are going to fight, my eyes never leaving hers. Her bare arm almost brushes my hand. And still we are holding each other’s gaze just like I wish I could hold her. She turns gracefully, her movements turning into those of a dancer. Stopping at an arm’s length distance she stands still for a moment, making eye contact again. Slowly she lifts her arm, reaching out to me. And I mirror the gesture until our hands almost touch. We start dancing then. There is no music, just the silence and the closeness we share, although we never touch. There’s always an inch between her skin and mine. But we move so perfectly together as though I’d really guide her movements through my hands. This must be what telekinesis feels like. Guiding someone by mere thought. And thoughts is all we have, even in a dream.
It’s disturbing to dream about someone I should regard as a child. Although there’s nothing dirty about it, it’s more erotic than any dream I had before. Being so close but being unable to touch ... it’s a kind of self-torture, but there is nothing comparable to the tension between us. I want to touch her. Oh, how I want to. Caress those cheeks, brush my thumb over those soft lips, kiss her closed eyelids while she’s asleep, just hold her without having to fear another breakdown because she involuntarily drains me of my life energy. But not even in my dreams I can show her my affection through those simple gestures. We dance untouched. And her body speaks so eloquently as we mirror each other’s movements, content just to be the other’s opponent in this dance, though I wish for so much more. It has to be enough. For I know she would not forgive herself if she caused me any harm.
But I would spend the rest of my life in a hospital, just for a single kiss. Just for one kiss ...
FIN
Genre: Angst/Romance (Wolverine/Rogue)
Rating: PG-13
Description: Wolverine dreams about a dance with Rogue.
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Neither the comics, nor the movie.
Dance with the Untouched
One of the most typical human flaws is to long for something you can’t have. That’s the only way I can explain this feeling. This almost irresistible urge to reach out to her. She is so young but carries a burden others would have been broken by: staying untouched forever. But this burden makes her wise beyond her years, makes her seem ageless ... just like me.
The only time I held her it almost tore me apart to think that she will probably never again be so close to anyone in her whole life. She walks this world, not being capable of physical contact. There will always be a barrier between her and the world that surrounds her. She’ll never be held by a lover, never be able to hold her child in her arms. I don’t know how she can live with that knowledge, but she does and I’m glad of it.
But there are those dreams I’m having. Not those nightmares of the experiments I got my metal skeleton from, but almost as scary, even though they are of a completely different nature.
In those dreams we stand facing each other, so close we almost touch. Almost. Her gloves are gone as is her scarf. Nothing about her reminds of her mutation. Our faces are only inches apart, and I look at her closed eyes, at her features that hold such a sadness that I wish for nothing more than to reach out and touch her to make her feel better. But I can’t and I hate it.
She suddenly opens her eyes and I’m sucked into their clear depth. It’s amazing how she can touch my soul with a simple look.
We start circling each other as though we are going to fight, my eyes never leaving hers. Her bare arm almost brushes my hand. And still we are holding each other’s gaze just like I wish I could hold her. She turns gracefully, her movements turning into those of a dancer. Stopping at an arm’s length distance she stands still for a moment, making eye contact again. Slowly she lifts her arm, reaching out to me. And I mirror the gesture until our hands almost touch. We start dancing then. There is no music, just the silence and the closeness we share, although we never touch. There’s always an inch between her skin and mine. But we move so perfectly together as though I’d really guide her movements through my hands. This must be what telekinesis feels like. Guiding someone by mere thought. And thoughts is all we have, even in a dream.
It’s disturbing to dream about someone I should regard as a child. Although there’s nothing dirty about it, it’s more erotic than any dream I had before. Being so close but being unable to touch ... it’s a kind of self-torture, but there is nothing comparable to the tension between us. I want to touch her. Oh, how I want to. Caress those cheeks, brush my thumb over those soft lips, kiss her closed eyelids while she’s asleep, just hold her without having to fear another breakdown because she involuntarily drains me of my life energy. But not even in my dreams I can show her my affection through those simple gestures. We dance untouched. And her body speaks so eloquently as we mirror each other’s movements, content just to be the other’s opponent in this dance, though I wish for so much more. It has to be enough. For I know she would not forgive herself if she caused me any harm.
But I would spend the rest of my life in a hospital, just for a single kiss. Just for one kiss ...
FIN