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Aug. 10th, 2005 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Let's Dance
Author: Jaguar
Fandom: X-Men
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mike/Kitty
A/N: Hmm. I haven't used a single character name except Bobby Drake. Might swap out that name and make it an original fic and submit it somewhere later for a reprint. We'll see.
She dances in the moonlight and he watches her spin through the grass like a heroine in a black and white film. Night time leeches all the color out of her, leaves her dress and hair black and her skin white and every little movement stands out sharp in his mind. After the third minute or so his nose and palms are pressed to the glass, his breath making a small circle of fog on the window.
Two weeks of mind-fogging joy. And mind-blowing sex, lest we forget, but that’s not even the greater part of it and the only reason it came to mind was because putting his hand on her dresser knocked the empty foil wrapper onto the floor. He still blushes when he thinks about it. She’s just about his age and still so much more worldly than he is in some ways. It’s the whole time space travel and being possessed, mind-controlled, or dead thing. Runs rampant through the house.
And all that time and space and experience hasn’t diminished her ability to enjoy a simple night out. Or her ability to turn a well-controlled pirouette.
She stops and looks up at him, waving. He blushes again, more at being caught out in a moment of sentimentality, and that sort of blush quickly fades. His fingers wave back just a little of their own volition.
Her lips move. Come out and dance.
But I don’t dance.
He goes out anyway, and he finds that he does dance, though not in any kind of way that resembles other-people dancing. It’s the dance of trying to run outside while pulling both shoes and a shirt and a jacket on. Which is sort of like dancing, if the object of the game is to leave Bobby Drake in a pile of giggling idiot. He’ll kick his ass in the Danger room later.
Crash through the doors. Awkward, ungainly. The combination of shy enthusiasm and his natural inability to be coordinated makes him almost trip over the front stoop. She laughs as she holds out her hands to him. It’s a beautiful laugh.
But I don’t dance.
She takes his hands anyway and tugs him further out into the grass. Past the windows and the prying eyes of Bobby Drake. Grateful for small favors, he acquiesces far enough to spin a little for her until he gets dizzy and staggers.
Her hands find his, find his hips, adjust him like a wooden artist’s doll until he’s standing in a position man was not meant to assume. On her it looks graceful, but he feels like he’s all knees and elbows and heels aren’t supposed to go that way, dammit! But on her it looks graceful, and she laughs and lets him go back to standing with his arms wrapped around himself and dances for him again, like he secretly always wanted. And he watches, and if the intensity of his gaze could suck the skill from her movements he’d be Balanchine in no time.
Something something something. Beat. Her eyes go all distant and half-closed like she does when she’s concentrating on that music that only she hears, except he’s hearing it a little now. Faint, and in the back of his head, and he doesn’t know if she knows. It’s thrilling, and it’s a little scary to be connected to someone that much. So many things that could go wrong. That have already gone wrong, to one person or another in this house. To him. To her. It’s happened before. It could happen again. Take that leap into the unknown and you could break on the rocks below. Or you could fly. He doesn’t want to break, and even more than that he doesn’t want her to break. He wants to fly. With her.
That’s a scary thought in and of itself. He concentrates on the music again. Instead. Whichever.
He’s humming and he doesn’t even notice. She notices, and she opens her eyes again and smiles at him. And he’s caught up in the music and doesn’t notice when she takes his hands and pulls him a little, pushing him with one hand and pulling him that way, and his feet move so he doesn’t fall down and his arms move where she directs him.
Part of him says, you’re dancing. Holy shit, you’re dancing.
Part of him says, don’t be stupid, she’s making you dance, like a marionette. You couldn’t do this on your own.
Part of him says, duh. That’s the point.
Part of him is just gaping in complete astonishment that any of this is even possible. That part of him has been gaping a lot over the past two weeks.
She dances with him and her lips move keep looking at me and he does, because it’s really easy to get lost in her eyes now. His body moves of its own volition just to keep him from falling. And she doesn’t let go of his hands. She’s a good dancer. Good enough to keep both of them moving in the right rhythm. She’s been dancing all her life. Never stopped. Now she’s just pulled him in with her, that’s all.
They dance through the lawn, going further and further away from the lights of the house, further into the moonlight. A black and white picture, and it’s silent so it isn’t even a talkie, just something old and with the whole rippling water thing, a light breeze stirring her hair just right for the camera. It’s easier if he thinks of it as a film. He doesn’t have to think about the ending.
Which he does anyway.
He stumbles and one foot catches in back of the other and he’s going down, all clumsy again. He knew he couldn’t dance. This proves it. But she turns it into a dip and pulls him up as smooth as china silk. As safe as houses.
“It’s all right,” she says. “I won’t let you fall.”
Author: Jaguar
Fandom: X-Men
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mike/Kitty
A/N: Hmm. I haven't used a single character name except Bobby Drake. Might swap out that name and make it an original fic and submit it somewhere later for a reprint. We'll see.
She dances in the moonlight and he watches her spin through the grass like a heroine in a black and white film. Night time leeches all the color out of her, leaves her dress and hair black and her skin white and every little movement stands out sharp in his mind. After the third minute or so his nose and palms are pressed to the glass, his breath making a small circle of fog on the window.
Two weeks of mind-fogging joy. And mind-blowing sex, lest we forget, but that’s not even the greater part of it and the only reason it came to mind was because putting his hand on her dresser knocked the empty foil wrapper onto the floor. He still blushes when he thinks about it. She’s just about his age and still so much more worldly than he is in some ways. It’s the whole time space travel and being possessed, mind-controlled, or dead thing. Runs rampant through the house.
And all that time and space and experience hasn’t diminished her ability to enjoy a simple night out. Or her ability to turn a well-controlled pirouette.
She stops and looks up at him, waving. He blushes again, more at being caught out in a moment of sentimentality, and that sort of blush quickly fades. His fingers wave back just a little of their own volition.
Her lips move. Come out and dance.
But I don’t dance.
He goes out anyway, and he finds that he does dance, though not in any kind of way that resembles other-people dancing. It’s the dance of trying to run outside while pulling both shoes and a shirt and a jacket on. Which is sort of like dancing, if the object of the game is to leave Bobby Drake in a pile of giggling idiot. He’ll kick his ass in the Danger room later.
Crash through the doors. Awkward, ungainly. The combination of shy enthusiasm and his natural inability to be coordinated makes him almost trip over the front stoop. She laughs as she holds out her hands to him. It’s a beautiful laugh.
But I don’t dance.
She takes his hands anyway and tugs him further out into the grass. Past the windows and the prying eyes of Bobby Drake. Grateful for small favors, he acquiesces far enough to spin a little for her until he gets dizzy and staggers.
Her hands find his, find his hips, adjust him like a wooden artist’s doll until he’s standing in a position man was not meant to assume. On her it looks graceful, but he feels like he’s all knees and elbows and heels aren’t supposed to go that way, dammit! But on her it looks graceful, and she laughs and lets him go back to standing with his arms wrapped around himself and dances for him again, like he secretly always wanted. And he watches, and if the intensity of his gaze could suck the skill from her movements he’d be Balanchine in no time.
Something something something. Beat. Her eyes go all distant and half-closed like she does when she’s concentrating on that music that only she hears, except he’s hearing it a little now. Faint, and in the back of his head, and he doesn’t know if she knows. It’s thrilling, and it’s a little scary to be connected to someone that much. So many things that could go wrong. That have already gone wrong, to one person or another in this house. To him. To her. It’s happened before. It could happen again. Take that leap into the unknown and you could break on the rocks below. Or you could fly. He doesn’t want to break, and even more than that he doesn’t want her to break. He wants to fly. With her.
That’s a scary thought in and of itself. He concentrates on the music again. Instead. Whichever.
He’s humming and he doesn’t even notice. She notices, and she opens her eyes again and smiles at him. And he’s caught up in the music and doesn’t notice when she takes his hands and pulls him a little, pushing him with one hand and pulling him that way, and his feet move so he doesn’t fall down and his arms move where she directs him.
Part of him says, you’re dancing. Holy shit, you’re dancing.
Part of him says, don’t be stupid, she’s making you dance, like a marionette. You couldn’t do this on your own.
Part of him says, duh. That’s the point.
Part of him is just gaping in complete astonishment that any of this is even possible. That part of him has been gaping a lot over the past two weeks.
She dances with him and her lips move keep looking at me and he does, because it’s really easy to get lost in her eyes now. His body moves of its own volition just to keep him from falling. And she doesn’t let go of his hands. She’s a good dancer. Good enough to keep both of them moving in the right rhythm. She’s been dancing all her life. Never stopped. Now she’s just pulled him in with her, that’s all.
They dance through the lawn, going further and further away from the lights of the house, further into the moonlight. A black and white picture, and it’s silent so it isn’t even a talkie, just something old and with the whole rippling water thing, a light breeze stirring her hair just right for the camera. It’s easier if he thinks of it as a film. He doesn’t have to think about the ending.
Which he does anyway.
He stumbles and one foot catches in back of the other and he’s going down, all clumsy again. He knew he couldn’t dance. This proves it. But she turns it into a dip and pulls him up as smooth as china silk. As safe as houses.
“It’s all right,” she says. “I won’t let you fall.”