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Well, in the past couple of days I have written my article for Cycle News, mostly finished a piece of X-Treme X-Men drabble, and listened to Charles Todd's The Watchers of Time on booktape. Basic run down: Ian Rutledge, the shell-shocked WWI vet and Scotland Yard inspector goes to Norwich to investigate the murder of a priest. And Hamish goes with him, of course. I've decided that book tapes are the best way to listen to Todd's Ian Rutledge mysteries, since that way you actually get to hear Hamish, which makes it even harder to decide whether he is a real ghost haunting Rutledge, or a delusion.
For lack of anything better to do (as I've no one to engage in fangirlish babble with here), I've been pondering my ships (HP and otherwise) and why I ship them. Snape/McGonagall is easy--I decided that they belonged together halfway through CoS, because they'd be so wonderfully dry and witty together. Rather like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, if Darcy were a lot meaner.
Lucius/Narcissa--well, I've been wondering about that one. Most of my other ships involve people who have that sort of Beatrice/Benedict sniping going on, or are drowning in buckets of angst, or both. The Malfoys... well, aside from the fact that they are a canon couple, I think it's the idea that the two of them can be evil, but still love each other. Sort of the human side of evil. It's probably some of the same appeal that Crawford/Schuldig has.
Wolfwood/Vash from Trigun is another easy one. The two of them compliment each other perfectly, to the point where it almost seems as if they can read each others' minds, and they bicker like a married couple. And the fact that they never really get together in the series, that all you get are hints and subtext, gives it this whole bittersweet romance feel. Nick quite literally dies for Vash, trying to be the sort of person Vash would want him to be, and I honestly think that losing Nick hurt Vash as much as the whole Legato thing. Plus, I just adore both of them to pieces.
Remus/Sirius is probably the only ship I didn't jump onto straight from canon. I didn't come up with it when I first read the books, but my first year of college, when I first got the internet and stumbled onto the HP fandom, I saw it mentioned somewhere, and the light came on. The hug in the Shrieking Shack, the fact that they were old friends once, way that they both have canine sides, and the incredible, soul-rending angst the pairing carries with it, given the Azkaban/suspicion/werewolf thing. They really are the most canonically plausible HP slash pairing.
R&R--Gambut and Rogue from X-Men. Well, not only are they my favourite X-men (I've had a crush on Gambit since I used to watch the old X-Men cartoon as an eleven year old, and I always identified with Rogue, since she was not only a female superhero, something rare as old Saturday morning cartoons went, but Southern) but they are Canon with a capital "C." They're entertaning to watch together (having Rogue without Gambit in the X-men movies is like having Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing without Benedict), both have great sense of humour, often at each other's expense, and have nearly as much angst as Sirius and Remus. Actually, they've got a lot in common with the puppies. Guilt, secrets, a "curse" one of them is stuck with that keeps people from getting close, and come on, fanon Sirius is a dead ringer for an English, wizard version of Gambit, minus the sticky fingers.
Yep, true love can survive ex-wives, supervillains, inconvenient mutant powers, alien viruses, dark secret pasts, Antartica, and swords through the heart.
And just to make this post even longer, here's the mostly done X-Treme X-Men drabble.
Flying
There's another world inside of me
That you will never see
There's secrets in this life
That I can't hide
The radio in the little diner blared out the same song it had been playing every hour for the past month, and Rogue had to exert actual effort to stop herself from singing along, even thought the tune wasn't exactly cheerful. Early morning sun was just beginning to slant in through the place's grubby windows, her nose was filled with the scent of coffee and syrup, and Remy was sitting at the counter next to her, eating French toast one-handed because the other arm was draped around her shoulders. Some mornings, a body just felt like singing.
This was definitely one of those mornings.
The sun was shining, the orange juice tasted fresh squeezed, and were still far enough south for the grits to be decent, and best of all, Remy was next to her, alive and eminently touchable.
The world felt so different without gloves, so much rawer, so much more real. Without that thin layer of fabric between her fingers and whatever they touched, tactile sensations were so much stronger, so much more detailed. The cool Formica of the countertop, the cold dampness that was the condensation on the sides of her glass of orange juice, the fabric of Remy's sleeve… All of them were so detailed, so fascinating. Of course, Remy's skin was even better than his sleeve, but half a lifetime's worth of habit was hard to break, and touching bare skin still felt odd. A good kind of odd, still carrying the thrill of the forbidden, but ingrained caution still guided her to touch hair, sleeve, a shoulder safely covered by shirt and coat, instead of dangerously vulnerable flesh.
Remy shifted the arm around her slightly, fingers playing with the ends of her hair. With his other hand, he added yet another little packet of sugar to his coffee, stirring it around with her spoon, which he must have snagged out of her bowl during the past few moments.
"Gawd, Gambit. Why don't ya just pour the syrup straight inta your coffee?"
"Great idea, Chere." He grinned at her and picked up the syrup pitcher, holding it poised above his mug of what had once been coffee, but was now so throughly adulterated with milk and sugar that it hardly deserved the name.
"Don't. That's disgusting! And give me back my spoon, sneak thief."
"Chere, chere. What's yours is mine an' what's mine is ours."
"Since when?" Rogue snatched her spoon up from the counter, fending off his attempts to reclaim it--they were hampered by the fact that he had to set the syrup pitcher down first. "Use your own spoon."
"I'd rather use de one dat's been kissed by your sweet lips."
"Why do Ah hang out with ya? Especially since ya bring me to such charming places."
"Hey, it's de Waffle Houses an' greasy diners of life dat make you 'preciate de fancy restaurants. Can't have mansions and crystal all de time."
She couldn't help it; she laughed. Insults and innuendoes were she and Remy's stock in trade by this point. A familiar dance, in which each partner knew the other's movements almost better than their own. Everything was a dance with them, in a way, except that sometimes it was a tango with roses, and sometimes a sword dance with knives.
Oops. Not a good metaphor. She still winced slightly at the thought of swords, given all that a particular sword had taken from them. Snatching away powers with one hand and holding out touch with the other, like a malevolent genie in a fairy tale, giving you what you asked for, but in the last possible way you could have wanted. And taking Betsy. That wound still hurt, only slightly dulled by the weeks that had passed since it was dealt.
Vargas had a lot to answer for, starting with Betsy and ending with one set of matching scars, straight and smooth, on a far-too-important to be so scarred chest and back. It had been a very sharp blade. There were times when she sincerely regretted not killing him when she'd had the chance.
"Earth to Rogue. You a million miles away."
"Just thinking." She leaned forward for another sip of orange juice, sucking it through the plastic straw. It was one of the crinkly ones, with the bend in it. She'd always wonder how exactly they made those.
"'Bout what?"
"Last night?" She leaned her head against Remy's shoulder, feeling the disapproving eyes of the older couple near the door on the back of her neck, but ignoring them. She'd engage in all the PDA she wanted to, thank you very much. The two of them had earned it.
The shoulder under her head shuddered slightly as its owner chuckled. "I don't t'ink dat's de real answer, but it sure is an acceptable one. I told you motels were better den caves."
"Dis way better den some nasty cave in Antarctica, no?" Remy had asked, flopping backward onto the double bed with arms spread wide. "Sheets, pillows, no rocks…"
"Ah thought we agreed we weren't gonna talk about Antarctica anymore."
"I ain't talkin', just makin' a comparison." A slow, smoldering grin. "You know, de others have a pool goin' on how long it's goin' to take us to get naked together after ridin' off into de sunset."
"How are they gonna know when?" she'd asked playfully, sitting down on the edge of the bed--ostentatiously poised to spring up again at a moment's notice. "Or even if?"
"Don't know. I t'ink maybe when we get back, Jeanie's goin' to cheat an' take a look."
"She wouldn't dare."
"No, she wouldn't." Hands on her shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscles at the base of her neck. "Your skin is like silk, Chere. Don't sigh at me like dat, it's de truth."
Lips on hers, hands in her hair, her own hands gliding up over the smooth, hard muscles of Remy's back, hesitating over that awful scar. Every time she touched it, she remembered red light and pain, and white light and loss, and wanted to pull him close and never let go.
"Ah feel like we shouldn't be doing this. Like any second you're gonna drop over dead or something."
"Be a perfect way to go."
"Don't even joke about that. Oh my Gawd. Do that again."
"What, dis? Or dis?"
In the hours that had followed, she hadn't missed her vanished powers at all. The strength, the flight, the invulnerability, they had never really been hers to begin with, and when the two of them were together, skin sliding over skin and lips kissing a path down her body, she didn't need powers to fly.
"For once, you were right. Much better than a cave."
^_~
The older couple in the booth by the door eyed the pair at the counter with disapproval, partly due to the motorcycle helmets sitting on the empty stools next to them and the man's slightly disreputable appearance, but mostly because the two of them simply couldn't seem to keep their hands off one another. Young people nowadays, Jim Harris thought, watching the couple with the part of his attention that was not being devoted to USA Today. No sense of decency. But what else could you expect in a world where people were mugged on the street and mutants were popping up everywhere? Standards just weren't what they had been thirty years ago.
Still, the way the young woman leaned her head against the man's arm, the way he laughed and tapped her on the nose with a finger before feeding her a piece of French toast off his fork, following the mouthful of food up with a kiss that probably tasted like syrup… it made a person remember their own youth. Made him remember those long ago days before children and mortgages and other responsibilities laid ahold of his time, when he and Barbara's relationship had been one long honeymoon.
Everything I am
And everything in me
Wants to be the one
You wanted me to be,
The singer on the radio blared vehemently, electric guitar accompaniment echoing him. Music wasn't what it had been thirty years ago either. Then again, when he had been a teenager, his parent's generation had been noticeably non-enthusiastic about the Doors.
Across the table from him, Barb stirred equal into her coffee and eyed the road map spread out across the table next to her plate. "I think if we take route (#?) around (city?), it will get us to Fort Lauderdale a few hours faster."
Jim nodded. "That sounds about right." He folded the paper to the crossword section, and laid it on the table between them, at an angle so that Barb could see it as well. "What do you say we get some airline tickets the next time we visit your parents?"
Barb shifted her gaze from the map to the crossword, eyes glancing over the list of clues. "I don't know. It would be faster. But you know, I kind of like traveling this way. Almost like a little vacation, just for the two of us. On the road, like Bonnie and Clyde."
Jim smiled slightly. "You always want to do things the hard way." That was Barbara, pioneer determination and a bit of a martyr streak, like a slimmer, blonde Eeyore. Still, the past two days had been fun, in a way. Years of traveling with antsy kids, or, later, sullen teenagers in the back seat had made car trips more of a chore then a pleasure, and setting out solo, even in a minivan, was a nice change.
"Jim, you're the one who insisted on installing the new kitchen cabinets yourself rather than getting a carpenter to do it."
"That was different. Do you have any idea how much getting a professional would have cost?" He tapped the crossword. "I think 29 across is 'Steve McQueen.'"
"You're right. That would fit with 36 down. I couldn't figure out what to do with that 'Q' in 'propinquity.'" She wrote it in, using block letters.
The young couple at the counter stood up, collecting their motorcycle helmets and leaving a handful of bills on the Formica countertop for a tip. As the two of them started towards the door, Barb frowned slightly at the young women. "Something about her looks familiar. Does she look familiar to you?"
"Not really."
"I think it's something about the hair. I saw something like it on television somewhere."
Jim thought about it, glancing back over his shoulder at the young woman--girl, really--as she followed her boyfriend out the door. She had latched onto his arm like a limpet, so close to him that the fabric of his long trench coat was brushing her legs. Barb was right. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Something about the hair, the way that one white streak framed her face…
"That country singer?" he suggested. "The one with that one streak of grey hair. I forget her name. You know who I mean?"
"Yes. Yes, I think you're right. That must be it." Barb nodded, satisfied, and returned to the crossword. "Synonym for scoundrel. Five letters."
"Scamp?" Jim suggested. The door swung shut behind the girl, the little bell above it ringing softly. Through the window, he could see the kids walking toward a large Harley Davidson parked in the corner of the lot. It gleamed in the red-tinted light of dawn, all smooth chrome and glossy paint. Maybe, now that the kids were out of the house, he mused, it was time for he and Barb to trade in the minivan for something a little more exciting. Not a motorcycle, of course, but something a bit more… stylish.
"No, that wouldn't fit. The last letter is an 'E'."
"Knave, then."
Barb frowned slightly, but wrote it in, lightly, so that it could be written over later if necessary. It was that special frown of hers, the one she used when considering a puzzle, that put a little wrinkle between her brows. Jim had always found it incongruously sexy, and the new addition of gold-rimmed reading glasses only increased the appeal.
"I thin you're right, honey," he said, adding another drizzle of ketchup to his scrambled eggs. "Driving out was a better choice than flying. What do you say we take a detour to the beach on the way back?"
^_~
"Hold me when Ah'm scared, and love me when Ah'm gone," Rogue hummed softly, as the door thudded shut behind her, only slightly off key. "When Ah'm gone."
"You're in a good mood dis mornin', Chere." Remy said. "I'll take dat as a compliment, no?" She actually blushed, then. It was adorable. His little skunk-haired hellcat had turned out to be surprisingly innocent about some things. Or maybe not so surprisingly. She sure learned quick, though. He palmed the keys to the bike out of his pocket, producing them with a flourish as if he'd conjured them out of the air. "Your chariot, it awaits you, m'lady." He waved a hand toward the bike.
"Maybe my good mood has nothing to do with ya," Rogue rejoined teasingly. "Maybe Ah just like singing." She tucked a bit of white-streaked hair behind her ear with one delicate hand, and grinned impishly at him. He smiled back. There hadn't been enough smiles to go around lately, with everyone at the mansion tiptoeing around him and Storm like the two of them were fragile little glass figures about to break. It was good to get out again, to move, to travel. Staying in one spot for too long made him feel itchy anyway. He suspected that Rogue had a touch of the same drifter's instinct, considering the number of times she'd taken off in the past. This time, though, they were drifting together, which made it different, somehow. How did the saying go? 'If two people wander together, they must be going somewhere.' Maybe the two of them were finally going somewhere. It would be nice to imagine that, twenty years from now, they might still be sitting across the breakfast table from one another, doing the crossword, like that couple in the diner. It would be nice, but it might be tempting fate.
The two of them were traveling on borrowed time. Unless their experience with the portal and Vargas had somehow managed to alter the DNA in every cell in their bodies--unlikely, since Hank would have noticed, been very excited, and probably written a paper about it--they were still mutants, and ultimately, still X-Men. It was like the IRA; once in, never out. Eventually, they'd be out there fighting again.
His ability to charm, unlike his charging ability, seemed unaffected by whatever had screwed up everything else, which meant that maybe the rest would come back after a while. And if his powers returned, Rogue's absorption ability probably would as well. Knowing their luck, it would come back in the middle of sex. Actually, knowing their luck, both of their abilities would come back at the exact same time, and when he went into a coma, it would startle Rogue so much that she would lose control of his newly regained and borrowed powers and blow up the bed room. And then he'd end up in the hospital, she'd end up in jail on arson charges, and the whole thing would show up on the ten o' clock news, narrated by some reporter who'd babble endlessly about the "Mutant Threat." Or maybe not. For now, he was going to do as Jean Luc had taught him and seize this opportunity while it lasted.
He started the Harley, listening to the engine couch into life, and settled the irritating helmet over his head--he'd insisted that Rogue get one, since she was no longer invulnerable, and she'd returned the favor by refusing to wear it unless he wore one as well.
"Where to, Chere?"
"Wherever the road takes us, I guess." He could hear the smile in her voice.
The two of them turned out of the parking lot and on to the road, leaving the little diner behind. Rogue's arms tightened around his waist as they accelerated, and he could feel her pressed against his back, legs against his, the first valuable thing he hadn't had to steal.
^_~
The Harley didn't know anything about mutants, or heroes, or powers, or love. All it knew was that it was two hundred pounds of steel and chrome, that the hand on its throttle belonged to a rider firmly convinced that speed limits--and most other restrictions enforced by the police--were for someone else, and that it liked to go fast. So when the fingers wrapped around its handlebar tightened, demanding more speed, it gladly obliged. And the three of them sped forward down the road into the sunrise, flying.
^_~
It's pure fluff, or as close as I can come to pure fluff.
For lack of anything better to do (as I've no one to engage in fangirlish babble with here), I've been pondering my ships (HP and otherwise) and why I ship them. Snape/McGonagall is easy--I decided that they belonged together halfway through CoS, because they'd be so wonderfully dry and witty together. Rather like Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, if Darcy were a lot meaner.
Lucius/Narcissa--well, I've been wondering about that one. Most of my other ships involve people who have that sort of Beatrice/Benedict sniping going on, or are drowning in buckets of angst, or both. The Malfoys... well, aside from the fact that they are a canon couple, I think it's the idea that the two of them can be evil, but still love each other. Sort of the human side of evil. It's probably some of the same appeal that Crawford/Schuldig has.
Wolfwood/Vash from Trigun is another easy one. The two of them compliment each other perfectly, to the point where it almost seems as if they can read each others' minds, and they bicker like a married couple. And the fact that they never really get together in the series, that all you get are hints and subtext, gives it this whole bittersweet romance feel. Nick quite literally dies for Vash, trying to be the sort of person Vash would want him to be, and I honestly think that losing Nick hurt Vash as much as the whole Legato thing. Plus, I just adore both of them to pieces.
Remus/Sirius is probably the only ship I didn't jump onto straight from canon. I didn't come up with it when I first read the books, but my first year of college, when I first got the internet and stumbled onto the HP fandom, I saw it mentioned somewhere, and the light came on. The hug in the Shrieking Shack, the fact that they were old friends once, way that they both have canine sides, and the incredible, soul-rending angst the pairing carries with it, given the Azkaban/suspicion/werewolf thing. They really are the most canonically plausible HP slash pairing.
R&R--Gambut and Rogue from X-Men. Well, not only are they my favourite X-men (I've had a crush on Gambit since I used to watch the old X-Men cartoon as an eleven year old, and I always identified with Rogue, since she was not only a female superhero, something rare as old Saturday morning cartoons went, but Southern) but they are Canon with a capital "C." They're entertaning to watch together (having Rogue without Gambit in the X-men movies is like having Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing without Benedict), both have great sense of humour, often at each other's expense, and have nearly as much angst as Sirius and Remus. Actually, they've got a lot in common with the puppies. Guilt, secrets, a "curse" one of them is stuck with that keeps people from getting close, and come on, fanon Sirius is a dead ringer for an English, wizard version of Gambit, minus the sticky fingers.
Yep, true love can survive ex-wives, supervillains, inconvenient mutant powers, alien viruses, dark secret pasts, Antartica, and swords through the heart.
And just to make this post even longer, here's the mostly done X-Treme X-Men drabble.
There's another world inside of me
That you will never see
There's secrets in this life
That I can't hide
The radio in the little diner blared out the same song it had been playing every hour for the past month, and Rogue had to exert actual effort to stop herself from singing along, even thought the tune wasn't exactly cheerful. Early morning sun was just beginning to slant in through the place's grubby windows, her nose was filled with the scent of coffee and syrup, and Remy was sitting at the counter next to her, eating French toast one-handed because the other arm was draped around her shoulders. Some mornings, a body just felt like singing.
This was definitely one of those mornings.
The sun was shining, the orange juice tasted fresh squeezed, and were still far enough south for the grits to be decent, and best of all, Remy was next to her, alive and eminently touchable.
The world felt so different without gloves, so much rawer, so much more real. Without that thin layer of fabric between her fingers and whatever they touched, tactile sensations were so much stronger, so much more detailed. The cool Formica of the countertop, the cold dampness that was the condensation on the sides of her glass of orange juice, the fabric of Remy's sleeve… All of them were so detailed, so fascinating. Of course, Remy's skin was even better than his sleeve, but half a lifetime's worth of habit was hard to break, and touching bare skin still felt odd. A good kind of odd, still carrying the thrill of the forbidden, but ingrained caution still guided her to touch hair, sleeve, a shoulder safely covered by shirt and coat, instead of dangerously vulnerable flesh.
Remy shifted the arm around her slightly, fingers playing with the ends of her hair. With his other hand, he added yet another little packet of sugar to his coffee, stirring it around with her spoon, which he must have snagged out of her bowl during the past few moments.
"Gawd, Gambit. Why don't ya just pour the syrup straight inta your coffee?"
"Great idea, Chere." He grinned at her and picked up the syrup pitcher, holding it poised above his mug of what had once been coffee, but was now so throughly adulterated with milk and sugar that it hardly deserved the name.
"Don't. That's disgusting! And give me back my spoon, sneak thief."
"Chere, chere. What's yours is mine an' what's mine is ours."
"Since when?" Rogue snatched her spoon up from the counter, fending off his attempts to reclaim it--they were hampered by the fact that he had to set the syrup pitcher down first. "Use your own spoon."
"I'd rather use de one dat's been kissed by your sweet lips."
"Why do Ah hang out with ya? Especially since ya bring me to such charming places."
"Hey, it's de Waffle Houses an' greasy diners of life dat make you 'preciate de fancy restaurants. Can't have mansions and crystal all de time."
She couldn't help it; she laughed. Insults and innuendoes were she and Remy's stock in trade by this point. A familiar dance, in which each partner knew the other's movements almost better than their own. Everything was a dance with them, in a way, except that sometimes it was a tango with roses, and sometimes a sword dance with knives.
Oops. Not a good metaphor. She still winced slightly at the thought of swords, given all that a particular sword had taken from them. Snatching away powers with one hand and holding out touch with the other, like a malevolent genie in a fairy tale, giving you what you asked for, but in the last possible way you could have wanted. And taking Betsy. That wound still hurt, only slightly dulled by the weeks that had passed since it was dealt.
Vargas had a lot to answer for, starting with Betsy and ending with one set of matching scars, straight and smooth, on a far-too-important to be so scarred chest and back. It had been a very sharp blade. There were times when she sincerely regretted not killing him when she'd had the chance.
"Earth to Rogue. You a million miles away."
"Just thinking." She leaned forward for another sip of orange juice, sucking it through the plastic straw. It was one of the crinkly ones, with the bend in it. She'd always wonder how exactly they made those.
"'Bout what?"
"Last night?" She leaned her head against Remy's shoulder, feeling the disapproving eyes of the older couple near the door on the back of her neck, but ignoring them. She'd engage in all the PDA she wanted to, thank you very much. The two of them had earned it.
The shoulder under her head shuddered slightly as its owner chuckled. "I don't t'ink dat's de real answer, but it sure is an acceptable one. I told you motels were better den caves."
"Dis way better den some nasty cave in Antarctica, no?" Remy had asked, flopping backward onto the double bed with arms spread wide. "Sheets, pillows, no rocks…"
"Ah thought we agreed we weren't gonna talk about Antarctica anymore."
"I ain't talkin', just makin' a comparison." A slow, smoldering grin. "You know, de others have a pool goin' on how long it's goin' to take us to get naked together after ridin' off into de sunset."
"How are they gonna know when?" she'd asked playfully, sitting down on the edge of the bed--ostentatiously poised to spring up again at a moment's notice. "Or even if?"
"Don't know. I t'ink maybe when we get back, Jeanie's goin' to cheat an' take a look."
"She wouldn't dare."
"No, she wouldn't." Hands on her shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscles at the base of her neck. "Your skin is like silk, Chere. Don't sigh at me like dat, it's de truth."
Lips on hers, hands in her hair, her own hands gliding up over the smooth, hard muscles of Remy's back, hesitating over that awful scar. Every time she touched it, she remembered red light and pain, and white light and loss, and wanted to pull him close and never let go.
"Ah feel like we shouldn't be doing this. Like any second you're gonna drop over dead or something."
"Be a perfect way to go."
"Don't even joke about that. Oh my Gawd. Do that again."
"What, dis? Or dis?"
In the hours that had followed, she hadn't missed her vanished powers at all. The strength, the flight, the invulnerability, they had never really been hers to begin with, and when the two of them were together, skin sliding over skin and lips kissing a path down her body, she didn't need powers to fly.
"For once, you were right. Much better than a cave."
The older couple in the booth by the door eyed the pair at the counter with disapproval, partly due to the motorcycle helmets sitting on the empty stools next to them and the man's slightly disreputable appearance, but mostly because the two of them simply couldn't seem to keep their hands off one another. Young people nowadays, Jim Harris thought, watching the couple with the part of his attention that was not being devoted to USA Today. No sense of decency. But what else could you expect in a world where people were mugged on the street and mutants were popping up everywhere? Standards just weren't what they had been thirty years ago.
Still, the way the young woman leaned her head against the man's arm, the way he laughed and tapped her on the nose with a finger before feeding her a piece of French toast off his fork, following the mouthful of food up with a kiss that probably tasted like syrup… it made a person remember their own youth. Made him remember those long ago days before children and mortgages and other responsibilities laid ahold of his time, when he and Barbara's relationship had been one long honeymoon.
Everything I am
And everything in me
Wants to be the one
You wanted me to be,
The singer on the radio blared vehemently, electric guitar accompaniment echoing him. Music wasn't what it had been thirty years ago either. Then again, when he had been a teenager, his parent's generation had been noticeably non-enthusiastic about the Doors.
Across the table from him, Barb stirred equal into her coffee and eyed the road map spread out across the table next to her plate. "I think if we take route (#?) around (city?), it will get us to Fort Lauderdale a few hours faster."
Jim nodded. "That sounds about right." He folded the paper to the crossword section, and laid it on the table between them, at an angle so that Barb could see it as well. "What do you say we get some airline tickets the next time we visit your parents?"
Barb shifted her gaze from the map to the crossword, eyes glancing over the list of clues. "I don't know. It would be faster. But you know, I kind of like traveling this way. Almost like a little vacation, just for the two of us. On the road, like Bonnie and Clyde."
Jim smiled slightly. "You always want to do things the hard way." That was Barbara, pioneer determination and a bit of a martyr streak, like a slimmer, blonde Eeyore. Still, the past two days had been fun, in a way. Years of traveling with antsy kids, or, later, sullen teenagers in the back seat had made car trips more of a chore then a pleasure, and setting out solo, even in a minivan, was a nice change.
"Jim, you're the one who insisted on installing the new kitchen cabinets yourself rather than getting a carpenter to do it."
"That was different. Do you have any idea how much getting a professional would have cost?" He tapped the crossword. "I think 29 across is 'Steve McQueen.'"
"You're right. That would fit with 36 down. I couldn't figure out what to do with that 'Q' in 'propinquity.'" She wrote it in, using block letters.
The young couple at the counter stood up, collecting their motorcycle helmets and leaving a handful of bills on the Formica countertop for a tip. As the two of them started towards the door, Barb frowned slightly at the young women. "Something about her looks familiar. Does she look familiar to you?"
"Not really."
"I think it's something about the hair. I saw something like it on television somewhere."
Jim thought about it, glancing back over his shoulder at the young woman--girl, really--as she followed her boyfriend out the door. She had latched onto his arm like a limpet, so close to him that the fabric of his long trench coat was brushing her legs. Barb was right. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Something about the hair, the way that one white streak framed her face…
"That country singer?" he suggested. "The one with that one streak of grey hair. I forget her name. You know who I mean?"
"Yes. Yes, I think you're right. That must be it." Barb nodded, satisfied, and returned to the crossword. "Synonym for scoundrel. Five letters."
"Scamp?" Jim suggested. The door swung shut behind the girl, the little bell above it ringing softly. Through the window, he could see the kids walking toward a large Harley Davidson parked in the corner of the lot. It gleamed in the red-tinted light of dawn, all smooth chrome and glossy paint. Maybe, now that the kids were out of the house, he mused, it was time for he and Barb to trade in the minivan for something a little more exciting. Not a motorcycle, of course, but something a bit more… stylish.
"No, that wouldn't fit. The last letter is an 'E'."
"Knave, then."
Barb frowned slightly, but wrote it in, lightly, so that it could be written over later if necessary. It was that special frown of hers, the one she used when considering a puzzle, that put a little wrinkle between her brows. Jim had always found it incongruously sexy, and the new addition of gold-rimmed reading glasses only increased the appeal.
"I thin you're right, honey," he said, adding another drizzle of ketchup to his scrambled eggs. "Driving out was a better choice than flying. What do you say we take a detour to the beach on the way back?"
"Hold me when Ah'm scared, and love me when Ah'm gone," Rogue hummed softly, as the door thudded shut behind her, only slightly off key. "When Ah'm gone."
"You're in a good mood dis mornin', Chere." Remy said. "I'll take dat as a compliment, no?" She actually blushed, then. It was adorable. His little skunk-haired hellcat had turned out to be surprisingly innocent about some things. Or maybe not so surprisingly. She sure learned quick, though. He palmed the keys to the bike out of his pocket, producing them with a flourish as if he'd conjured them out of the air. "Your chariot, it awaits you, m'lady." He waved a hand toward the bike.
"Maybe my good mood has nothing to do with ya," Rogue rejoined teasingly. "Maybe Ah just like singing." She tucked a bit of white-streaked hair behind her ear with one delicate hand, and grinned impishly at him. He smiled back. There hadn't been enough smiles to go around lately, with everyone at the mansion tiptoeing around him and Storm like the two of them were fragile little glass figures about to break. It was good to get out again, to move, to travel. Staying in one spot for too long made him feel itchy anyway. He suspected that Rogue had a touch of the same drifter's instinct, considering the number of times she'd taken off in the past. This time, though, they were drifting together, which made it different, somehow. How did the saying go? 'If two people wander together, they must be going somewhere.' Maybe the two of them were finally going somewhere. It would be nice to imagine that, twenty years from now, they might still be sitting across the breakfast table from one another, doing the crossword, like that couple in the diner. It would be nice, but it might be tempting fate.
The two of them were traveling on borrowed time. Unless their experience with the portal and Vargas had somehow managed to alter the DNA in every cell in their bodies--unlikely, since Hank would have noticed, been very excited, and probably written a paper about it--they were still mutants, and ultimately, still X-Men. It was like the IRA; once in, never out. Eventually, they'd be out there fighting again.
His ability to charm, unlike his charging ability, seemed unaffected by whatever had screwed up everything else, which meant that maybe the rest would come back after a while. And if his powers returned, Rogue's absorption ability probably would as well. Knowing their luck, it would come back in the middle of sex. Actually, knowing their luck, both of their abilities would come back at the exact same time, and when he went into a coma, it would startle Rogue so much that she would lose control of his newly regained and borrowed powers and blow up the bed room. And then he'd end up in the hospital, she'd end up in jail on arson charges, and the whole thing would show up on the ten o' clock news, narrated by some reporter who'd babble endlessly about the "Mutant Threat." Or maybe not. For now, he was going to do as Jean Luc had taught him and seize this opportunity while it lasted.
He started the Harley, listening to the engine couch into life, and settled the irritating helmet over his head--he'd insisted that Rogue get one, since she was no longer invulnerable, and she'd returned the favor by refusing to wear it unless he wore one as well.
"Where to, Chere?"
"Wherever the road takes us, I guess." He could hear the smile in her voice.
The two of them turned out of the parking lot and on to the road, leaving the little diner behind. Rogue's arms tightened around his waist as they accelerated, and he could feel her pressed against his back, legs against his, the first valuable thing he hadn't had to steal.
The Harley didn't know anything about mutants, or heroes, or powers, or love. All it knew was that it was two hundred pounds of steel and chrome, that the hand on its throttle belonged to a rider firmly convinced that speed limits--and most other restrictions enforced by the police--were for someone else, and that it liked to go fast. So when the fingers wrapped around its handlebar tightened, demanding more speed, it gladly obliged. And the three of them sped forward down the road into the sunrise, flying.
It's pure fluff, or as close as I can come to pure fluff.
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That's also why I'm a Lestrange shipper. The dichotomy is a fascinating one to explore. Besides, there's something fun about shipping the dark couples. Lily/James tends to be very fluff-oriented, which is fine in small doses but nauseating in larger amounts. Lucius/Narcissa allows for more naughtiness (as in