Name: Secrets of a Moving Object

Rating: PG

Summary: He'd hate her if he didn't love her.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.

Authors Note: One of several Push fics I'm working on at the moment. More are surely to come.

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She's in the mood for story-telling. That much is obvious.

"Tell me a secret," she instructs coyly, fishing a pen from her bag.

Her hand, so small compared to his, so pale and delicate, stretches across the splintered table and reaches for him, palm to palm. Her fingers coil around his wrist; so warm and startling. "Don't you know them all?" he says cagily, suspiciously. She doesn't say a word otherwise. "What kind of secret?"

Hair crowned with a pinch of gold touches her bare shoulder, a diminutive smile slipping onto her cheeks. "I don't know." She pauses, lips parting, studying him as fiercely as he studies her. "Something."

The tip of the pin pokes, curling round and round, tracing line after line like the circle of these words. He wonders in the back of his mind whats caused this game.

He sighs. "I don't have one to tell."

She giggles at that. A light chortle. "Everyone has secrets."

The truth in three simple words, even simpler than I love you, I hate you, I need you.

"I don't."

She draws kindergarten mountains around the spiral she's finished, all pointed tops and shapes like triangles. He can actually tell what they are today. His hand is falling back onto the table and she's plugging the top back on the pen when he realizes the sun has just been painted on the canvas of his skin.

The symbol of vitality, the eternal renewal, the greater good, the bright beginning is temporarily tattooed for the world to catch a glimpse of.

Underneath the sun are two letters. "Here's my secret," she announces suddenly, capturing his attention. "Its all about to end."

She smiles softly. It's almost not there. And he almost believes her. "I dont play this game, sweetheart."

This'll never end.

She leans close and there are stars in her eyes. "Maybe you should."

In one swift motion she is up and barreled around the other side of the table, there and gone out the front door before he can get a rebuttal out. He is alone.

She was in the mood for telling secrets. Things she couldn't say outright, not without knowing some of his.

With a notebook, she could tell his story. But never in his own words.

He'd hate her if he didn't love her.