Title: Rain and Water
Summery: Sometimes there are no words, just a person.
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of X-Men
A/N:These aren't really a fic nor or they a drabble and I don't think the qualify for flash fic, so yeah...
They never really talk when they hang out. She with her long sleeves and even longer hair and him with his gloved hands and white undershirt, her head is in his lap as his gloved fingers card through her hair as they watch the movie (his turn to pick).
She turns over, arms crossed and propped up on his thigh as she rests her chin on her folded arms, his hand on her back now making soothing circular motions. He can feel the her chest rise and fall with each breath, feels it stutter while she looks for her words.
She turns again, right arm stretched out over her head and across his thighs, left arm bent so her cheek rests on her hand, eyes closed as she tries to remember the sensation of cold pool water against hot skin. She closes her eyes and fights back the memories of childhood, swimming all summer long and fights with suddenly super glued on swimsuits.
"I don't remember what it feels like to swim." Her voice doesn't hold sadness or anger. Her voice is calm and cool, words coming to life and the pronunciation of swim is 'swa-im'. Logan moves his arm down from resting on the curve of her shoulder to the curve of her hip, fingers splayed wide, thumb pressing in a little more forcefully on the back of her hip.
They watch Bruce Willis blow more shit up. She thinks he's hot for a bald dude.
There are times when he gets into a mood that he can't explain, it usually happens on a day when there is nothing to do and everything is calm. Today, it's cold outside and raining cats and dogs (Marie told him the story behind that saying one time, he still thinks it funny. In a morbid way). The enitre mansion has been sleepy and subdued.
She sits in a chair, cheap paperback book in one hand the other hiding under the electric blanket (no matter high how they have the thermostat, she never seems to get warm) and he stands by the window. Reflection fogging over every time he breathes out and he watches the rain, watches as it splats against the window and leaves a trail behind as it slides down.
His left hand covers his right hand, fingers tracing the space between each knuckle. She puts the book on the side table and gets up, her nightgown is old fashioned. Long sleeves, high neck and ankle length in the color of sage green. Her feet are bare.
She goes to him, leaving the blanket a puddle on the floor, slides under his arm and lets a gloved hand rest on his waist while her head rests on his covered chest. His arm practically wraps all the way around her waist as he pulls her tightly to him.
Sometimes there are no words, just a person.