FANDOM:  Marvel,  Pryde & Wisdom
DISCLAIMER: All characters involved belong to Marvel Comics, not to me. If
you appreciate anything involved, go buy a couple issues of Astonishing.
RATING : PG-13 / borderline R
MISCELLANEA: Probably the smuttiest thing I've ever written for public
consumption, which translates roughly into a PG-13 rating for about two
paragraphs. I'd never make it as a porn writer.


"Breaking Fasts"

infinitepryde infinitepryde@lycos.com

It's cold outside, and raining, and dark.  In a few days there'll likely be
snow, but that's a few days from now; that's different.

A few days from now she'll be dressed in a silly costume and escorting
around a sillier Santa, just for the sake of seeing people laugh.  A few
days ago he was in Winchester; she's almost sure it was him that took a
chainsaw to the town Christmas tree, anyhow.  No proof.  It just seems like
him.

But tonight's too early for Christmas yet, and Chanukah is past.  Tonight is
the Tenth of Tevet, the date that marks the beginning of the siege that led
to the destruction of the Temple.  She has promised herself she will keep
the fast this year.  But the fast doesn't begin till dawn - and tonight is
the longest night of the year.

She waits for him to open the door for her; she closes it behind her
herself.  They don't talk.  They never do.  Words were always what got them
in trouble; now the words they use with each other are limited to the ones
they can't help but voice.

He touches her face; his fingers smell of stale smoke. He doesn't ask about
the Russian. She doesn't ask what he's been doing, or even whether or not
that was him in Winchester; she only reaches up and takes his shirt and tie
together in her fist, just below his throat, and pulls him down to kiss her.

When she lets him up for air, his hand is wrapped as tightly in her curls as
hers is in the fabric of his clothing.  He says one word, gravelly and low
and very nearly breathless.  "Now."

Less than ten seconds later, the floor's cold under her back and his teeth
are fastened in the skin of her shoulder.  The marks they leave on each
other are never where anyone will see, anymore.  They're careful about
leaving marks.  It's the only thing they're careful about, on these nights.
They have to be.  The second year they did this, she worked him up so much
he burned her by accident; after that they've been care -

He folds her up like a paper bird, and her thoughts stop dead the moment
before he's inside her.  She's not aware of mouthing the word 'yes;' she's
not aware that she doesn't voice it; she's not aware that he waits for it
that instant before driving into her, pinning her down, wiping away any
consciousness of the cold or the damp and replacing it with heat.  Her feet
are on his shoulders, her legs trapped between them.  He always starts that
way, now.  It's the only way he can keep her from clawing the first time.

Later on he'll tie her hands.  Later on she'll tie his, too, and that will
be new:  the first time he's trusted her that far since they broke.  He
wouldn't have let her if it'd been last year.  But then, he'd thought she
wouldn't meet him this year.  She surprised him.  He'll let her.

They have time to take turns.  When it starts to get light he'll gather
himself; at sunrise he'll leave; but that's more than fourteen hours from
now, and when no time is taken up with talking, fourteen hours is long
enough to do any number of things.

She knows she won't be able to move when he leaves.  He knows he'll barely
be able to walk.  Some of the time they'll only lie with each other, and
look at each other, and touch.  Some of the time they'll fuck; some of the
time they'll make love.  Some of the time they'll hurt each other, and some
of that will coincide with the fucking, and some of that will be part of the
lovemaking.  Power games and penance.

She says "no, don't" once.  He says it twice, and one of those times she
risks pushing a little further anyhow, and the look on his face tells her
she was right even before he gasps "Changed my mind."  That's the longest
sentence either of them says, all the longest night.

She has to fasten his shirt for him when he leaves.  When he tries, he snaps
two of the buttons off and swears.  It makes her laugh - that she's the one
who can't stand up, but his hands are shaking harder than hers.  He doesn't
let her catch him glancing back as he goes out the door, but she's sure he
does.

She lies still for a while, holding the memory of his touch.  Soon enough
she'll get up and wash, and pick up the used condoms, and get dressed and
go.  She won't let herself sleep during the day; that would be cheating.
She'll sleep tonight, when she's back in what passes for her normal life.

Next year, she tells herself, she'll talk to him.  If she comes back next
year.  If she's not with anyone else by then.  If he's not with anyone else.
If they're both still alive.  If all of those things are true - next year
she'll talk to him.  She made mistakes, and those mistakes had consequences,
and some of the most valuable things in her life were destroyed by them -
but slowly they've been building something of it again.  Silently.  One
night out of the year.  Next year she'll admit it.  Next year she'll say it
out loud and make it real.  Next year maybe she'll be able to make him
laugh; she misses that most of all.

But today there's the fast day to get through, on the shortest day of the
year.  And then there's the longer fast, of a different kind: three hundred
sixty-four days when she won't see him, won't speak of him, won't think of
him.

Next year it'll be cold again, and probably raining, and certainly dark,
though there probably won't be snow.

Next year she'll tell him she loves him.  If they both come back.