The Sensation of Falling
By Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: Bobby and Jean share a moment.
Time Frame: Sometime after the latest Iceman LS.
Notes: This is something that originally started as something quite different, just me trying to come up with an unusual pairing; it instead seems to be something of a character vignette thing. Hope you like it and even if you don't, reviews of any sort are much appreciated.
Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean, and the X-Men belong to Marvel.
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Jean stirred, rubbing the corners of her eyes. She had been awakened by a gentle pressure that could only be caused by the adding of an afghan to her pajama-clad form as she lay curled on the plush couch of the mansion's common room. Stretching her lithe arms over her head and her feet towards the opposite end of the sofa, Jean opened her eyes, slowly, unveiling a very pensive Bobby Drake. Leaning over her, tongue pursed between his lips, hands still on the blanket he had been covering her with, Jean gave a slight chuckle at his attempts to leave her undisturbed. Bobby looked down at her.
"Mornin' sunshine"
"What time is it?" she groaned, her voice soaked with sleep
Bobby kneeled and turned to the room's only light source: a muted TV situated across from the couch where Conan O'Brien was finishing his monologue.
"About 12:45, I'd say"
Jean swept her eyes over the room, bathed in flickering blue light and shadows and carefully slid her feet over the edge of the couch. Bobby, accepting her unspoken invitation, took the seat next to her as she replaced her feet on his lap. Jean sighed, "Why're you up?"
"Couldn't sleep," he replied enigmatically.
"Still thinking about Opal?"
Bobby's eyes fell as he lifted a heavy hand to rub the stubble on the backside of his neck, a nervous habit Jean recognized from the earliest days of the X-Men. She winced at her sudden nostalgia.
"Yeah, well, what's your excuse?" Bobby continued, now absently rubbing her feet through worn, lime colored socks.
"Scott snores," she answered automatically.
Bobby felt the muscles in her legs tense. She had answered too quickly. Even if she hadn't though, Bobby knew, like most people in the mansion, "Scott snores" was usually Jean-speak for "Scott and I had a huge fight and I can't even stand to sleep in the same room as him."
Bobby glanced over at her, tousled red hair, heavy-lidded jade eyes, pale skin warmed by her recent sleep. He threw his lips into a kind of half- smile that was confused by the gravity of his eyes. Jean flushed and quickly turned her gaze back to the television, realizing his understanding of her situation.
They sat that way for a while. Bobby warily turned up the volume to an audible level and continued his impromptu massage.
After some time had passed, Jean found her eyes gradually drawn back to her companion's face. She gazed at him in silence, grateful for the murkiness of the room. --He still looks so young--, she thought, achingly aware of her own weariness, finally feeling the victim of years of fighting both the tangible and the intangible. True, he was a few years younger than her, but as she took in the untidy bronze hair and clear blue eyes before her, she found herself unexpectedly astonished by Bobby. He had endured so much, in a few short years, he'd, albeit temporarily, had his body stolen from him, his foundations shaken and a new awareness awakened within him. He'd lost his father, a man he'd tried all his life to do right by. And now, he had suffered another loss, a son he'd never really had and never would. Yet he still was the same good ol', dependable Bobby: kind of funny, kind of sad, but always a friend.
Presently, Jean shifted herself into a sitting position, her feet still resting comfortably on Bobby's lap. Even without using any of her abilities, Jean knew what Bobby was thinking, clear as day, and what it was that he needed to hear more than anything else in the world.
Almost cautiously, Jean reached out a pale hand and touched, stroked, the sleep roughened cheek before her. Bobby turned to her, several inches away, he seemed closer. Her hand slid to the nape of his neck easily. Meeting his eyes, she saw something indescribable there-a sort of desperate bottomlessness that would remain a mystery to her even when she grew older.
A pregnant pause lay between them.
"You would've been a good father, Bobby."
The muscles in his face jerked and he gave a weak smile, his eyes showing the first signs of a glistening dampness in the soft light of the room.
Jean shifted once more, leaning herself against him, resting her head against his chest, awkwardly snaking her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into her. One of his arms moved to drape itself across her thin shoulders. Her eyelids slid quietly shut.
"Oh, Bobby," she murmured into the gray cotton of his T-shirt, "I'm so sorry."
His grip on her shoulders tightened and she could hear his breathing grow ragged. His head bent. Jean felt a sudden and violent clarity, now painfully aware of both Bobby's grief and her own. She mourned everything. What her life had become, as well as what it hadn't.
Jean waited until the rising and falling of the body beneath her head regained it's even, steady pattern before looking back at him. His face was damp; his clear eyes seemed somehow darker. As she looked up at him, and he down at her, all thought seemed to drain out of and away from Jean. The moment seemed startlingly still. The quiet mutterings of the TV, everything faded until it was just the two of them, Bobby and Jean, alone and joined in an almost isolating embrace - an island in the middle of an ocean. Green eyes met blue, perfectly motionless. Carefully, Jean raised her hands, framing Bobby's face, feeling the wetness there. There was a roaring in her ears despite the silence.
Astounding even herself, Jean leaned up and, with no visible trace of hesitation, met her lips to Bobby's in an action so effortless that it threatened to swallow her with its very simplicity. She sensed him blink in surprise before fluttering his short, masculine lashes closed.
Neither Bobby nor Jean dared to breathe as the kiss deepened with aching slowness. Bobby's coarse hands rose swiftly and entangled themselves in the soft auburn mane of the woman before him. It was a motion laced with an intensity only noticeable in those who have gone without such human intimacy for too long.
Then, in an instant, Bobby pulled back, staring at her, questioning. Jean dropped her eyes, surprised by her own irregular breathing.
"I'm sorry," she offered, her face was hot with blood.
"Are you?" he asked in what was barely a whisper.
Jean's eyes flicked back to his face, "Are *you*?"
Silence.
"Yes," his voice was husky.
Gently, tactfully, he placed one hand on each of her shoulders and pushed her off of him, easing himself off of the couch in one smooth motion.
"I should probably turn in."
"Bobby, I--"
"Goodnight, Jean," he instantly regretted the venom in his voice but made no retraction. Instead, he stiffened and disappeared, into the shadows of the room and down the hall.
Jean inhaled sharply and deeply, setting her jaw, pouting her full lips, stubbornly refusing to become subject to her own emotion. She swallowed hard and tried to quiet her whirling mind. Carefully, she lay back down on the couch, fighting the emotion threatening to overcome her until, at last, she allowed sleep to bleed into her once more.
By Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: Bobby and Jean share a moment.
Time Frame: Sometime after the latest Iceman LS.
Notes: This is something that originally started as something quite different, just me trying to come up with an unusual pairing; it instead seems to be something of a character vignette thing. Hope you like it and even if you don't, reviews of any sort are much appreciated.
Disclaimer: Bobby, Jean, and the X-Men belong to Marvel.
________________________________________________________________________
Jean stirred, rubbing the corners of her eyes. She had been awakened by a gentle pressure that could only be caused by the adding of an afghan to her pajama-clad form as she lay curled on the plush couch of the mansion's common room. Stretching her lithe arms over her head and her feet towards the opposite end of the sofa, Jean opened her eyes, slowly, unveiling a very pensive Bobby Drake. Leaning over her, tongue pursed between his lips, hands still on the blanket he had been covering her with, Jean gave a slight chuckle at his attempts to leave her undisturbed. Bobby looked down at her.
"Mornin' sunshine"
"What time is it?" she groaned, her voice soaked with sleep
Bobby kneeled and turned to the room's only light source: a muted TV situated across from the couch where Conan O'Brien was finishing his monologue.
"About 12:45, I'd say"
Jean swept her eyes over the room, bathed in flickering blue light and shadows and carefully slid her feet over the edge of the couch. Bobby, accepting her unspoken invitation, took the seat next to her as she replaced her feet on his lap. Jean sighed, "Why're you up?"
"Couldn't sleep," he replied enigmatically.
"Still thinking about Opal?"
Bobby's eyes fell as he lifted a heavy hand to rub the stubble on the backside of his neck, a nervous habit Jean recognized from the earliest days of the X-Men. She winced at her sudden nostalgia.
"Yeah, well, what's your excuse?" Bobby continued, now absently rubbing her feet through worn, lime colored socks.
"Scott snores," she answered automatically.
Bobby felt the muscles in her legs tense. She had answered too quickly. Even if she hadn't though, Bobby knew, like most people in the mansion, "Scott snores" was usually Jean-speak for "Scott and I had a huge fight and I can't even stand to sleep in the same room as him."
Bobby glanced over at her, tousled red hair, heavy-lidded jade eyes, pale skin warmed by her recent sleep. He threw his lips into a kind of half- smile that was confused by the gravity of his eyes. Jean flushed and quickly turned her gaze back to the television, realizing his understanding of her situation.
They sat that way for a while. Bobby warily turned up the volume to an audible level and continued his impromptu massage.
After some time had passed, Jean found her eyes gradually drawn back to her companion's face. She gazed at him in silence, grateful for the murkiness of the room. --He still looks so young--, she thought, achingly aware of her own weariness, finally feeling the victim of years of fighting both the tangible and the intangible. True, he was a few years younger than her, but as she took in the untidy bronze hair and clear blue eyes before her, she found herself unexpectedly astonished by Bobby. He had endured so much, in a few short years, he'd, albeit temporarily, had his body stolen from him, his foundations shaken and a new awareness awakened within him. He'd lost his father, a man he'd tried all his life to do right by. And now, he had suffered another loss, a son he'd never really had and never would. Yet he still was the same good ol', dependable Bobby: kind of funny, kind of sad, but always a friend.
Presently, Jean shifted herself into a sitting position, her feet still resting comfortably on Bobby's lap. Even without using any of her abilities, Jean knew what Bobby was thinking, clear as day, and what it was that he needed to hear more than anything else in the world.
Almost cautiously, Jean reached out a pale hand and touched, stroked, the sleep roughened cheek before her. Bobby turned to her, several inches away, he seemed closer. Her hand slid to the nape of his neck easily. Meeting his eyes, she saw something indescribable there-a sort of desperate bottomlessness that would remain a mystery to her even when she grew older.
A pregnant pause lay between them.
"You would've been a good father, Bobby."
The muscles in his face jerked and he gave a weak smile, his eyes showing the first signs of a glistening dampness in the soft light of the room.
Jean shifted once more, leaning herself against him, resting her head against his chest, awkwardly snaking her arms around him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into her. One of his arms moved to drape itself across her thin shoulders. Her eyelids slid quietly shut.
"Oh, Bobby," she murmured into the gray cotton of his T-shirt, "I'm so sorry."
His grip on her shoulders tightened and she could hear his breathing grow ragged. His head bent. Jean felt a sudden and violent clarity, now painfully aware of both Bobby's grief and her own. She mourned everything. What her life had become, as well as what it hadn't.
Jean waited until the rising and falling of the body beneath her head regained it's even, steady pattern before looking back at him. His face was damp; his clear eyes seemed somehow darker. As she looked up at him, and he down at her, all thought seemed to drain out of and away from Jean. The moment seemed startlingly still. The quiet mutterings of the TV, everything faded until it was just the two of them, Bobby and Jean, alone and joined in an almost isolating embrace - an island in the middle of an ocean. Green eyes met blue, perfectly motionless. Carefully, Jean raised her hands, framing Bobby's face, feeling the wetness there. There was a roaring in her ears despite the silence.
Astounding even herself, Jean leaned up and, with no visible trace of hesitation, met her lips to Bobby's in an action so effortless that it threatened to swallow her with its very simplicity. She sensed him blink in surprise before fluttering his short, masculine lashes closed.
Neither Bobby nor Jean dared to breathe as the kiss deepened with aching slowness. Bobby's coarse hands rose swiftly and entangled themselves in the soft auburn mane of the woman before him. It was a motion laced with an intensity only noticeable in those who have gone without such human intimacy for too long.
Then, in an instant, Bobby pulled back, staring at her, questioning. Jean dropped her eyes, surprised by her own irregular breathing.
"I'm sorry," she offered, her face was hot with blood.
"Are you?" he asked in what was barely a whisper.
Jean's eyes flicked back to his face, "Are *you*?"
Silence.
"Yes," his voice was husky.
Gently, tactfully, he placed one hand on each of her shoulders and pushed her off of him, easing himself off of the couch in one smooth motion.
"I should probably turn in."
"Bobby, I--"
"Goodnight, Jean," he instantly regretted the venom in his voice but made no retraction. Instead, he stiffened and disappeared, into the shadows of the room and down the hall.
Jean inhaled sharply and deeply, setting her jaw, pouting her full lips, stubbornly refusing to become subject to her own emotion. She swallowed hard and tried to quiet her whirling mind. Carefully, she lay back down on the couch, fighting the emotion threatening to overcome her until, at last, she allowed sleep to bleed into her once more.