A/N
Hey guys!
So, Push is one of my favorite movies. I watched it when it came out in theaters and then I recently rewatched it and decided I really wanted to work on something for Nick/Cassie. I am not a Kira/Nick fan, just because I feel like there wasn't enough background between them in the movie. So while it may be canon, this story is not. I just think Cassie and Nick are awesome together. And let me point out that the age difference is really not that big, because my parents have been married for almost twenty years, and they're ten years apart in age. So whatever, no hating, etc. Anyways, hope you enjoy the mindless bit of fluff ;)
-Iri
She hasn't grown up at all, Nick muses as he watches her dig the well-worn military jacket out of the pile of dirty laundry lying nonchalantly on the floor of the hotel room. Same skinny, barely-there frame, same frizzy blond hair, half curly and half straight and still streaked, as ever, with her latest color obsession. This week, it's electric blue. Kool-Aid, being the drug of choice, comes in far too many colors.
She still dresses the same; short skirts, oversized tops, and her selfsame combat boots and over-the-knee socks. Nick still isn't sure what sort of look she's going for, but Cassie doesn't seem inclined to change it anytime soon. And he wouldn't want it any other way. He's used to this girl, the scrawny, gutsy, annoying-as-hell girl who gets under his skin every chance she gets.
As she throws on her old jacket, tossing locks of yellow hair over her shoulder, Nick finally stumbles out of his own bed, tripping and stubbing his toe on the scratched wooden desk. He curses loudly, and Cassie snorts derisively. On the defensive, he snaps at her.
"You're the Watcher here, don't tell me you didn't see that coming," he hisses, rubbing his foot. The light-haired nymphet ignores him entirely, choosing instead to toss a wadded-up ball of fabric his direction. It's his shirt; grey Henley, soft and comfy. It's also the one Cassie slept in last night. Nick is a bit sidetracked as he inhales the crumpled fabric. None of their clothing has been washed in a while, so it's not exactly fresh-scented, but Nick doesn't mind. It smells like her; a pleasing mixture of sugary-sweet perfume, hotel shampoo, and bare skin. He pulls the shirt carefully over his head, rolling it down to cover his chest and shoving his feet back into the moss-green Converse. It's time to go.
They move on to a new hotel every week or so, criss-crossing cities and continents. In the past three years, they've been through China, Germany, a few weeks in London, and now India. Cassie, it has been discovered, has a weakness for Indian food, the spicier the better. But they've worn out their welcome here, it seems; Nick's been hearing rumors of Division Sniffers making the rounds, and while he's supposed to be dead, Cassie is very much alive, and probably on more than a few hit lists.
"So where to now?" Nick asks, shoving jeans and undershirts into his bag. Cassie is the expedition planner, a position she doesn't take lightly. Not after what happened in Berlin. It wasn't really her fault, Nick knows, but getting careless isn't something they have room for in their lives. They'd spent too long in one place, gotten lazy, not wiped things down to clear the scent. So when the two of them ended up cornered in an alleyway with two Sniffs and a Bleeder, it was a rough wake-up call for both of them.
"Rio," Cassie replies, her hand flying across the black expanse of her notebook. She flips it around to show him a rough sketch of what appears to be two monkeys and a giant hot dog. "It's us," she explains, "getting on a plane to Brazil."
Her art skills haven't improved any, either.
By midnight the next day, they are deplaning in Galeão International Airport. Nick is ready to fall over, he's so jet-lagged, and Cassie… well, Cassie is her usual prickly self for most of the cab ride to the hotel. The streets are lit up in brightly, a riot of colors dancing behind his eyelids as he yawns all the way there. The hotel is cheap, only $90 a night, and while it's sparsely furnished, much nicer than what they're used to. Cassie claims the bed by the window, dropping her small bag with an unceremonious thump and flopping down with a groan of relief.
"I need a shower," she sighs. "I think half the people on that plane breathed, touched, or coughed on me at some point in time." Cassie hates being touched. Nick is the only one allowed; anyone else finds themselves swiftly kicked to the curb.
Nick lays back and closes his eyes, an arm folded behind his head, as she yanks her clothing into the bathroom and shuts the door. The bed isn't anything special, but right now, to his banged-up and stiff-beyond-belief body, it's like heaven. The sound of running water lulls him quickly off to sleep.
He is awakened, what feels like only a few short seconds later, by the sound of a zipper pulling open. Nick's a light sleeper, has been since he was ten years old. He can hear Cassie moving about the room, and cracks open an eye to remind her to brush her teeth.
And abruptly shuts said eye again.
"Jesus Christ, Cassie, put some clothes on!"
She is unbelievable, walking around in underwear and a towel. Nick feels like he needs to be the responsible one, being that she's only sixteen, but all he gets is a shoe in the eye for his trouble.
"I've got nothing you haven't already seen," she mutters. "Grow up, Nick." As if to prove her point, she drops the towel and, not bothering to turn around, slides her clingy grey top over her head. Nick grits his teeth, eyes firmly clamped shut, as she pulls on a pair of shorts and climbs into bed. With Cassie, there are no boundaries, as least on her side of the deal. That doesn't mean, however, that he is fully comfortable with her very awkward displays. In fact, he's not. At all. She might be three years older than she was when they met in Hong Kong, but he's three years older as well. The ten year age difference just makes him feel like a total lecher.
So he keeps his eyes shut and resists the temptation to grab her by the waist and carry her back to his own bed.
The light is turned out, covers are pulled up, and silence ensues. Nick lays there, perfectly still, listening to the even sound of her breathing across the room. Hours pass, and he's having trouble sleeping. The fresh scrapes on his ribs, courtesy of a fight with a few Sniffers in India, are burning, and he has a headache that won't go away. Eventually, though, he begins to drift off.
Nick has only been asleep for a very short time when he wakes to the sensation of tilting slowly to his right. The mattress sinks down a few inches as the covers are lifted. Cassie slides in next to him and, without a word, curls deep into his side. Nick catches a mouthful of blond hair, but gently removes it and, without comment, places an arm around her shoulders. She won't admit it, but he knows she has nightmares. Nick doesn't know what they're about, but he's woken a few times to the stifled breathing and low whimpers that carry through the room.
His large hand rubs comfortingly across her shoulder blades as he turns to face her, holding the thin body to his chest. He knows it will do him no good to ask about it, only a forced silence and the rapid departure from his bed. So he keeps his mouth shuts and just lies there, holding her. Her face is at first pressed to the crook of his neck, but as her breathing evens out once more, slides upwards to find his own.
Her lips are soft against his own as he kisses her softly, feeling totally conflicted, as he does every night. He knows it isn't right; he's almost twenty-seven, for crying out loud, and she's only sixteen. But her small hand, now tracing his cheek, feels more right than anything he's ever experienced. And so he succumbs, like every other night, sliding his hands to her hips, holding her against him. He can deal with the rest in the morning.