Dear Mister Bob
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Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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Gloves. Elbow-length, silk gloves. Long gloves, worn by a girl who cannot touch. She was untouchable, so obviously every boy wanted to touch her. Every man, every boy, every uncle, father, brother and son wanted to touch her, and the only one who could was a million miles away in the wilderness of Canada. He ran away from her, instead of dying, falling into a coma or passing out like the others did. He ran, and she chased him like there was no tomorrow.
She didn't really know him, but she was in love with him anyway. This strong, hairy, beast of a man. He had claws, and she'd felt them inside of her, both figuratively and literally as she had almost died by his hands once before. He had killed her, not the other way around, and it was him who brought her back. He healed. That was his talent, his mutation. He could heal faster than any normal living thing, and he had healed her faster than she could blink.
And faster than she could blink, her heart belonged to him.
Forever, she would feel him inside her head, and forever he would rest inside her heart.
She found him staying in a cheap motel in Canada. It was his motorbike parked outside that gave it away, and she trudged through the steadily growing layer of snow to the front desk and the receptionist who was watching a hockey game on the television in the corner.
Getting into his room was easier than expected. She simply told the older woman at the front desk that she was his daughter and that she told him to meet him in his room. The lady smiled and happily handed over the key, mention something about how lovely it was that she had such a good relationship with her father.
She had forgotten how much she loved the smell of him, slightly snoring as he stank of beer and dried blood, the odor of cigars hanging in the room as thick as the smog around southern California.
She was sitting on his bed when he woke up. He barely reacted to her being there, surprised only that he had not woken up when she'd come into the room.
"It's time to go home, Logan," she said softly.
"How long has it been this time?" he asked gruffly as he rolled to the other side of the bed, his back now facing her, and pulled on his boots and overcoat on over the thin shirt he was wearing.
"Three months, thirteen days," she said quietly.
He merely grunted, put on his gloves and stood up, offering her his hand. She looked up and stared at the man standing in front of her with his hand outstretched.
"Isn't it time for you to stop running?"
He kneeled in front of her, placing his gloved hands on her upper arms. She stared into his eyes, trying to see anger, praying to see hate. All she saw was love, and she didn't trust herself to believe it. Love. She tried to ignore it, but it just kept appearing in front of her. He took her hand in his and pulled her up with him.
"Let's go home, Marie."
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I really like this piece. I spent longer than usual on it (meaning I that I was watching the third PotC film at the same time…) but I still really like it.