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Epsilon series	By : savysavestheday Category: X-Men: (All Movies) > Het - Male/Female Views: 1075 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the X-Men movies, or any of the characters from them. I make no money from from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
PROMPT: 004 sore

SENTENCE: #04 - Last. The last thing you imagined to happen - ever - was to wake up from his warm bed one hazy morning, but it happened, and you know, you're pretty fucking glad it did.

� close to the flame

You're not sure what exactly woke you from your sweet slumber a few minutes ago but you suspect it had something to do with the bright light invading your vision, clouding your head, hurting. Instead of getting up as the sunshine no doubt wants you to do, you roll over to your elbows ignoring the pain it causes, keep your eyes firmly closed and thwack the pillow hoping you'll catch the tail of your previous dream 'cause if that wasn't hot, you don't know what is and-

Then you frown for suddenly the pillow underneath your cheek feels weird and it.. it smells different.

Yeah, that's what actually gets you to open your eyes, the acknowledgment that everything's not quite right and the frown only deepens when you come face to face with the soft bundle in front of you.

That is not your pillow.

One drowsy sweep around the room and you notice, this, is not your room either.

You wipe your eyes with one hand to oust the sleep in them, trying to catch the moment, understand. What� what exactly happened last night? You were hurt, feeling all empty and broken and you needed to be fixed, to talk with someone. You'd walked all the way to Jubilee's room only to remember at her door that she wasn't there but at home with her family and friends. And then, after you'd gone back to your room you'd seen the silver lighter on your nightstand and you'd thought that maybe, just maybe�

Oh God. No� no, no, no, no! You weren't that stupid, were you?

Memories flood back to your mind and your peaceful awakening is no longer peaceful at all.

Yes, you were.

"Fuck," you mumble, letting your head fall down and hang in the air. Your hair hides your face, caresses the pillow and you're just lying there wondering where the hell has your ribbon vanished and wishing the earth will open up and swallow you whole, take you away. Well, now it's proven. You really are the president when it comes to making a bad situation worse. It's a skill you've mastered so fucking perfectly, isn't it?

And where the fuck is he anyway, huh? That piece of shit, asshole! You're suddenly very, very angry and the fact he isn't there to experience your wrath, it only angers you more.

This is so fucked up, so fucking wrong.

You need to get away from here before John comes back, you need to get away from the warmness of his bed, escape his strong and familiar scent, run away from his damn kingdom and forget, forget it ever happened.

And still, even then, you know� As if he'd ever let you forget.

You're already on your feet, clothed again with the nightgown you found couching on the floor and on your way to the hallway when the doorknob turns making a sound and the door opens slowly. Your fists clench on their own but you don't even feel it.

And then he's there, on the doorway making it impossible for you to escape now, and you forget how to inhale.

Instead of cursing out loud, instead of giving him a piece of your mind like you originally felt like doing, you just stand there staring at him in shock.

What the hell's happened to him?

There's blood all over his beautiful face, his clothes, the ones you ripped off him yesterday, and you watch in silence how his free hand moves up, wiping the side of his nose with a grimace. Then he steps over the threshold, closes the door and everything else disappears from your mind.

"Planning a grand escape?" He questions with thick, cynical voice and you don't know whether he's annoyed at you or highly amused or which one you'd actually prefer. It's all messed up inside your head and nothing makes sense.

"What's happened to you?" You step closer, worry twisting your insides and you can't understand why. Why the fuck would you worry over his bloodied face, over his pain? You don't care, not anymore.

"Had a round with the iron fist," he tells you, familiar smirk lurking in the corners of his mouth. Complacent, satisfied.

You had a round with� what? "Iron fist?" You repeat, astonished, but only for a second before you catch his meaning. Oh no� no fucking way. "Peter?" You decode, "Peter did this to you?"

Eyebrows quirking playfully, he nods. "That he did."

No, that's not possible. Peter would never ever stoop that low, he'd never hurt anyone, make them bleed.

"But why would Peter do anything-" you start before it dawns on you, becomes so clear it almost hurts. Yeah, Peter would never ever hurt anyone� not anyone that didn't deserve it anyway. Not anyone that wasn't begging for it. "He didn't, did he?" you speak, shaking your head in disbelief. "It was you. You started it."

His smile doesn't fade, not till he attempts to take another step closer. The pain, however, stops him, twists his lips into a grimace that cuts you too and you hate it, hate feeling for him that way.

"Doesn't matter," he says between breaths, "I got my point across."

Yeah, sure looks like it� "So did he, apparently," you snort sarcastically and his eyes laugh when he replies, "Guess so."

Then it's yet another moment of silence between you two, the kind you shared the day before, but only� it's not awkward, not uncomfortable like you'd imagine it to be. It's just you and him, staring and you feel something you never thought you would.

You're sorry. For fuck's sake, why are you sorry?

You approach him carefully and the question in the back of your mind floats out without you thinking about it. "Does it hurt?" You ask and he snorts in the back of his throat, eyes closing for a second before they open again and he says, "Like hell."

You're close now, so close his uneven breathing sounds like a waterfall in your ears and everything inside your head is somehow foggy, unbalanced.

Neither of you seem to know what the hell is going on, but it doesn't matter, not even the slightest and when your hand acts on its own and touches his bleeding lip, trailing the wound softly, you hear him intake a sharp breath. The kind that makes you tremble, from head to toes.

"You're playing with fire, you know?" He whispers against your fingers, a hand finding its way on your hip and you nod, smiling weakly and say, "Yeah, but I've never liked cold that much anyway."

When he pushes you down on the bed, body ignoring his pain and falling on yours, you ignore your own too and then it's just you two, needing, burning.

For hours.

And the next time you wake up, feel his warm naked flesh against yours, you 're everything but angry. Complacent. Satisfied.

You giggle, actually.
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Epsilon series