Our relationship began on the field. It had to of; we didn’t associate with each other anywhere else. Any time else. But on the field we had to. For every suicide mission and ‘high risk’ situation-- we were sent in. We go in and clear the danger before the others move in. We are the marines of the X-Men, the unit of one. Or two in our case. It’s always us. We’ve never volunteered, and you would think for a sure-death mission we’d have a choice. But we don’t. Because there is no sure death for either of us. Death is a joke neither one of us find funny anymore.
We had no choice in being buried crown deep in bullets and gore together. Because we’re both loners. And I know if we were asked we’d both prefer to go into battle alone. The way we’ve learn to survive is alone. But it was never about us surviving. It’s never about us. It is about the survival of mutant kind. Or humanity. Or peace. I never really know, we’re never told what we’re dying and killing again and again for. Because that doesn’t change our job.
So over time we learned and adapted. Learned how to function together, both surviving and killing. It was a reluctant partnership, but highly effective. Like they knew it would be. By the time the others move in we’ve eliminated most of the threat. Those that aren’t dead have emptied most or all of their ammunition in us. They always hit, skin rips and burns, yet still neither one of us dies. But that’s not important. Only that the way is now clear for the others to save to world.
They never ask, our teammates, if we’re okay. Because they know we are. Our bodies are their tools, just machines to them. They don’t do it on purpose, I know. They’re our friends. Or, the closet to ‘friends’ either one of us can have. They take ‘can’t die’ as a proven fact, an automatic given, an advantage that just simply can’t be wasted. And I understand, I think we both do. So because we can take it, they’re always dishing it out. Time again and again, because our bodies won’t die. Despite what we’ve both and everyone else have tried.
Technically, I started it. He wasn’t healed. Sure, he was healing, but he wasn’t healed. They left him in the jet, holes missing out of his side, and made their way towards their midnight snacks or their late night tv. Because he just needed a few minutes, he would heal. I couldn’t let them take advantage of his body like that. I knew what that body went through. I was there on the field with him. I saw it, heard it, smelt it. Sure, his body would heal. But his body deserved so much better than that. For what he put it through. For what *they* put it through.
So I carried him up the stairs, to his room. He was too weak to fight me when I stripped him of his tattered uniform and got him into the shower. For what his body does for the world, whoever it is we’re suppose to be saving, it at least deserves to be clean. Not to be caked with its own dried blood and the blood of others. Despite what the others think he is not a machine, he is human, and he deserved to be clean.
He was completely healed before I even finished washing his shoulders, but I still moved the washcloth as lightly as I could. His skin is very sensitive right after it heals. The others don’t know that, because machines aren’t sensitive. I knew it, he never told me, but I could tell. And I wanted to assure his body the pain was over, at least for now, it could rest. I was glad when he let me, let me give his body the reward it earned.
After that he made the next move. Very rarely do I have wounds to show for my work. My body prefers to hide the abuse it takes, too proud, I figure. But he knew, because he was there with me. He came to my room and laid his hands on me. I never let anyone touch me, even after I got control. But his hands were there, kneading the muscles of my back and my neck. I didn’t fight him, I couldn’t fight him. As soon as his hands touched me my body obeyed only him, the one person who hadn’t tried to hurt it. He went on, massaging me, relaxed and slow. I couldn’t say for how long, I only remember up till I feel asleep.
That’s how it began, our unconscious decisions to be the ones who treated the other’s body like it deserved to be. The world could go on tearing us to shreds, we don’t expect that to change. But knowing afterwards, after we’re done bleeding and after we’re done dying, there is someone who doesn’t want that from you. Someone who understands having your body used.
I suppose it was inevitable, that it would lead to more than massages and showers. I guess that was me too. But his body deserved more than pain. It deserved pleasure, to be rewarded for *healing* again. It was completely unintended, there was no lust. I was just stroking his body, his arms, his chest. All the muscles who just hours ago tore, but kept fighting, and we’re now whole again under my hands. His skin is so sensitive, I wasn’t startled when I saw his erection. But I wanted to relieve his body of pain, not cause more. It was an effortless choice to make. I drew my fingertips down from his chest to rest lightly on top of him. He grabbed my wrist to stale my hand before I could wrap it around him. But I begged him. I’ll admit it. I begged him to let me take care of him, to let me worship the body that gave itself and its blood again and again. To let me give back to it. He silently relented by moving his hand away.
For a while we went back in our own isolation. The missions weren’t treacherous, the others didn’t call for us. Our bodies were left alone. There was once again no reason to be with each other, or anyone else for that matter.
It only lasted a week before we were called on again. Sent out again. That time I took a laser to the chest, I don’t know what kind of a laser it was, only that it burned. Originally it wasn’t intended for me, but for Logan. I opted to take it instead. Not for any romantic or heroic reasons, but because he had already taken too many hits, it would haven taken him out indefinitely. And I needed him to finish the mission.
I’m not sure if the others thought the black was just my uniform burnt or the smell of charred flesh wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, but I was never asked to the medlab. Only given a rather painful slap on the back and a ‘job well done.’
By the time I managed to peel the melted material off my skin I was in the floor of my room, crying. In that moment I was glad I wasn’t in the medlab, because there I wouldn’t have been allowed to show that emotion. I wouldn’t have allowed myself. At least alone in my room my body could freely express its pain, its disappointment with me.
I wasn’t surprised when strong arms gently lifted me off the ground and carried me to the bed. He leaned me back into his hard chest and moved all my hair to one shoulder so he could rest his head on the other one. Quietly he whispered in my ear to turn my skin on, his hand moving to rest on my stomach, fingertips reaching the edge of my wound, at the same time. I told him no, as much as it hurt to say it. But his body couldn’t take the drain, shouldn’t have to. Again he told me to turn it on. I said to wait till tomorrow, to let his body rest. At the third hushed request to turn it on, I nodded. I kept it the connection open only long enough to feel that the internal damage righted itself.
As soon as I switch it off again his hand pressed harder into my stomach and he struggled to get out the words ‘all of it.’ But I understood, his body was going to make up for what my body couldn’t, because we needed each other to be whole.
Again I turned my skin off when I no longer could feel the benefits of his mutation. I was so relieved when his hand slid the rest of the way around my waist to rest on the now mended skin, because it meant he was still strong enough to move, it hadn’t been too much. Which I’m sure is why he did it.
We sat just like that for a while. Him letting his body heal once again. Not from bullets or bombs, but from my touch. I was simply letting the rise and fall of his chest slowly rock me into tranquility.
Soon the rocking eased and my eyes were already close and I was half asleep. His thumb continuously began grazing lightly over my new skin and I finally understood how sensitive he was all those times. My stomach muscles clench at the sensation, a jolt spreading from his touch rippling through the rest of my body. I felt his other hand on my shoulder and I unconsciously nudged it with my cheek. It slid down my arm onto my side where it eased past its brother. My legs fell open just before his fingertips reached the ban of my underwear, my body immediately yielding to his. He caressed me with long, soft strokes, easing my body, not demanding, his other hand still simultaneously rubbing over my newly healed side.
So now after every life and death mission, because for us they are one in the same, I go to him, or he comes to me. Which ever of us manages to come out of it the strongest.
It is always slow and careful; we’re always careful with each other’s bodies, because no body else ever thinks to be. It’s not particularly adventurous, or risky; we’ve found pleasure in simple, relaxing ways to touch each other. I’ve found I like to kiss his side and stomach, softly running my lips along the lines of the muscles there, the usually newly formed muscles. Only once have I ever gone down further to take his member into my mouth, that is not what this is about, whatever it is we do.
He loves my knees. He’s spent hours kneeled between my legs first running his fingers along the multitude of thin white scars I have there, from before I didn’t get scars and he didn’t let me. Then his mouth will follow the path his finger went, kissing and licking the past damage as his hand absently strokes my thigh. I haven’t figured out yet if its because he regrets not being able to heal them or if he is worshiping them for being there. For being a past that did not abandon me.
I admit that I initiated most of this. But he was the one to actually kiss me. It was the only time I was actually shocked, I would never expect him to give me that much. It was just before we took our bodies that next step. I was so startled by his lips feathering across mine and the sensation it caused I didn’t feel the fullness of him being inside me till he was all the way in. That is still how we kiss each other. Feather-like touches of lips against lips, tongues not dueling for dominances, but effortlessly dancing.
Between the kisses and our favorite touches sex isn't always neccessary. When we do completely come together normally I’m on my back, with both prefer it that way. Me because I can rub my hands up and down his back, easing the tired muscles. He likes to wrap my legs around his waist so he can massage my thighs and sides as he slowly moves in and out of me. He never slams against me hard, we never bite or scratch each other. None of our touches are meant as carnal arouses or purely sexual pleasure, only to sooth the other’s bodies. There is no screaming or growling or even flesh pounding against flesh or the creaks of the bed. The only sounds in the room are heavy panting, quiet whimpers, and hushed moans. Occasionally he growls, but its not one any of the others have heard. It’s low, deep in his chest, and I can’t so much as hear it as feel the vibrations move from his chest into mine.
We don’t directly try to make the other orgasm, but we always do. Or perhaps a better way to say it is our bodies always do. It doesn’t feel so much like the white lightening of personal sexual pleasure, but more of our bodies communicating to each other that they finally feel loved. That we’ve managed to ease away everyone else’s abuse on them, at least for another night.
And after we’ve killed and bled and died and healed and then became whole again and our bodies are finally exhausted from the process, he rolls to the other side of the bed. He sleeps on his stomach, to reduce the chances of a surprise nightmare attack, one arm hanging off the end of the bed, the other stretched out on the mattress toward me. He doesn’t like it, it makes him nervous to have the claws pointed at me. But he accepts it, for me. Doesn’t matter how tired my body or mind might be, I can’t sleep unless I’m on my side, facing him. His hand curled relaxed in mine. Only when I hear his gentle breathing and my thumb is lightly running over his knuckles can I allow myself to sleep.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Something different for me. Although I'm sure the typos/grammar/spelling mistake will be the same. :)