Whispers

by Falstaff

"I just don't feel like it, sweetheart." "I apologize, my love, but I've a headache that would stop the Juggernaught in his tracks." "I do believe I pulled a groin muscle in training today, dear. You understand . . . ." "For the love of God, Rebecca, leave me *alone!*"

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm doing something wrong. I mean, she never used to have any problems with me . . . . with us . . . . oh, hell, listen to me. I sound like a flamin' idiot.

Well, I *feel* like an idiot. It's been three and a half months, closer to four, since . . . . Jesus. I can't believe I'm writing this down. But hey, that guy Reyes knows, Samson, he says this is gonna help me. Help me *how,* I don't know. I mean, I'm not the one with the problem, right?

Okay. I'm not playing fair. Samson said to treat this like I was just talking to somebody else. So . . . . okay, fine. Let's start at the beginning.

Once upon a time . . . . well, not really, but that's kinda how I feel. Although right now I gotta say I feel a lot less fairy-tale-y about the whole thing. Buuuuuut anyway, once upon a time there was a team called Generation X. And there was this girl named Jubilation Rebecca Lee. And a wonderful, beautiful, perfect . . . . (well, almost perfect) girl named Monet St. Croix. After a whole bunch of stuff that'd take way too long to tell, the two of ‘em figured out that they loved each other. And they were in love, and it was wonderful, and . . . .

And then something happened. I don't know what it was. We've been together for almost four years now; we couldn't be more serious about each other. And . . . . well, like Samson said, if I'm not blunt it defeats the purpose . . . . we've been sleeping together since that first night. And -- okay, look, I'm not the kinda girl who kisses and tells. I know what happened, and this little exercise is for me and nobody else. I'll just say we were both very happy with the results and leave it at that.

Then, all of a sudden, almost four months ago . . . . something happened, I don't know what. Monet's always been interested whenever I am. Even though she presents this cool, collected face to the world, at heart -- it makes me laugh, y'know? -- she's really giggly and snuggly and affectionate when we're alone. But lately -- lately she acts like I'm not here at all. Any time I try to kiss her, or snuggle with her, or more than that . . . . hell, even hug her . . . . she pushes me away. And I don't know why.

I just don't understand it. At first, I figured it was no big deal -- I mean, I don't feel like it all the time either; nobody does. But a week rolled by . . . . and then a week turned into two, and two weeks turned into a month, which turned into two, then three . . . . and here we are, almost four months since the last time we made love.

After bouncing the ‘everybody goes through dry spells' theory, I thought I was doing something wrong. In bed, I mean. I gave that a lot of thought, but to be honest, I wasn't doing anything different than I ever had been. And she always liked what I did before . . . .

So that wasn't it. Okay, fine. Maybe there was something wrong with how I looked. Had I put on weight? Lost weight? Has she noticed that I'm already getting silver in my hair, even though I'm only twenty-two? Does my butt look okay? Does she think I need a boob job?

You can see how crazed I was getting. I mean, Jesus, she never mentioned anything in four years. If she thought that, she would've brought it up by now. And besides, that sort of thing isn't her style -- she's always said she loves how I look.

And hey, if it was just the sex, I could deal with it. I mean, I don't like that prospect very much, but y'know, you deal with life as it comes. But it *isn't* just the sex. That's the problem. The real problem, I guess.

Remember how I said earlier that even though she's cool in public, she's really affectionate and cuddly in private? Well, she always *was* . . . . but now, she isn't . And I don't get it. It doesn't make any sense to me.

Gotta wonder if there's something else going on here. Could she be seeing someone else? That doesn't seem like her; she's the original Monogamy Queen, but I don't know. I could ask her, I guess, but it would hurt her so badly if I were wrong and I accused her of that. And besides, how would I say it? "Honey, is the reason you don't feel like kissing me or hugging me or making love with me that you're off screwing somebody else?" Or, better yet, the full soap opera treatment: "Monet . . . . is it another woman?"

I've tried everything. I've gotten advice from Wolvie, from Frost, from Dawn Embers (and lemme tell you, I really can't say which of us was redder during that conversation, her or me) . . . . I even cornered Pete Wisdom the last time Excalibur came out here a couple months ago and made him give me advice. I've tried leaving her alone. I've tried lingerie, I've tried romantic candlelight dinners, I've tried flowers and candy. I even tried greeting her butt-naked at the door when she came home from one of her leadership jams with Clarice and Ange. No dice there.

I don't know what to do, what to say, what to tell her. The hell of it is . . . . and I mean that, I'm not cussing, that's what it feels like . . . . I was gonna ask her to marry me. I had it all planned out. It was gonna be next month; on the fourth anniversary of our first date. But now I don't know if she even wants to be in love with me, let alone marry me. Or even if she *is* in love with me anymore.

Piotr Rasputin let me cry on his shoulder about all this, when I went down to talk to the Prof about my application to Empire State. The grad work thing, the teaching certificate -- I want all that, ‘cause even Celestial Avatars can't be X-Men forever. But Pete's better at the whole love thing than you'd think to look at him. The big lug was really great. And he asked me some questions that I still haven't answered.

First, had we been fighting? No. We hadn't had a major blow-out since last Christmas, when I got blasted out of my skull and thought she was coming on to Dawn. But that's long since over, forgiven and forgotten. In fact, we were getting along great until this. We've been fighting *lately,* and always about the same thing. It starts out about sex and ends up being about some stupid little thing, whatever crabby little pebble of a problem we can blow out of proportion to use as ammo.

Second, do I love her? Yes. With all my heart forever, amen. It sounds sappy, it sounds corny, but it's true. Holding her in my arms is the closest I feel to heaven, if there is one. Not even flying through the stars is as wonderful. My heart just feels like it's gonna overflow.

Can I wait for her to work out whatever she needs to work out? Sure, of course I can. But what's driving me nuts is I don't know what's wrong. She won't talk about it, and if I push her . . . . I'm scared if I push too hard she'll leave me. I honest to God don't know what to do.

I used to be sure of things. I used to be so sure of myself, of other people . . . . no matter how much of a screw-up I am when it comes to schoolwork or athletic stuff or cooking or whatever, at least I could be sure that I could make the woman I love happy. Now I'm not sure of that.

It's at times like this that I miss her most, even though she's sitting not five feet away from me, tapping away at the computer as I sprawl here on the bed. What I really need right now is to feel her arms around me and that deep, lovely murmur in my ear, that accent of hers making every word sound like poetry . . . . "It will be all right, Rebecca, mon amour. It will always be all right, as long as you love me. I promise."

She can't see me now; she's busy with what she's doing. So she can't see these tears. Oh, Monet, honey, how can a telepath be so blind?

I don't know the answer to that, and like I said, I'm not sure of very much any more. But there are two things I *am* sure of. I know I love Monet St. Croix. And I know that when she gets back from wherever she's gone, I'm going to be here waiting.

I just hope she comes back soon.

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