Where's the Attraction?

by Pebblin

She is so very odd.

I see it everyday as I watch her move in and out of my sight, doing whatever it is that she does when we are not together; I find myself reflecting on it at least once every day. I am still not sure when it all occurred – when I began to find her not only attractive, but someone that I would spend my time with regularly in more than friendship.

She…could never be thought of as a first choice for a lover of mine. She is irresponsible and childishly wild, looking for adventure with limitations and, as I once overheard her say in jest or 'just because', a good lay.

At this point in time, I cannot be sure if I am just that to her – a good lay – but at the very least, I am actually having…fun. And if this is all a game, it will come to an end as all things do and life shall move on. But, in the mean time, I watch her. The things she says, the way she moves – the way she touches me, because therein lies more than she is often able to articulate without taking us both on a verbal sleigh ride with no one guarding the reins.

And many times, I am called to laugh by what I see. Take earlier this afternoon, for instance.

I was watching a television program touching on a debate about mutant legislation. It was not the most mood lightening experience I had ever had, but it was something that I felt I had to do, even if the sun was gloriously warm and out today, breaking through the clouds and gloom that had settled overhead for the last three days.

Abruptly behind me, the doors slide open and in romps Sally. She leaps over the back of the couch to land beside me in a crouch, grinning brightly, almost laughing. I barely had the time to see that Bobby, too, had entered the room with her before she says to me, "Hey, woman," in a husky voice and takes my chin in her hand to hold me still while she proceeds to steal a very deep kiss that tilts my head back past a forty-five degree angle. Then she nuzzles both sides of my face, dragging herself against me as if she wishes to leave her scent upon me. When she releases me, she spins in a circle twice, working her arms back and forth away from herself as if her upper limbs were trapped in a paroxysmal state, then jumps back over the back of the couch and runs from the room, Bobby in tow.

I did not see what it was that he had entered for. Perhaps it was just to join Sally on her 'pit stop' before they ran off to do whatever it is that they did when they'd gone.

I, on the other hand, was left on the couch in a sort of dazed silence, pondering what it was that had happened. Sally had not checked to see what I was watching or greeted the others that had been in the room with me or even offered to stay with me. Jean grinned when I looked at her next, popping popcorn into her mouth. I did not mention that she had something in her teeth at the time; I only looked away back to the television screen for a few moments, glanced back over my shoulder, then returned once again to the dismal show before me.

Then it came upon me – a chuckle at first that surprised me so that it caused my shoulders and back to jerk, then another and another until I had reached a soft laughter that made me want to shake my head and cover my face.

And just how did this happen? I asked myself, not for the first time. There was no regret, just…wonder. For weeks, she had been doggedly pursuing me (forgive the pun) and now that she, in effect, has me, it is as if other things suddenly exist in her world – movies and books and shopping and other people. She does not always suddenly appear where I am, staring after me and asking for moments of my time. I can find her perfectly fine with being by herself and accepting that I, too, need my time alone. The hunt is off.

I am not complaining. However, the sudden change was a bit surprising to me, as if there was a switch inside her head that went off when she had gotten her way. 'Just say yes and I shall leave you alone'. That was how it felt, at least. But I did not mention that to her when next I saw her, two hours late for lunch – or two hours early for dinner – with sap and peanut shells stuck in her fur and a different shirt on than the one she'd left in.

"Don´t ask," she said with a laugh and headed off to shower.

I did not ask. But I did wonder if I needed to keep a closer eye on her when she left the house, however.

It has been like this since she joined the household, at first not so much, then very much so when she became comfortable. When she wanted attention. When bored – simply because someone else was watching. Because she thought it might just humor me enough to get me in the mood she wanted me to be in when she made her move. Any of those or all of them – with her, I can never be sure.

Her actions… I do not believe that even she understands them all. They seem to occur like minor, entertaining forces of nature that only effect those that are paying attention. Sometimes, she is just a bundle of impulsive energy and I will watch her speak about topics she is interested in or feel her whip around behind me in bed, awakening me with that motion, but still gripping my shoulder and brushing her lips against my ear to say, "Hey. Gimme lovin'?"

And I have to laugh, inside or out.

Jean says that she is just what I needed. Sometimes, I wonder if that is just the Phoenix in her, but I never say that. Scott is not so sure, but he smiles and nods anyway, hoping for the best. He took the news much better than he did Remy and Bobby's relationship, even with the age difference… Bobby thinks we are cute together – those are his words. Rogue thinks it is ironic and funny, mostly agreeing with Jean – she was also the first to find out, believe it or not. Cecelia only shrugs – "It's none of my business," – and wonders if perhaps someone my own mental age would be better. Hank, who brought Sally to us, said that he does not believe that she could be in better hands. He smirked when he said that, however, and I am sure that he did not mean just figuratively…

I do not know what Marrow thinks, nor do I care. Or, rather, I would not if she were anywhere to be found; as it is, it has been months since anyone has heard from her. At times, I can honestly say that I am glad that she is not here. She is nothing that represents the X-Men in any sense, nor does she wish to be.

But, then again, the same cannot really be said for Sally. She is content to simply exist beneath this roof with others like herself, no longer alone at home with just her parents for company. No, she is not a homicidal maniac, but neither does she actively pursue the cause. I wonder if she ever will, but I will not pressure her to do so; we have covered that issue already, anyhow.

In so many ways, she is nothing like me. A normal girl even with the sheltered and protected life she was given. She does not wish to be a hero – all she really wants is a little freedom and access to the WB on Tuesday nights. And perhaps a job one day, she once said. A 'nine to five' in a normal town with a decent pay and 'bennies', and girlfriends to chat with – she would like me to be _the_ girlfriend, she added quickly. In the meantime, she rounds up Rogue, Cecelia and Betsy for bouts of leather-clad shopping…

Myself, living in a normal town with a fur-covered lover working behind a desk…

_That_ is odd.

And seemingly plausible.

I think I love her for that, making me believe that one day, it could be. Normalcy has never seemed so attractive to me before. My deepest wish is for limitless freedom – to run wild and free, to reclaim the thief's life I left behind; to not have to worry about the danger my unchecked powers would cause to others.

She'd be thrilled with her own dental insurance.

She is nothing like anyone else I have ever been involved with. And maybe that is what Jean meant when she said that Sally was just what I needed…

Or maybe she just meant my finally getting laid. Ah, well…

Either way, I believe that she is right, though in the beginning, I was not entirely sure. Sally is, after all…Sally. By definition, it seemed, she and I had no destiny together, whatsoever, and even now, there is nothing to say that we do, but we are closer to now than I thought that we would ever be. And the idea is no longer a strange one.

I can say, honestly, that I would not mind it all— Wait. That does not sound very positive… Actually, spending my life with her could be something that I would very much enjoy if it came to that. For now, however, the seriousness of it has yet to be quantified – I do not know what she wants anymore than she does, herself. And guessing would be pointless; though one of the most uncomplicated people I have ever met, she is usually very mutable. One moment to the next, her opinions change, she is unsure of this or that –

But she has always been certain of her sexuality, she told me. "I've never been straight," she told me once while folding her clothes while we both did laundry. "I felt guilty when breastfeeding – I was just that bad."

I could only stare at her after she had said that. But she grinned. "I'm only kidding, Boss." And she winked. I knew she had only said that for my…benefit. As I said, she was always doing that, but strangely enough, I have yet to get used to that – may never get used to it. She makes a point of it, I am sure, just to keep me on my toes, as it were. Or maybe it is just for the look on my face that I always reward her with.

More often than not, it is times like that that gets me to wonder.

Where's the attraction?

It is not simply because she is a lovely young woman, because I know many lovely women and it takes more than that. It is not because she has a sparkling intellect, because though she is bright, she is no female Henry McCoy and she makes no claims towards otherwise. And it is not her ambition; we discussed that already – she has very little. The same would go for fearlessness. Her first time in the Danger Room, she nearly fainted when the floor dropped from beneath her and the Hand – and _only_ the Hand – appeared before her on the platform as her opponent. Only three of them… And her idea of being responsible is only hitting the snooze button twice before finally getting up. And she leaves fur in the drain after showering.

On the other hand, she is very funny. Or perhaps silly would be a better description. Sometimes, she will break into giggles at the drop of the hat, make these ridiculous faces that will get even a grunt out of Logan and she is very fond of doing Cher impersonations…

The Monkey Dance. Need I say more?

And she is generous and out-going and numerous other things that make her at the very least pleasant, but still, my question is not answered.

I went through each day with a soft feeling deep inside, sometimes in my heart, other times the pit of my stomach or the back of my head, that explained everything of how I feel towards her, only in a fuzzy detail that was just as clear as I had needed to be – until now. The closer I try to examine it, the more nebulous it becomes, failing me.

And yet…

Perhaps it is that this thing cannot be defined because it should not be; at least, not at this time. Maybe it never will be. I am not sure if that bothers me or not, the not knowing. Perhaps it will be akin to some sort of mystery, like magic, where the uncertainty is part of makes it so great.

When I close my eyes, I see a flash of her smile – in her lips and in her eyes – a wave and a wink, and I find myself smiling, and my heart accelerates just that much more. That combination of things from her can mean anything. A simple hello or an invitation – it all depends on how she swings her tail…

And then I see her pouting, brow furrowed and arms folded…and I am called to smile again, even if only a little. Both those gentle extremes and everything between and without… There is something there that draws me and for now, that is enough.

I can handle it being enough. For now.

Hands on my shoulders gently wrest me from my.

Sally.

She stands behind the chair I have been seated in while ruminating, massaging my shoulders as she bends over me to kiss my hair, and hers falls into my face, fresh and clean. It is dinnertime; the smell of food surely drew her down or over or from wherever it was that she had been, and whatever folly she might have engaged in, without me. She sits down beside me, facing towards me and looking into my eyes with a soft smile. Her gaze falls along my lines, resting here or there for a moment, then return to mine, with that same smile unchanged – we're both past the point of her feigning bashfulness or repentance.

"Hey," she murmurs, her hands capturing my right one between her own, squeezing it before she rests it on her left knee and turns fully towards the table that I had been delegated to set, resting her arms on the surface and waiting for the food to be passed around the table.

My hand usually spends most of dinner there on her knee, her tail wrapped around my leg.

There is no other outrageous silliness here – there usually is not at this time, not when it is something as serious as 'Dinner Time'. The only concern during the meal Sally's attempts to poach grilled chicken from my plate when she thinks that I am not looking…

Later, when we are alone in my attic room, just us two, with the lights down low as I am prone to keep them when we are not here, we slip into something more comfortable: practically nothing.

We get into bed. When I reach for a book, she cuddles up behind me, embracing me. I lean back even as I take the old tome into my hand – it is a favorite of mine and there has yet to be a definite indication that I might not be reading it this evening.

She kisses my shoulder, soft and warm, and then nuzzles my neck. Still, this is not a sure –

She presses the flat of her tongue against my skin, that touch of rough that makes me prickle, and drags it up to my hair line as holds me tighter and there is hot breath and that growl in the back of her throat that is so thoroughly possessive, but at the same time so solicitous.

I lay the book back down.

She is on her knees behind me now, leaning against me, all her weight against my back, but I easily support her; she is very light, barely one hundred twenty pounds.

She inhales deeply. She says, "I smell me on you," as if she did not know that she would. Throatily: "I like the smell of me on you." This is no surprise, either. I know that she does. She has said so. And she would not go through the effort of 'marking' me if there was no gratification in it for herself. But this is an attractive egocentricity and I allow it.

I push back and in and turn my face to hers, parting my lips in the silence between us, waiting for that roughness to invade with my permission.

But she stops me. Having started all this, _she_ halts us.

"Lay down for me," she whispers into my hair, accent thickening now, her mouth so close, I could taste it – were she to move just a touch closer and permit me to do so.

"I thought we were getting to that," I reply, still leaning in.

She pulls away just enough to evade me but not nearly enough to put me off and grins. "On your stomach, I meant."

"Something new?"

She chuckles. "Oldie but good, baby." She pulls away, taking all her delicious warmth with her. "C'mon."

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head as I watch her, wondering. She can be unpredictable sometimes. I do not know what she intends to do, but if it is what I think it is…

I stretch out and lay down. She straddles my back, brushing my hair away and rests her hands on my shoulders, leaning forward. I smile.

It is.

Her massage is as good as any I have ever received from her when I have needed them the most – after a particularly hard day or week out in the field or any other stressful and trying time – and any and every ache and tenseness drains away from ministrations performed by hands and lips, teeth and tongue.

I feel like putty against the silk sheets and I believe that I could live the rest of my life like this, feeling this way with her atop me and perpetuating the sensation, nimble fingers knowing the paths of me, nuzzling lips speaking the way and nomadic tongue going its own way, as it is predisposed to doing. Relaxed, and careless. Free with limitations and adoring it.

There are not words – everything is translated through intimacy, the Braille of physical contact that is the simplest, best language we have. All joking is set aside, now, banished to the peripheral because now is not the time for it and she knows that as well as I do.

Quite talented with this, in achieving this focused euphoria, she is. And selfless, too; she never asks for anything in return for this pleasure, refusing when I offer.

Refusing now.

I had somehow failed to list this while cogitating earlier and I do not know why that is, but I am sure of one thing: this definitely helps her case.

And as I turn over at her beckoning, looking up into her eyes that suddenly glint with playfulness and pent up energy, her hair falling over me like a suspended golden water fall, as she pauses for a look or three, I think that maybe she is not so odd at all.

Then she sticks her tongue out between her teeth, grinning, a finger running down my cheek and under my chin. "Can I rock your world, now, baby?"

Well. At least, not _all_ of the time…

END

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