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adventdrabblesTitle: A Season of Firsts
Fandom: X-Men
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Cannonball/Marrow
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: It's a season of firsts for Sarah.
Word Count: 1,533
Written For: Advent Drabbles Day 13: First Snow
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
She's seen snow before many times. She's had to fight for her survival her entire life. Her people cared for her once their few survivors found each other again, but she's always had to fight. Every Morlock fights. Every monster who is different fights. They have to not to live and certainly not to play the fairy tale of love that so many humans and pretty mutants pretend to be real but simply to survive, to exist.
She never got to be a child, not in the snow, not at Christmas time, or at any other time of the year. Her childhood, like her home, and like her family or so she'd believed for a very, very long time, had been stolen from her when the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants had slaughtered her people. She still remembers their screams, still feels the pain every day and especially during the late hours of the night. Like tonight. It's been a good day. There's been food, laughter, and happiness everywhere, and for the first time, she has not felt the pangs of hunger or sorrow all this Christmas Day.
Yet she knows what's going to happen when she lays down in her bed, a strange thing to which she's still not accustomed, actually lifted off of the floor, soft beneath her boney back, and warm around her. She knows the memories are going to come, the dreams are going to resume. She knows she's going to see her people being slaughtered yet again, and not even by the hands of humans but by the hands of people who are supposed to be like them but killed them just for the money.
Sarah shivers. She hasn't really felt the cold today, but now she's starting to. She wraps her arms around her. Her tongue runs over her chapping lips as she wonders if there's any of that warm, chocolate drink left that the redhead had made earlier. Suddenly, something hard hits her in the back of the head, shattering her thoughts and dropping her down into full fight mode.
Sarah spins in the snow, her bone-weapons already clutched tightly and at the ready in her skilled hands. Her narrowed eyes quickly find her foe. But he is no attacker. He cannot be, she knows. Her eyes widen in shock as she examines him over the distance. Sam could not have been fighting her! He could not have attacked her! He would never hurt her!
Would he?
She gulps, her heartbeat quickening. She doesn't want to fight him. He is one of the very few and precious friends she has, perhaps the only one outside of Callisto and Mister Logan. She eyes him warily and begins the predator's circle. She will not be the prey, not even for him.
Sam's good-natured chuckle has died in his throat. His blue eyes watch her with a mixture of emotions Sarah cannot read. He holds his hands out and speaks to her gently, with a soft, timid tone like a farmer trying to tame a frightened colt. He knows she is frightened by his harmless bit of play, and his life may well be about to be in her hands within seconds. He knows she is a killer, and he knows, too, that he does not want to fight her. Honestly, he's not sure he can hit that beautiful face at all, and he hurts to see the fear and sudden distrust in her frightened, soulful eyes.
"Ah just hit you with a snowball," he speaks slowly, trying to assuage her fear. He shows her his gloved, and empty, palms. "Just a bit o' fun, Miz Sarah."
She hesitates when he speaks her name like that. He knows he is the only one to always insist on calling her by her given name, and probably the only one who has ever used with a title with it. But just like any other female, she is a lady. It is not her fault that she has had to endure so much horror and terror, so much hardship, that she has spent her entire life fighting just to be able to survive.
He can't imagine a life like hers, not really. He doesn't want to. He wouldn't wish it on anyone he knows, let alone a beautiful girl who, he knows, is capable of being gentle if only she dared. But she is so afraid of being hurt, and now she thinks he has tried to hurt her. He never would; he never could. But now his brain races for a way to stop her oncoming attack before it can happen, before he has no choice but to defend himself.
"Miz Sarah, Ah wasn't tryin' to harm you," Sam speaks firmly but softly, his hands still spread out and in the open. He slowly crouches. She mimics his movement, ready to spring into full-blown killer mode at the slightest further provocation.
He scoops a handful of snow and forms it, with one hand, into a small ball. "This was all Ah was doin', Ah swear. Folks where Ah'm from consider it mighty fun to play in th' snow, 'specially to have snowball fights. Ah know you've seen snow before. Haven't ya evah played in it?"
She tilts her head slightly to one side, studying him like the wild animal her life has forced her to become at heart. "No," she finally says. "I have not."
Sam hesitates. "May Ah?" When she doesn't answer but only continues to watch him warily, he moves his arm forward in a throwing motion but does not actually release the snowball. "Throw this at you."
Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "Why?"
He shrugs. "'Cause it's s'posed to be fun."
Her eyes narrow even more tightly. A sound escapes her thin lips in their grim line. It reminds Sam of a cross between the exasperated puffs of air his younger siblings sometimes let go when they're irritated with the adults around them and an uncertain but wary growl of a small but fierce cat. "Fine," she finally says. "Throw it."
He slings the snowball. It hits her shoulder.
"See? It didn't hurt, did it?"
"No. But I fail to see why you think it fun, surface dweller."
"You're a surface dweller now, too, Sarah." Anger flashes across her face, and Sam hurries to say, "Well, Ah mean, if you want to, o' course. None o' us are gonna make you do anythin' ya don't want to."
The world suddenly seems so quiet that they can both hear the snow lightly falling. Long minutes pass before Sam urges her, "Throw one at me."
"Why?"
He shrugs. "So maybe you'll see why it's fun."
"It is not fun. It is childish and immature, a waste of time."
He flashes her a toothy grin. "That's what makes it fun." He knows he's looking like a dork, like he had when he'd first joined the X-Men all those years ago, but he wants to. He wants to make her feel comfortable again, to encourage her to be at ease and to feel like she can... waste time, as she put it.
Not taking her eyes off of him for even a second, Sarah replaces a single bone-claw, bends, and scoops up a handful of snow. She throws it at him with little effort for, after all, the motion is pointless. Sam dodges, but instead of dodging away from the snowball, he meets it with the same tooth-filled, dopey grin. The snowball splatters across his face. Sarah stares at him for a moment, blinks, and finally laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
It's a cheerful, beautiful sound that urges Sam on. He starts scooping snow, but no sooner than he hits her with a third snowball does she plow into him with a rapid succession. She's scooping chunks of snow out of the ground with her bone-claws and hurtling them at him. He defends himself quickly; he's used to holding his own, after all, against a whole passel full of Kentucky younguns.
Snowballs spin back and forth in a rapid succession in the chilly, midnight air. Feeling emboldened by the festive merriment of the season, Sam makes his way closer to Sarah until he's able to grab her arms and pin them to her sides. "I--" She flusters. "I was just doing what you said was fun."
"It is fun, isn't it?" he asks, panting slightly.
She grins. "Yes. I've seen snow before. I've -- "
"This is fun too," he says eagerly and places his lips over hers before he can lose his courage. She gasps at the unexpected touch of his mouth on hers, but the opening of her mouth allows his tongue to dip inside of her. He tastes of cinnamon and sugar from the sweets he's eaten that night, sweat from their little, fierce snowball fight, and man. She tastes of wildness and sweetness and a strange, savage innocence. The combination is heady, and they cling to each other, their kiss deepening. She has seen snow before but never played in it and never, ever been kissed. This is certainly a season of firsts, and she likes them all so far.
The End
Fandom: X-Men
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: Cannonball/Marrow
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: It's a season of firsts for Sarah.
Word Count: 1,533
Written For: Advent Drabbles Day 13: First Snow
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
She's seen snow before many times. She's had to fight for her survival her entire life. Her people cared for her once their few survivors found each other again, but she's always had to fight. Every Morlock fights. Every monster who is different fights. They have to not to live and certainly not to play the fairy tale of love that so many humans and pretty mutants pretend to be real but simply to survive, to exist.
She never got to be a child, not in the snow, not at Christmas time, or at any other time of the year. Her childhood, like her home, and like her family or so she'd believed for a very, very long time, had been stolen from her when the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants had slaughtered her people. She still remembers their screams, still feels the pain every day and especially during the late hours of the night. Like tonight. It's been a good day. There's been food, laughter, and happiness everywhere, and for the first time, she has not felt the pangs of hunger or sorrow all this Christmas Day.
Yet she knows what's going to happen when she lays down in her bed, a strange thing to which she's still not accustomed, actually lifted off of the floor, soft beneath her boney back, and warm around her. She knows the memories are going to come, the dreams are going to resume. She knows she's going to see her people being slaughtered yet again, and not even by the hands of humans but by the hands of people who are supposed to be like them but killed them just for the money.
Sarah shivers. She hasn't really felt the cold today, but now she's starting to. She wraps her arms around her. Her tongue runs over her chapping lips as she wonders if there's any of that warm, chocolate drink left that the redhead had made earlier. Suddenly, something hard hits her in the back of the head, shattering her thoughts and dropping her down into full fight mode.
Sarah spins in the snow, her bone-weapons already clutched tightly and at the ready in her skilled hands. Her narrowed eyes quickly find her foe. But he is no attacker. He cannot be, she knows. Her eyes widen in shock as she examines him over the distance. Sam could not have been fighting her! He could not have attacked her! He would never hurt her!
Would he?
She gulps, her heartbeat quickening. She doesn't want to fight him. He is one of the very few and precious friends she has, perhaps the only one outside of Callisto and Mister Logan. She eyes him warily and begins the predator's circle. She will not be the prey, not even for him.
Sam's good-natured chuckle has died in his throat. His blue eyes watch her with a mixture of emotions Sarah cannot read. He holds his hands out and speaks to her gently, with a soft, timid tone like a farmer trying to tame a frightened colt. He knows she is frightened by his harmless bit of play, and his life may well be about to be in her hands within seconds. He knows she is a killer, and he knows, too, that he does not want to fight her. Honestly, he's not sure he can hit that beautiful face at all, and he hurts to see the fear and sudden distrust in her frightened, soulful eyes.
"Ah just hit you with a snowball," he speaks slowly, trying to assuage her fear. He shows her his gloved, and empty, palms. "Just a bit o' fun, Miz Sarah."
She hesitates when he speaks her name like that. He knows he is the only one to always insist on calling her by her given name, and probably the only one who has ever used with a title with it. But just like any other female, she is a lady. It is not her fault that she has had to endure so much horror and terror, so much hardship, that she has spent her entire life fighting just to be able to survive.
He can't imagine a life like hers, not really. He doesn't want to. He wouldn't wish it on anyone he knows, let alone a beautiful girl who, he knows, is capable of being gentle if only she dared. But she is so afraid of being hurt, and now she thinks he has tried to hurt her. He never would; he never could. But now his brain races for a way to stop her oncoming attack before it can happen, before he has no choice but to defend himself.
"Miz Sarah, Ah wasn't tryin' to harm you," Sam speaks firmly but softly, his hands still spread out and in the open. He slowly crouches. She mimics his movement, ready to spring into full-blown killer mode at the slightest further provocation.
He scoops a handful of snow and forms it, with one hand, into a small ball. "This was all Ah was doin', Ah swear. Folks where Ah'm from consider it mighty fun to play in th' snow, 'specially to have snowball fights. Ah know you've seen snow before. Haven't ya evah played in it?"
She tilts her head slightly to one side, studying him like the wild animal her life has forced her to become at heart. "No," she finally says. "I have not."
Sam hesitates. "May Ah?" When she doesn't answer but only continues to watch him warily, he moves his arm forward in a throwing motion but does not actually release the snowball. "Throw this at you."
Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "Why?"
He shrugs. "'Cause it's s'posed to be fun."
Her eyes narrow even more tightly. A sound escapes her thin lips in their grim line. It reminds Sam of a cross between the exasperated puffs of air his younger siblings sometimes let go when they're irritated with the adults around them and an uncertain but wary growl of a small but fierce cat. "Fine," she finally says. "Throw it."
He slings the snowball. It hits her shoulder.
"See? It didn't hurt, did it?"
"No. But I fail to see why you think it fun, surface dweller."
"You're a surface dweller now, too, Sarah." Anger flashes across her face, and Sam hurries to say, "Well, Ah mean, if you want to, o' course. None o' us are gonna make you do anythin' ya don't want to."
The world suddenly seems so quiet that they can both hear the snow lightly falling. Long minutes pass before Sam urges her, "Throw one at me."
"Why?"
He shrugs. "So maybe you'll see why it's fun."
"It is not fun. It is childish and immature, a waste of time."
He flashes her a toothy grin. "That's what makes it fun." He knows he's looking like a dork, like he had when he'd first joined the X-Men all those years ago, but he wants to. He wants to make her feel comfortable again, to encourage her to be at ease and to feel like she can... waste time, as she put it.
Not taking her eyes off of him for even a second, Sarah replaces a single bone-claw, bends, and scoops up a handful of snow. She throws it at him with little effort for, after all, the motion is pointless. Sam dodges, but instead of dodging away from the snowball, he meets it with the same tooth-filled, dopey grin. The snowball splatters across his face. Sarah stares at him for a moment, blinks, and finally laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
It's a cheerful, beautiful sound that urges Sam on. He starts scooping snow, but no sooner than he hits her with a third snowball does she plow into him with a rapid succession. She's scooping chunks of snow out of the ground with her bone-claws and hurtling them at him. He defends himself quickly; he's used to holding his own, after all, against a whole passel full of Kentucky younguns.
Snowballs spin back and forth in a rapid succession in the chilly, midnight air. Feeling emboldened by the festive merriment of the season, Sam makes his way closer to Sarah until he's able to grab her arms and pin them to her sides. "I--" She flusters. "I was just doing what you said was fun."
"It is fun, isn't it?" he asks, panting slightly.
She grins. "Yes. I've seen snow before. I've -- "
"This is fun too," he says eagerly and places his lips over hers before he can lose his courage. She gasps at the unexpected touch of his mouth on hers, but the opening of her mouth allows his tongue to dip inside of her. He tastes of cinnamon and sugar from the sweets he's eaten that night, sweat from their little, fierce snowball fight, and man. She tastes of wildness and sweetness and a strange, savage innocence. The combination is heady, and they cling to each other, their kiss deepening. She has seen snow before but never played in it and never, ever been kissed. This is certainly a season of firsts, and she likes them all so far.
The End
