The unfeeling quiet greeted her when she entered the room they'd shared. The muted click of the closing door was a cruel slam in her strangely echoing state-of-mind.
She recalled the battle, a fierce one. They would have died, every single member of the team. If he hadn't saved them. No one would ever have guessed that he was willing to exchange his life for all of theirs. She would never have guessed that he would leave her behind. She hated him for it and loved him anyway because he was gone and it wouldn't do to hate a memory.
The tears expected by her fellow X-Men did not come. She was stoic and pale as the death that had claimed her love. Her face was clear of emotion but her heart was screaming with anguish and she wanted to shatter the mirror above her dressing table and cut her wrists with the shards of silvery glass. But the lover in her mind would never let her do that. He was a fighter so she was to. She'd fight and she'd be hollow and she'd die. Heroically, like him, she hoped. Soon, she hoped.
A knock on the door was the explosion of a bomb. Her team leader entered. She didn't want to see another man, one who would comfort her and then go to his room to hold his living wife. Go away she said. Whenever you're ready to talk he said and left. I'm ready to die she said to the empty bed that they used to sleep in together.
She remembered gaining control of her power. He'd told her he'd loved her before and that the physical didn't matter, yet, when she could have it, it did. And it was wonderful. Their bodies knew each other and their lovemaking was always a sort of completion. That was something she would never have again. Half of her soul was missing, killed by the blast that destroyed a body that was almost unbreakable. Almost.
Not unbreakable enough.
There were no pictures in their room. He didn't like to sit still for a camera. She kept a precious few in her bureau drawer, in a small photo album buried beneath her socks. So many pictures of the two of them, him always looking away. They were taken by the unspoken few who were permitted to aim a camera at his intimidating visage. They were the ones who weren't afraid to do it. His face was captured like it rarely was, smiling, because he was talking to her. No one knew, but he smiled as he stroked the damp hair off of her face after he made love to her. And no one knew that he'd cried when he'd first told her how much he loved her.
His hair in the pictures was spiky, like it always was. Looking at her hands, she could feel the rough strands between her fingers, even though they weren't there. His hair and his skin and his smell were the ghosts that lived in their room now, since he was gone. His hazel eyes that always softened when their gaze fell upon her... If she looked in the mirror, she could imagine him standing behind her, placing his face next to hers then kissing her cheek, his whiskers rough. Love you he would whisper in her ear. She blushed and kissed him back and that was how she said I love you. She told him every night before she curled her body around his and let his arm around her waist become the gate that barred bad dreams.
She peeled off her leather uniform, her second skin, and shoved it under the bed. In the bathroom, the hot water needles tried to numb her skin, but couldn't. She could feel everything and suddenly she wanted to cry but she didn't. It wasn't a good idea to cry for a memory. Instead, she remembered him snaking his hands around her slick waist when he joined her in the shower. Their wet kisses were wetter and they slid against each other in the most incredible way as their fingers tangled in each others matted hair. He swept the stinging shampoo out of her eyes and kissed the lids before they made love in the porcelain bathtub, the water still rushing over them like rain.
Stepping out of the shower, she grabbed a neatly hung gray towel that was next to one that was crumpled onto the rack. Without thinking, she leaned over to smell it and stopped herself before she did. She dried off and dressed herself. She looked at her haggard face in the bathroom mirror, musing at the fluorescent light above the sink that made her look so white. The toothpaste was bitter and she spit it out in disgust. He would peck her cheek sometimes with his mouth full of minty green foam. She would laugh and get him back. His toothbrush was in the cup where she placed hers. The bristles were splayed out and dry as bones.
Their room was cold, perhaps because of the ghosts that lived there now. She could swear that she saw her breath in the air, irregular puffs of misty white in the inky blue silence. Off of a chair by the window, she pulled a sweatshirt and wrapped herself in it. It was a mistake because it was his. She pressed the tattered cuff to her nose and inhaled the last of him. It was an old sweatshirt, a little ragged, that he wore so often over a t-shirt, with jeans or sweatpants. Sometimes he'd be barefoot if they were staying in or he'd wear shoes if they were going to walk outside together.
It hurt to think of him and the things they used to do and she felt the pain acutely. She buried herself in the flannel sheets of their bed and took off the sweatshirt and hugged it to her. She took deep breaths and squeezed her eyes shut until supernova bursts of color exploded behind them. She opened her eyes--still dark, still alone. The sweatshirt was warm, like he'd taken it off only moments before. Tears escaped her and the pillows swallowed her ragged sobs. There was no stopping now. Angry at her weakness, she blamed his messiness for leaving the thing for her to find. Stupid, ugly shirt ...smelling like him and making her cry.
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