When It's Raining

an X-Men movieverse story

by dirty diana


for no absolutes in the choc_fic ficathon. She requested Jean/Ororo, and...yeah. Beta love to sf fan.

Ororo always says no.

She's used to the sensation of the word in her mouth, hard and biting. She's used to the sound that it makes as it slides off Jean's skin.

She's used to Jean shaking her head. She's used to Jean's hands, smooth and perfect, no scars or crooked bones.

She isn't used to giving in. But Jean doesn't listen, or hear the warnings when they come. The sounds that Ororo makes don't matter, 'no' turning into soft and simple moans. Jean's hands are light, on the inside of Ororo's thighs, on her waist where her hipbone dips.


It's dark in the garden. She feels Jean steps, long before she hears them.

"Jean," Ororo says, with soft, chiding tones. "That's rude."

"I was just wondering what you were thinking about." Jean smiles, unembarrassed.

"No," Ororo says. It's not an answer.

Jean looks up at the sky, and stretches out a hand, to catch the rain. "Is this you?" she asks, as the drops wet her skin.


"Could you make it stop?"

Ororo turns to look at her. Jean's face is shadow and light, as the moon slides through the spaces in the treetops. "If I wanted to."


She can always tell when Jean isn't sleeping. She can tell by the knock her door at weird hours, and the thinness of her smile, the warm gap in Ororo's bed.

Ororo sleeps easily. She sleeps and dreams, colour dreams that she keeps inside her head. She remembers Xavier picking her up off the ground. She doesn't think it happened like that, doesn't think that it happened like that at all, but that's what she remembers.

Sometimes Ororo looks in the mirror and doesn't recognise what's there.

"I think you're beautiful," Jean says, and what's important isn't whether it's true.


She could ask what the matter is. She could ask, but Jean wouldn't tell her.

Jean wants to be strong.

Ororo sees everything. She won't ask. Anymore than Jean would ever ask her about the scars. It's their invisible line, stretching for miles in the sand. Ororo watches Jean and she thinks about sand, about lies, about time passing and shifting.

She thinks about rain, and if she could wash away the dirt that stains her hands, she would.

Scott asks, and Jean tells him that nothing is the matter. Nothing at all.

Ororo watches them, and thinks of snow.


When Logan returns, it's different, and Ororo doesn't expect anything else. She makes a joke of it, and Jean pretends not to understand the punch line.

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing. I see the way that he looks at you."

Jean shrugs. "That's Logan. That's just how he is."

"Huh." Ororo pulls her feet up on the couch, and tucks them underneath a blanket. The teacup is warm in her hands. "Maybe I can get him to look at me like that."

"Maybe." Jean smiles. "Would you?"

"Me? Logan?"

They both break into giggles at the same time.


Some nights are unending, fragments of memory, of taste and touch. Jean slips slowly, like wind, through her fingers. Wet kisses in the dark, Jean's mouth and cool, sweet tongue. Jean's red hair, brushing her skin. Jean's breathless gasps, when Ororo's fingers press against her, between her thighs, sharp and soft at the same time.

Ororo hears her own whispers, echoing in the darkness. Ororo always says no, but then her voice always betrays her.

Jean rolls over, kisses her, and smiles. With her mouth on Ororo's skin, pressure teasing, sweet and perfect. Breathless, endless, and wanting, into the dawn.


"What about Scott?"

She asks once. Twice. The third time she lets it go, but the question still sits heavy in her hand, like a rock.

"Scott doesn't understand," Jean says. Her fingers fit into the small of Ororo's back.

Ororo shifts and twists, restlessly against Jean's skin. "I don't understand," she says.

Jean only smiles. "Yes, you do."

"I don't," Ororo answers, and now they're both smiling, at another conversation going round in circles. Ororo feels the question spinning away from her.

"I just want to stay here for a bit longer," Jean says, and lays her head down.


Jean likes to fly. It makes Ororo smile. Jean is fascinated by the jet, broad wings leaving shadows as they slide through the sky. She imagines Jean brushing past her, sometimes. It would only take a burst of wind, like a breath of air. A storm brewing, a storm on the horizon. A storm in a teacup. She could laugh too loudly, lose her place on the page, and watch the wind break Jean into pieces.

This is what she thinks about, sometimes. Ororo shudders. She misses the ground. Jean always pushes her to take the jet above the clouds.


Jean likes to fly. "Let's go faster," she'll say, as New York State slips by underneath them.

Ororo shakes her head. "We're going fast enough."

"You're no fun," Jean says, and frowns.

Some days, Jean makes her feel older.

"Just a little faster," Jean teases, and her hand curls lightly around Ororo's.

"Jean," Ororo snaps, and breathes in. The pressure is sharp in her chest.

Jean frowns. "You're mad at me."

"I am not."

"Yeah, you are." Jean taps a finger against her forehead. "Telepathic, remember. Why are you mad at me?"

Ororo shakes her head. She prepares for landing.


When they get to Boston, night has fallen. The plane touches quietly down on a patch of black grass.

"This way," Jean says.

Ororo considers that, Jean reaching out to touch someone that neither of them can see. "Do you feel him?"

Jean shakes her head. Her mouth is tight, and creased with cold.

"We should go."

Jean pulls her coat tighter, blocking the night out. "It must be hard. To be always running like that. To be afraid of what's behind you."

"Yes," Ororo says. She glances up at the sky, and feels the wind about to change direction.