If her skin brushes his as she hands him coffee, she might get fragments of the night they ran — the rain drenching them, confusing heat-seekers and dogs. The way he shivered as they hid behind a ridge, and told himself it was only cold.
They weren’t used to cold then, or mud, or anything but pleasant neutral white. She wasn’t used to touch, but she took his hand. There’d been a flood of fear (His? Hers?), but what she feels now, through his mind, is nearness and the kind of strength that anchors.
*
Or there’s the first winter in their first shitty apartment — cockroaches in drains, rent under the table, no questions asked. Geraniums by the windows, because plant thoughts are slow and undemanding. She used to say the words shitty apartment with relish, like she said husband. It felt like such a human thing, and they could have those now.
Even beneath layers of quilts, cold slipped through — but he was warm as he pushed into her, and she ached with the slick, heavy fullness of his need and hers, and the sound of the name she’d chosen repeated in his voice.
*
And there’s the time she touched his hand and every object in the room lifted centimeters off the ground. Moments like that are dangerous, but he jumped when it all crashed down, rattling the dust from high shelves, skewing picture frames, and she had to laugh and kiss him. No choice. She had to tug him to the couch, where he pressed his forehead to hers and ran his hands up her back, and she remembers the unsteady static on her skin as all the buttons on her blouse snapped open one by one. Nobody caught them. They’re still safe.
Triple-Drabble, Unstable Telekinetic/Volatile Telepath, Rating: M
If her skin brushes his as she hands him coffee, she might get fragments of the night they ran — the rain drenching them, confusing heat-seekers and dogs. The way he shivered as they hid behind a ridge, and told himself it was only cold.
They weren’t used to cold then, or mud, or anything but pleasant neutral white. She wasn’t used to touch, but she took his hand. There’d been a flood of fear (His? Hers?), but what she feels now, through his mind, is nearness and the kind of strength that anchors.
*
Or there’s the first winter in their first shitty apartment — cockroaches in drains, rent under the table, no questions asked. Geraniums by the windows, because plant thoughts are slow and undemanding. She used to say the words shitty apartment with relish, like she said husband. It felt like such a human thing, and they could have those now.
Even beneath layers of quilts, cold slipped through — but he was warm as he pushed into her, and she ached with the slick, heavy fullness of his need and hers, and the sound of the name she’d chosen repeated in his voice.
*
And there’s the time she touched his hand and every object in the room lifted centimeters off the ground. Moments like that are dangerous, but he jumped when it all crashed down, rattling the dust from high shelves, skewing picture frames, and she had to laugh and kiss him. No choice. She had to tug him to the couch, where he pressed his forehead to hers and ran his hands up her back, and she remembers the unsteady static on her skin as all the buttons on her blouse snapped open one by one. Nobody caught them. They’re still safe.
.
Also on AO3 here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/59843827