Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men Evolution. "Miserable" is preformed by Lit. I don't own that, either.

Rating: PG-13 (mature themes)

Summary: Lance thinks about the secret he shares with Kitty…

Author's Note: Blame the plot bunny for this one, folks.

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For a Moment

By: Addie Logan

 

You make me come
You make me complete
You make me completely miserable

Stuck to a chair watching this story about me
Everything goes by so fast making my head spin
Used up all of my friends but who needs them?
When you mean everything to me

All of the things that we should fear
I'm not afraid of being here
So much to say
It makes me helpless

Nothing to share
Why should I care if you're near me
Give up all of my plans but who needs them
When you mean everything to me

All of the things that we should fear
But I'm not afraid of being here
So much to say it makes me helpless

You make me come
You make me complete
You make me completely miserable

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I'm not sure what I thought would happen the first time.

I know I didn't expect her to grow completely cold.

Before, she was polite to me at least—most of the time. Sometimes, she'd even let her feelings show. I remember when she'd smile at me, those big blue eyes shining, and everything would seem perfect.

She never smiles at me anymore.

The first time I was going to stop it. Really I was. When I realized that I was awake—not dreaming again—that Kitty was really in my room, I was going to tell her we shouldn't. I was going to do the right thing for once, prove that I wasn't as bad as she thought I was.

But then she touched me, and that plan was shot all to hell.

Afterwards, I tried to talk to her, tried to make the moment something sweet. Something more than it was.

She silenced me with a bittersweet kiss, and the look in her eyes let me know that my soft words weren't welcome.

Still, the next time I saw her, I tried to talk to her. I cared about her. Maybe I'd been wrong the night before, and she hadn't been giving me the proverbial post-coital brush off. She had snuck out of that mansion late at night. Maybe she'd just wanted to get back before she got caught.

But the way she treated me then told me otherwise. She'd given me the cold shoulder before, but not like this. She made it clear that she thought I was beneath her.

So I was pretty surprised when she came back a week later.

I was going to tell her no. After the way she'd treated me, why should I let her back in my bed?

But then she started crying. She told me it all hurt so much. That she couldn't handle the pressures of being an X-Man anymore. That the burden was too heavy. She needed me to make her forget. She needed me to make her stop hurting, just for a little while.

So I did.

Sometimes she'd be gone for days—weeks—as if she was trying to keep herself from me, to wean herself off the rush I could give her. But she'd always come back.

It was always dark. We never talked.

And if I saw her in the light of day, I was nothing to her.

Every time she came to me, it hurt. I wanted more. I wanted her to look at me with that smile again. With those bright eyes…

Instead I only got soft moans and glares of contempt.

I realized one day that I was craving our secret times together as much as she was. I'd lay awake at night, fighting the urge to seek her out, to be the one to go to her, not always only her to me. But I'd fight it.  I could rationalize it away if I let her find solace in my bed when it all became too much for her. What I was doing wasn't wrong. It was okay—I was helping her.

I was doing her a favor, really. It wasn't for me at all.

Then she stopping coming.

I couldn't sleep at night. I'd lay awake, listening for her soft feet walking towards my bed as she phased through my door. But there was only silence.

I remember the day I knew for certain she was never coming back again. I saw her. With him. That big Russian who used to work for Magneto. She was looking up at him with shining blue eyes.

I don't think she even knew I was there. I didn't go to her, didn't try to claim what I'd never had. He could give her more than I ever could anyway—something solid, something real.

He could give her more than a moment.

I walked away, going to find someone who could make me forget.

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