Spark, Chapter 3, fic
Title: Spark, Chapter Three
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Pairing: Rogue/John
Spoilers: Post X3
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
*See 'Spark' tag on my journal for previous chapters.*
Many thanks to Psychosomatic17 for the beta!
To say that Rogue was surprised with their eventual destination would be an understatement of infinite proportions.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered under her breath as John unlocked the door. He ignored her, flopping down on the bed and then, oddly enough, reaching over to turn the heater up to even warmer than it already was. She had never known John to be effected by the heat before, yet walking into his room felt like entering a freaking sauna. But that wasn’t truly what caught her off guard.
“This is some hell of a prison cell.”
In actuality, it was one of the rooms reserved for important guests of Xavier and prospective donors to the mansion. The series of comparatively luxurious rooms were separated from the male dormitories by a sound-proofed wall, a large kitchen and parlor room, and a constantly locked door. Generally a good thing, as, before the rooms had been isolated, visitors had tended to rethink their donations when confronted with the inevitable noise-and occasional water balloon attack-that close proximity to the male students necessarily entailed.
Rogue turned on the overhead light, looking about with interest. It wasn’t truly all that special; just white walls, one window, and the type of furnishings you'd typically find in a basic hotel room. But, to someone who had spent the past several years living in a small, overcrowded dormitory, it seemed the height of luxury. As it was, the queen sized bed and large open closet had her gasping in awe. And, when she curiously glanced behind a door just off the far corner, she abruptly spun around to glare at John in disgust. “Absolutely unbelievable. You’ve got your own bathroom.”
He just rolled his eyes at her antics. “Will you knock it off? You’re giving me a headache. And cut off that damned light.”
She obliged him, still shaking her head resentfully. Whoever said crime didn’t pay was obviously a complete and utter simpleton.
The pretty bay window directly across from her caught her eye, and she moved over to admire the view. The shades were pulled back and the neutral colored curtains drawn, allowing the combined light of the moon and the security lights around the grounds to shine through. As a result, the room was fairly well illuminated even without the overhead light. Still, the atmosphere was just dim enough to add to Rogue’s thinly veiled discomfort. She was perfectly aware of the multitude of risks she was taking in this little reunion, all for the sake of information and chocolate. And, damn him, he still hadn’t relinquished either to her.
The whole situation suddenly seemed unbearably funny. Here she was, green bunny feet and all, in what was apparently John’s bedroom. John, the traitor, who she hadn’t seen for months that-all things considered-felt like years. It was enough to put anyone on edge.
To make things worse, the Wolverine in her head was providing a running commentary on her stupidity.
Rogue sighed, fighting combined urges to run for the hills and to comb her robe pockets for one of the aspirin she always kept on hand. Instead, she steeled herself, staring fixedly out the window as she focused every ounce of her energy on producing a mental picture of Logan. She held the image for several moments, making sure that it wouldn’t fade. When she finally felt secure in her ability to maintain the visual, she added to it: first a brick wall, followed by a door frame, and finally-and this took every ounce of focus she had-she pictured a door, heavy and thick and impermeable, slamming firmly shut on the image of her overly vocal protector.
The relief was instantaneous, and, even as exhaustion rippled through her, Rogue felt the headache throbbing in her temples subside noticeably. She breathed a sigh of relief, sending a silent ‘thank you’ to Xavier-wherever he was-for teaching her that particular trick. She then turned from the window, feeling a bit more up to whatever John might throw at her.
He was still lying on the bed, but now had both arms crossed behind his head. His posture was one of deceptive relaxation, and seemed vaguely rehearsed. His brow was lightly arched in one of those expressions that only John could pull off effectively, and he surveyed her condescendingly-clearly aware that she was still grappling with the urge to take off running. It crossed her mind that he was attempting to subtly intimidate her with his overly-confident pose.
It might even have worked, if she could just get past the day-glow effect that the light shining through the window was having on his newly dyed hair.
Rogue fought the urge to snicker, though she was fully aware that her amusement was misplaced, to say nothing of completely idiotic, in the given situation.
And, really, therein lay the problem. She just couldn’t bring herself to be intimidated by John-to see him as Pyro, so to speak. It didn’t matter how many stories she heard of his various transgressions, or how reliable the sources were. It didn’t matter that she knew, and knew for a fact, that he had done things that should make her hate him. That he had served voluntarily, and even gleefully, under a man she feared more than she had ever feared anyone or anything in her life. She wasn’t afraid of him, and, no matter how many times she told herself that she should, she just couldn’t force herself to feel hatred for him.
Sure, she wanted to kick his ass. She wanted to strap him down, and then scream at him for hours and hours until he finally understood what an idiot he was. Occasionally she even wanted to kill him. Violently. Taking in that mocking expression on his face, she actually kind of wanted to kill him now-after spending a sizable amount of time on the other two options, of course.
But, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t escape the fact that, intermingled tightly and inseparably with all of that murderous rage, was the all-encompassing desire to fuss and coo over the multitude of bruises visible on the uncovered areas of his skin-now exposed fully by the light flickering through the bedroom window-and then force-feed him a bowl of fresh stew and a full batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. And, God, was being Southern a pain in the ass sometimes.
Rogue shook her head in defeat, finally breaking their little visual stand-off, and approached him. She stopped a moment to flick on the bedside lamp, and then perched on the edge of his bed-as far away as possible, yet still close enough to make a statement. Don’t try to intimidate me, Fire Boy. I’m not afraid of you.
His brow shot even further up, and he glanced pointedly between her and the lamp, obviously displeased.
She just glared right back. “I want the light on, John. You want to turn it off, fine. But the minute you do, I’m out of here.”
He appeared to be knocked suitably off-kilter by her sudden burst of confidence, and made no move to turn off the lamp. She would wager that his surprise was not so much due to her assertiveness-he did know her, after all-as her abrupt turn-around in behavior.
So much the better.
She took advantage of his brief distraction to snag her brownie from beside him, and felt incredibly smug when she was able to take it even as his hand rose to block it from her reach. She looked at him challengingly, and he gave a mocking shrug, clearly pretending not to care. She saw right through him, though. His little training sessions with the enemy should have enabled him to keep guard of a small confection. The fact that he had failed to do so made him look just vaguely like a jackass.
She tore into the wrapper, chewing away happily after finally liberating the gooey, chocolatey goodness from its plastic prison.
Of course, John even managed to ruin that.
Lying as he was, the light of the lamp reflected off of his hollowed cheekbones and eyes-overly-prominent in contrast to the unnatural thinness of his face. Her own brown eyes moved down his body slightly, and she took in the alarmingly evident outline of his clavicle. The large bite she had just swallowed lodged somewhere in her throat, which all of the sudden felt too thick. Rogue winced, catching sight of a particularly nasty scratch running the length of his collar line and disappearing beneath his sweater.
She gave up. “I’m not hungry anymore,” she muttered, and, rolling the plastic back over the virtually untouched brownie, she placed it squarely upon his chest.
He looked at her like she was insane. Hell, she probably was. “So? Do I look like a fucking trash receptacle?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she shot back.
God, this was so like old times. She felt a brief period of nostalgia for the days when they were nothing more than classmates, trading insults and banter just like they were now. Even in the months before she and Bobby had grown closer, John had been her friend. Okay, so it was an odd friendship; some of her best memories included him tripping her as she walked up the aisle to her seat, compulsively stealing her assignments and handing them in as his own, and occasionally singeing her hair when she made the mistake of sitting in front of him.
Not that she had been much better. She freely admitted that she had gotten an unnatural high out of successfully bossing around the school wild-card when nobody else seemed able to.
It hadn’t mattered, though, that their friendship was a bit off-kilter. Frankly, even among a mansion of ‘freaks’, they weren’t the most normal people around. It had been nice.
And now, that was completely irrelevant. She didn’t like to point fingers, but… he had screwed it up. Her good humor vanished, and she sighed sadly.
“Just eat the brownie, John. Please.” Her accent was thicker than she liked, and her headache began to return full-force. Her mind, thankfully, remained momentarily free of any guest commentary.
To her vague surprise, he did as she asked-though only after engaging in a series of very John-esque facial expressions that made it clear he was only doing so because he was mildly hungry, and not because she had told him to.
She looked away, not bothering to hide her distaste when he polished off the entire confection in two sloppy bites, licking the chocolate off his fingers when he was done. Trying to find something to distract her from the disgusting sight in front of her, she reached over to turn the heat down a notch.
John’s hand on arm stopped her. “Just leave it alone, will you?”
She started to protest, until she noticed a new cluster of bruises peeking out from the lace up collar of his hoodie sweatershirt-this patch suspiciously hand-shaped, and running across the left side of his throat. Across the right side was a deep gash. She wondered if it could have come from a knife. As was so infuriatingly often the case, her irritation towards him vanished behind a surge of protectiveness, and she left the heat where it was--regardless of the fact that sweat was starting to pool under her heavy robe.
His hand traced down her arm, coming to rest on her gloved hand. It tightened to the point of discomfort. She looked up in protest, but the angry words died in her throat at the intensity burning behind his blue eyes. “I’m surprised you even bother with these anymore.”
Her eyes closed briefly as she pushed back the surge of anger and pain his words triggered. Her teeth began a slow grind, but she managed to get her emotions under control with little real effort. She had expected this confrontation from the moment John stepped foot-or, rather, was carried-back into the mansion. At any rate, his words were nothing compared to those that the lingering vestiges of his personality had been growling into her subconscious for the last few months.
She didn’t regret the decision. Not most of the time, anyway. But God, did she swing back and forth a lot. And the backs…well, they were a lot less pleasant than the forths.
She cut herself off mid-thought. Thinking about it was irrelevant. For better or worse, the damage-if you wanted to call it that-was done. And she refused to let John give her shit about it, whether she deserved it or not.
“Listen, Johnny,” she said, keeping eye contact with him even as she brushed his hand away. “Everything you’ve got to say? I’ve heard it before. A lot. And before you start judging me, I’d start looking at your own life. As far as general screw ups go, I’d say we’re about even.”
His jaw tightened, and she held up a hand to quell his reaction.
“Don’t, alright? I’m not saying you don’t have a reason to be angry with me, and I’m not saying we should forgive and forget. I don’t think either of us could, even if we actually wanted to try. But, can we just not talk about it? Because I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”
She could tell that it was all he could do not to lash out at her-it was pretty damned obvious-but he managed not to. His muscles relaxed a bit, and, though he remained sitting up, the anger seemed to have momentarily left him. Rogue’s tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, and she thanked whoever was listening that that particular scene had been avoided, or at least postponed. She shifted her position on the bed to face him more fully. “So, are you gonna tell me now?”
She didn’t have to elaborate any further. Neither of them had forgotten why they were here together in the first place, though they’d been doing a lovely job of dancing around the issue for the better part of a half-hour.
He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes, and went for his lighter on the bedside table. Before reaching it, though, he stopped-instead clasping his hand firmly upon his own knee.
“So, I guess your boyfriend’s regaled you with countless retellings of his ‘heroic victory’ at Alcatraz?”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Oh yeah. Bobby’s been a real freaking fount of information. Never stops talking.”
He looked up sharply at the bitterness tingeing her voice, brows drawing together, and she could honestly say it was the most cheerful she’d seen him look all night.
“Uh oh,” he sing-songed quite idiotically. “Something’s not right in Barbie and Ken’s magical dreamhouse.”
Rogue made a disbelieving face at him. "'Barbie and Ken’s magical dreamhouse?' What the hell? Have you been watching too many Saturday morning cartoons, or are you just insane?”
He had the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed, and, after leveling a glare at him, she shook it off. “At any rate, if you’re asking me if I know Bobby kicked your ass at Alcatraz, the answer is yes.”
Her little dig had the desired effect. His head shot up, and he appeared ready to maim something. “Is that what the stupid fucker’s been saying? He fucking head-butted me! Since when does that count as anything other than a cheap shot?”
She snickered in the face of his righteous indignation. As a matter of fact, neither Kitty nor Bobby had mentioned a head-butt. “You know what? I really wouldn’t use that for an excuse. It kind of doesn’t make either of you look any better. And, as to the other…like you’ve never fought dirty in your life. Get over it.”
He didn’t look at all close to getting over it, but he went on with the story after a brief pause. “Anyway, your fucking boyfriend left me to rot on the ground. I woke up in some hellhole in Arizona.” He looked up sharply, as if to challenge her. “I’m not talking about that.”
She just inclined her head in agreement. If he didn’t want to, she definitely wasn’t going to force him too. Not that she could anyway.
He shrugged, averting his eyes and moving along. “Well, not much after that, really. I woke up here.”
She was pretty sure her jaw dropped. That was all he was going to tell her? Not a chance. “‘Not much after that?’ How about why you’re staying in one of the best rooms in the place-or for that matter, why you’re not in jail?" she demanded. "If you’re not being confined, why would you want to stay here? Why are you wondering the hallways? John, I think I’ve been pretty patient here. I came to your room with you. I held up my part of the deal. Now, tell me what the hell is going on or I’m going to have to hurt you.”
He nodded slowly, but grudgingly, still not quite meeting her eyes. His reaction was uncharacteristic, and she kicked her inner lie-detector into full gear.
“Really, Rogue, there’s not that much to it. The X-Men decided I wasn’t a threat,” he looked more than mildly irritated by that. “So they let me go yesterday. I’m still here because they may be okay with letting me out while they’re close by, but they sure as hell aren’t letting me out of sight anytime soon. I’m in this room because your guard dog didn’t want me in with the students, and" his lips curled in disgusted irritation "the hairy bastard said he didn't want me in a room on his hall, 'stinking up the place while he tried to sleep.' They didn’t know what else to do with me.” He gestured to a narrow band encircling his lower leg. “Check out my ankle.”
She looked closely. “That’s one of those house-arrest monitors, right?” At his affirmation, “So it’s just to keep you on the grounds?”
He nodded, and she rolled her eyes back in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me, John. Freaking Martha Stewart had to wear one of those!”
“Don’t rub it in,” he growled lightly, fixing her with a patented look of death. She just shook her head in bemusement.
“But…are they insane? What if you decided to torch the place or something?”
He looked truly angry with her for a moment. Then, yet again, he looked away. “Apparently they trust me. Stupid, huh?” She thought that she may have insulted him; he was glaring into space, looking vaguely like he wanted to set fire to the curtains.
There was something going on here, underneath the surface. He was behaving oddly, clearly hiding something. Rogue found that her mistrust of him was growing, even as she felt herself becoming more at ease in his presence. She would definitely be discussing this with Logan in the morning... Which would be in, oh, about two hours. God, it was late. She suppressed a yawn, vaguely wanting to leave, but not really sure how he would take it. She decided to stay where she was for a while.
As she watched John stew from the corner of her eye, her attention became focused on a thin white scar running through the corner of his right brow. It was hardly defacing-tame, in the face of all the other wounds she’d noticed. It looked older than the others, and she would guess it resulted from the barest nick of a knife. Or ice?
She bit her lip, hesitating, before the very stupid, very impulsive urge became too great to resist. Subtly sliding the gloves from her hands, she reached up to caress the light scar. He didn’t flinch, and she thought she should be surprised. Even Bobby was still mildly uncomfortable with her touch, despite all the time that had passed since her injection. Hence the reason she still wore her gloves. Everyone, including herself, was a lot more comfortable that way.
But, then again, John had never flinched away from her, had he?
At the whisper soft touch of her hand on his face, he exhaled harshly, something strange coloring his eyes. It was odd, but she had never been quite so aware of just how blue they were. She maintained contact with him, her thumb tracing over the thin white line as her fingers settled in his hair. A smile whispered across her lips; it was still as soft as ever.
“Did Bobby do this?” she asked quietly. He snorted depreciatingly.
“Yeah, right. Like he could. That was from…”
“Someone else,” she finished for him. She didn’t want him have to talk about his time at the camp. Didn’t even want him to have to think about it.
He was nodding slowly, his eyelids drifting closed. Maybe that was why it caught her so off guard when his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her down, her head settling on the pillow next to his. He maintained his grip, and their enjoined hands came to rest in the soft crease between the two cushions. She thought about protesting, but the pillow was soft, and he didn’t appear to be doing anything but lying next to her. She held her tongue, settling into a more comfortable position.
He might have been surprised by her easy acceptance, or he might not have; he was always so difficult to read, and she was too tired to put the needed effort into finding out. She blinked rapidly, the combination of the over-heated room and the softness of the bed catapulting her slight sleepiness into full-blown exhaustion.
“John?” she murmured. His thumb was tracing her knuckles, and his hand felt good. Soft, but hard at the same time.
His only answer was a soft grunt of acknowledgment. His eyes were closed.
“Did you miss me while you were gone?”
The corners of his lips kicked up slightly. “Not really.”
She poked him. Hard.
His eyes popped open, and he caught her free hand, smirking. “Hey, lay off. It’s not like I had a lot of time to myself. Everybody thinks being a mutant freedom fighter-”
“Terrorist.”
“Shut up. Everybody thinks being a freedom fighter” he enunciated, and she kept quiet just because she was too damned tired to argue at the moment, “is all glory and excitement. Really, it’s just hour after hour of training to kick ass, and then kicking ass. If I wasn’t doing either, I was sleeping until it was time to do it again.” He hesitated, and she got the feeling he didn’t really want to say what he was about to say. “But, you know. I might have thought about you. A few times.”
She stayed quiet, thinking about that. And trying to work up the motivation to stand up and go to her own room. Several moments passed in which they lay together in silence, only their hands touching. John had arranged hers so that her palms were facing one another, fingers straight but interlaced, and he was skimming his own fingers up and down each digit, occasionally stopping to measure her smaller hands against his own.
If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be lying next to Pryo and letting him play with her bare hands, she would have called them crazy.
It crossed her mind that she really ought to go to bed now. If she could just make her legs work. Before she lost the fight against sleep, one last thought had her scrunching her brow in confusion. “Johnny?”
His acknowledging grunt was even softer this time.
“You haven’t told me to call you ‘Pyro’ even once.”
He was quiet for so long, she wondered if he’d heard her. If she could work up any real desire for anything but sleep, she might consider repeating herself. Too bad she couldn’t.
Rogue’s eyes closed one final time, and she drifted along the edge of consciousness. She heard his response, but investing any actual thought into it was much less appealing than falling into her first real rest in weeks.
“So don’t.”
All comments and critiques welcome!
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Pairing: Rogue/John
Spoilers: Post X3
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
*See 'Spark' tag on my journal for previous chapters.*
Many thanks to Psychosomatic17 for the beta!
To say that Rogue was surprised with their eventual destination would be an understatement of infinite proportions.
“I don’t believe it,” she muttered under her breath as John unlocked the door. He ignored her, flopping down on the bed and then, oddly enough, reaching over to turn the heater up to even warmer than it already was. She had never known John to be effected by the heat before, yet walking into his room felt like entering a freaking sauna. But that wasn’t truly what caught her off guard.
“This is some hell of a prison cell.”
In actuality, it was one of the rooms reserved for important guests of Xavier and prospective donors to the mansion. The series of comparatively luxurious rooms were separated from the male dormitories by a sound-proofed wall, a large kitchen and parlor room, and a constantly locked door. Generally a good thing, as, before the rooms had been isolated, visitors had tended to rethink their donations when confronted with the inevitable noise-and occasional water balloon attack-that close proximity to the male students necessarily entailed.
Rogue turned on the overhead light, looking about with interest. It wasn’t truly all that special; just white walls, one window, and the type of furnishings you'd typically find in a basic hotel room. But, to someone who had spent the past several years living in a small, overcrowded dormitory, it seemed the height of luxury. As it was, the queen sized bed and large open closet had her gasping in awe. And, when she curiously glanced behind a door just off the far corner, she abruptly spun around to glare at John in disgust. “Absolutely unbelievable. You’ve got your own bathroom.”
He just rolled his eyes at her antics. “Will you knock it off? You’re giving me a headache. And cut off that damned light.”
She obliged him, still shaking her head resentfully. Whoever said crime didn’t pay was obviously a complete and utter simpleton.
The pretty bay window directly across from her caught her eye, and she moved over to admire the view. The shades were pulled back and the neutral colored curtains drawn, allowing the combined light of the moon and the security lights around the grounds to shine through. As a result, the room was fairly well illuminated even without the overhead light. Still, the atmosphere was just dim enough to add to Rogue’s thinly veiled discomfort. She was perfectly aware of the multitude of risks she was taking in this little reunion, all for the sake of information and chocolate. And, damn him, he still hadn’t relinquished either to her.
The whole situation suddenly seemed unbearably funny. Here she was, green bunny feet and all, in what was apparently John’s bedroom. John, the traitor, who she hadn’t seen for months that-all things considered-felt like years. It was enough to put anyone on edge.
To make things worse, the Wolverine in her head was providing a running commentary on her stupidity.
Rogue sighed, fighting combined urges to run for the hills and to comb her robe pockets for one of the aspirin she always kept on hand. Instead, she steeled herself, staring fixedly out the window as she focused every ounce of her energy on producing a mental picture of Logan. She held the image for several moments, making sure that it wouldn’t fade. When she finally felt secure in her ability to maintain the visual, she added to it: first a brick wall, followed by a door frame, and finally-and this took every ounce of focus she had-she pictured a door, heavy and thick and impermeable, slamming firmly shut on the image of her overly vocal protector.
The relief was instantaneous, and, even as exhaustion rippled through her, Rogue felt the headache throbbing in her temples subside noticeably. She breathed a sigh of relief, sending a silent ‘thank you’ to Xavier-wherever he was-for teaching her that particular trick. She then turned from the window, feeling a bit more up to whatever John might throw at her.
He was still lying on the bed, but now had both arms crossed behind his head. His posture was one of deceptive relaxation, and seemed vaguely rehearsed. His brow was lightly arched in one of those expressions that only John could pull off effectively, and he surveyed her condescendingly-clearly aware that she was still grappling with the urge to take off running. It crossed her mind that he was attempting to subtly intimidate her with his overly-confident pose.
It might even have worked, if she could just get past the day-glow effect that the light shining through the window was having on his newly dyed hair.
Rogue fought the urge to snicker, though she was fully aware that her amusement was misplaced, to say nothing of completely idiotic, in the given situation.
And, really, therein lay the problem. She just couldn’t bring herself to be intimidated by John-to see him as Pyro, so to speak. It didn’t matter how many stories she heard of his various transgressions, or how reliable the sources were. It didn’t matter that she knew, and knew for a fact, that he had done things that should make her hate him. That he had served voluntarily, and even gleefully, under a man she feared more than she had ever feared anyone or anything in her life. She wasn’t afraid of him, and, no matter how many times she told herself that she should, she just couldn’t force herself to feel hatred for him.
Sure, she wanted to kick his ass. She wanted to strap him down, and then scream at him for hours and hours until he finally understood what an idiot he was. Occasionally she even wanted to kill him. Violently. Taking in that mocking expression on his face, she actually kind of wanted to kill him now-after spending a sizable amount of time on the other two options, of course.
But, no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t escape the fact that, intermingled tightly and inseparably with all of that murderous rage, was the all-encompassing desire to fuss and coo over the multitude of bruises visible on the uncovered areas of his skin-now exposed fully by the light flickering through the bedroom window-and then force-feed him a bowl of fresh stew and a full batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies. And, God, was being Southern a pain in the ass sometimes.
Rogue shook her head in defeat, finally breaking their little visual stand-off, and approached him. She stopped a moment to flick on the bedside lamp, and then perched on the edge of his bed-as far away as possible, yet still close enough to make a statement. Don’t try to intimidate me, Fire Boy. I’m not afraid of you.
His brow shot even further up, and he glanced pointedly between her and the lamp, obviously displeased.
She just glared right back. “I want the light on, John. You want to turn it off, fine. But the minute you do, I’m out of here.”
He appeared to be knocked suitably off-kilter by her sudden burst of confidence, and made no move to turn off the lamp. She would wager that his surprise was not so much due to her assertiveness-he did know her, after all-as her abrupt turn-around in behavior.
So much the better.
She took advantage of his brief distraction to snag her brownie from beside him, and felt incredibly smug when she was able to take it even as his hand rose to block it from her reach. She looked at him challengingly, and he gave a mocking shrug, clearly pretending not to care. She saw right through him, though. His little training sessions with the enemy should have enabled him to keep guard of a small confection. The fact that he had failed to do so made him look just vaguely like a jackass.
She tore into the wrapper, chewing away happily after finally liberating the gooey, chocolatey goodness from its plastic prison.
Of course, John even managed to ruin that.
Lying as he was, the light of the lamp reflected off of his hollowed cheekbones and eyes-overly-prominent in contrast to the unnatural thinness of his face. Her own brown eyes moved down his body slightly, and she took in the alarmingly evident outline of his clavicle. The large bite she had just swallowed lodged somewhere in her throat, which all of the sudden felt too thick. Rogue winced, catching sight of a particularly nasty scratch running the length of his collar line and disappearing beneath his sweater.
She gave up. “I’m not hungry anymore,” she muttered, and, rolling the plastic back over the virtually untouched brownie, she placed it squarely upon his chest.
He looked at her like she was insane. Hell, she probably was. “So? Do I look like a fucking trash receptacle?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she shot back.
God, this was so like old times. She felt a brief period of nostalgia for the days when they were nothing more than classmates, trading insults and banter just like they were now. Even in the months before she and Bobby had grown closer, John had been her friend. Okay, so it was an odd friendship; some of her best memories included him tripping her as she walked up the aisle to her seat, compulsively stealing her assignments and handing them in as his own, and occasionally singeing her hair when she made the mistake of sitting in front of him.
Not that she had been much better. She freely admitted that she had gotten an unnatural high out of successfully bossing around the school wild-card when nobody else seemed able to.
It hadn’t mattered, though, that their friendship was a bit off-kilter. Frankly, even among a mansion of ‘freaks’, they weren’t the most normal people around. It had been nice.
And now, that was completely irrelevant. She didn’t like to point fingers, but… he had screwed it up. Her good humor vanished, and she sighed sadly.
“Just eat the brownie, John. Please.” Her accent was thicker than she liked, and her headache began to return full-force. Her mind, thankfully, remained momentarily free of any guest commentary.
To her vague surprise, he did as she asked-though only after engaging in a series of very John-esque facial expressions that made it clear he was only doing so because he was mildly hungry, and not because she had told him to.
She looked away, not bothering to hide her distaste when he polished off the entire confection in two sloppy bites, licking the chocolate off his fingers when he was done. Trying to find something to distract her from the disgusting sight in front of her, she reached over to turn the heat down a notch.
John’s hand on arm stopped her. “Just leave it alone, will you?”
She started to protest, until she noticed a new cluster of bruises peeking out from the lace up collar of his hoodie sweatershirt-this patch suspiciously hand-shaped, and running across the left side of his throat. Across the right side was a deep gash. She wondered if it could have come from a knife. As was so infuriatingly often the case, her irritation towards him vanished behind a surge of protectiveness, and she left the heat where it was--regardless of the fact that sweat was starting to pool under her heavy robe.
His hand traced down her arm, coming to rest on her gloved hand. It tightened to the point of discomfort. She looked up in protest, but the angry words died in her throat at the intensity burning behind his blue eyes. “I’m surprised you even bother with these anymore.”
Her eyes closed briefly as she pushed back the surge of anger and pain his words triggered. Her teeth began a slow grind, but she managed to get her emotions under control with little real effort. She had expected this confrontation from the moment John stepped foot-or, rather, was carried-back into the mansion. At any rate, his words were nothing compared to those that the lingering vestiges of his personality had been growling into her subconscious for the last few months.
She didn’t regret the decision. Not most of the time, anyway. But God, did she swing back and forth a lot. And the backs…well, they were a lot less pleasant than the forths.
She cut herself off mid-thought. Thinking about it was irrelevant. For better or worse, the damage-if you wanted to call it that-was done. And she refused to let John give her shit about it, whether she deserved it or not.
“Listen, Johnny,” she said, keeping eye contact with him even as she brushed his hand away. “Everything you’ve got to say? I’ve heard it before. A lot. And before you start judging me, I’d start looking at your own life. As far as general screw ups go, I’d say we’re about even.”
His jaw tightened, and she held up a hand to quell his reaction.
“Don’t, alright? I’m not saying you don’t have a reason to be angry with me, and I’m not saying we should forgive and forget. I don’t think either of us could, even if we actually wanted to try. But, can we just not talk about it? Because I really, really don’t want to talk about it.”
She could tell that it was all he could do not to lash out at her-it was pretty damned obvious-but he managed not to. His muscles relaxed a bit, and, though he remained sitting up, the anger seemed to have momentarily left him. Rogue’s tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, and she thanked whoever was listening that that particular scene had been avoided, or at least postponed. She shifted her position on the bed to face him more fully. “So, are you gonna tell me now?”
She didn’t have to elaborate any further. Neither of them had forgotten why they were here together in the first place, though they’d been doing a lovely job of dancing around the issue for the better part of a half-hour.
He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes, and went for his lighter on the bedside table. Before reaching it, though, he stopped-instead clasping his hand firmly upon his own knee.
“So, I guess your boyfriend’s regaled you with countless retellings of his ‘heroic victory’ at Alcatraz?”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Oh yeah. Bobby’s been a real freaking fount of information. Never stops talking.”
He looked up sharply at the bitterness tingeing her voice, brows drawing together, and she could honestly say it was the most cheerful she’d seen him look all night.
“Uh oh,” he sing-songed quite idiotically. “Something’s not right in Barbie and Ken’s magical dreamhouse.”
Rogue made a disbelieving face at him. "'Barbie and Ken’s magical dreamhouse?' What the hell? Have you been watching too many Saturday morning cartoons, or are you just insane?”
He had the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed, and, after leveling a glare at him, she shook it off. “At any rate, if you’re asking me if I know Bobby kicked your ass at Alcatraz, the answer is yes.”
Her little dig had the desired effect. His head shot up, and he appeared ready to maim something. “Is that what the stupid fucker’s been saying? He fucking head-butted me! Since when does that count as anything other than a cheap shot?”
She snickered in the face of his righteous indignation. As a matter of fact, neither Kitty nor Bobby had mentioned a head-butt. “You know what? I really wouldn’t use that for an excuse. It kind of doesn’t make either of you look any better. And, as to the other…like you’ve never fought dirty in your life. Get over it.”
He didn’t look at all close to getting over it, but he went on with the story after a brief pause. “Anyway, your fucking boyfriend left me to rot on the ground. I woke up in some hellhole in Arizona.” He looked up sharply, as if to challenge her. “I’m not talking about that.”
She just inclined her head in agreement. If he didn’t want to, she definitely wasn’t going to force him too. Not that she could anyway.
He shrugged, averting his eyes and moving along. “Well, not much after that, really. I woke up here.”
She was pretty sure her jaw dropped. That was all he was going to tell her? Not a chance. “‘Not much after that?’ How about why you’re staying in one of the best rooms in the place-or for that matter, why you’re not in jail?" she demanded. "If you’re not being confined, why would you want to stay here? Why are you wondering the hallways? John, I think I’ve been pretty patient here. I came to your room with you. I held up my part of the deal. Now, tell me what the hell is going on or I’m going to have to hurt you.”
He nodded slowly, but grudgingly, still not quite meeting her eyes. His reaction was uncharacteristic, and she kicked her inner lie-detector into full gear.
“Really, Rogue, there’s not that much to it. The X-Men decided I wasn’t a threat,” he looked more than mildly irritated by that. “So they let me go yesterday. I’m still here because they may be okay with letting me out while they’re close by, but they sure as hell aren’t letting me out of sight anytime soon. I’m in this room because your guard dog didn’t want me in with the students, and" his lips curled in disgusted irritation "the hairy bastard said he didn't want me in a room on his hall, 'stinking up the place while he tried to sleep.' They didn’t know what else to do with me.” He gestured to a narrow band encircling his lower leg. “Check out my ankle.”
She looked closely. “That’s one of those house-arrest monitors, right?” At his affirmation, “So it’s just to keep you on the grounds?”
He nodded, and she rolled her eyes back in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me, John. Freaking Martha Stewart had to wear one of those!”
“Don’t rub it in,” he growled lightly, fixing her with a patented look of death. She just shook her head in bemusement.
“But…are they insane? What if you decided to torch the place or something?”
He looked truly angry with her for a moment. Then, yet again, he looked away. “Apparently they trust me. Stupid, huh?” She thought that she may have insulted him; he was glaring into space, looking vaguely like he wanted to set fire to the curtains.
There was something going on here, underneath the surface. He was behaving oddly, clearly hiding something. Rogue found that her mistrust of him was growing, even as she felt herself becoming more at ease in his presence. She would definitely be discussing this with Logan in the morning... Which would be in, oh, about two hours. God, it was late. She suppressed a yawn, vaguely wanting to leave, but not really sure how he would take it. She decided to stay where she was for a while.
As she watched John stew from the corner of her eye, her attention became focused on a thin white scar running through the corner of his right brow. It was hardly defacing-tame, in the face of all the other wounds she’d noticed. It looked older than the others, and she would guess it resulted from the barest nick of a knife. Or ice?
She bit her lip, hesitating, before the very stupid, very impulsive urge became too great to resist. Subtly sliding the gloves from her hands, she reached up to caress the light scar. He didn’t flinch, and she thought she should be surprised. Even Bobby was still mildly uncomfortable with her touch, despite all the time that had passed since her injection. Hence the reason she still wore her gloves. Everyone, including herself, was a lot more comfortable that way.
But, then again, John had never flinched away from her, had he?
At the whisper soft touch of her hand on his face, he exhaled harshly, something strange coloring his eyes. It was odd, but she had never been quite so aware of just how blue they were. She maintained contact with him, her thumb tracing over the thin white line as her fingers settled in his hair. A smile whispered across her lips; it was still as soft as ever.
“Did Bobby do this?” she asked quietly. He snorted depreciatingly.
“Yeah, right. Like he could. That was from…”
“Someone else,” she finished for him. She didn’t want him have to talk about his time at the camp. Didn’t even want him to have to think about it.
He was nodding slowly, his eyelids drifting closed. Maybe that was why it caught her so off guard when his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her down, her head settling on the pillow next to his. He maintained his grip, and their enjoined hands came to rest in the soft crease between the two cushions. She thought about protesting, but the pillow was soft, and he didn’t appear to be doing anything but lying next to her. She held her tongue, settling into a more comfortable position.
He might have been surprised by her easy acceptance, or he might not have; he was always so difficult to read, and she was too tired to put the needed effort into finding out. She blinked rapidly, the combination of the over-heated room and the softness of the bed catapulting her slight sleepiness into full-blown exhaustion.
“John?” she murmured. His thumb was tracing her knuckles, and his hand felt good. Soft, but hard at the same time.
His only answer was a soft grunt of acknowledgment. His eyes were closed.
“Did you miss me while you were gone?”
The corners of his lips kicked up slightly. “Not really.”
She poked him. Hard.
His eyes popped open, and he caught her free hand, smirking. “Hey, lay off. It’s not like I had a lot of time to myself. Everybody thinks being a mutant freedom fighter-”
“Terrorist.”
“Shut up. Everybody thinks being a freedom fighter” he enunciated, and she kept quiet just because she was too damned tired to argue at the moment, “is all glory and excitement. Really, it’s just hour after hour of training to kick ass, and then kicking ass. If I wasn’t doing either, I was sleeping until it was time to do it again.” He hesitated, and she got the feeling he didn’t really want to say what he was about to say. “But, you know. I might have thought about you. A few times.”
She stayed quiet, thinking about that. And trying to work up the motivation to stand up and go to her own room. Several moments passed in which they lay together in silence, only their hands touching. John had arranged hers so that her palms were facing one another, fingers straight but interlaced, and he was skimming his own fingers up and down each digit, occasionally stopping to measure her smaller hands against his own.
If anyone had told her, even a week ago, that she would be lying next to Pryo and letting him play with her bare hands, she would have called them crazy.
It crossed her mind that she really ought to go to bed now. If she could just make her legs work. Before she lost the fight against sleep, one last thought had her scrunching her brow in confusion. “Johnny?”
His acknowledging grunt was even softer this time.
“You haven’t told me to call you ‘Pyro’ even once.”
He was quiet for so long, she wondered if he’d heard her. If she could work up any real desire for anything but sleep, she might consider repeating herself. Too bad she couldn’t.
Rogue’s eyes closed one final time, and she drifted along the edge of consciousness. She heard his response, but investing any actual thought into it was much less appealing than falling into her first real rest in weeks.
“So don’t.”
All comments and critiques welcome!