Fic: More Than A Rogue - (23/?) - Maybe's and what if's
Overall summary: Sometimes we get the balance wrong. Life is not about knowing the answers, life is what happens while you're looking for them. And the bad decisions? The screw-ups? They're what keep it interesting.
Follows on from X3 - after the cure has failed - Rogue's POV
Genre: Action/Shipper/Angst/Humour fic... so basically everything.
Rating: Varies between chapters, but overall R - NC17
Disclaimer: Marvel, Stan Lee & Fox own everything. Probably even my soul... oh no... wait... I'm pretty sure I signed that away to a mortgage company sometime last year.
A/N: Ick. I think I edited this one to death. I've got to the stage where I can recite bits of it in my sleep, so I'm just gonna post it, clap my hands over my eyes and pretend that if it can't see me, I can't see it.
Thank you again to empressnan and dutchxfan for putting up with me *g*
All previous chapters can be found here
Two days later and I’m sitting out on the back porch, trying my hardest to concentrate on the book in my hand, pants rolled up to my knees and my toes dipping in the freezing cold water. Which is probably not a good idea, they’re actually beginning to turn slightly blue. Still, I never said that I was sensible, did I?
Whatever.
Two days, and I’m still hiding. My mind's full of maybe’s and what if’s, and wondering what would happen if I did talk to him. Because if ‘Ro and Scott seem to think it would make a difference... then... well... surely they can’t both be wrong? Right? They know about this stuff... don’t they?
But I know Logan. Or, more specifically, I know me and Logan. And we don’t talk. Not like that. Not anymore.
Why is that?
Is it me? Is it my fault? Am I resentful because he keeps himself at a distance? Probably. But he’s just as bad! He snaps right back at me, so what’s his excuse? Or rather, he used to. And dammit, why has he been so goddamned nice to me since I got back this time? Because at least I understand the snapping. I like him, he doesn’t feel like he should like me back. I snap. He snaps. Normal. So, what? What’s with this uneasy truce between us? Is that what it is?
Ugh, it's all so goddamned confusing.
Moira comes and goes. She tells me off for freezing my feet in the water for so long. Says in that Scottish accent of hers that she’ll not be around to fix me up much longer, so I’d better not go absorbing half the government again anytime soon. Ha. Yeah, thanks. Love a doctor with a sense of humour.
She leaves me some fresh food though and I pick at my lunch, then push it to one side, shove my chair angrily against the wall and storm around needing to do... something. Argh! Anything! But there’s nothing but books and the lake and nature surrounding me, and none of it helps. None of it has any answers.
I flop back on my bed with a frustrated sigh.
I could ask him outright. If there’s nothing going on between us, why do you look at me the way you do? Why do you get close? Why do you always find me, and risk everything to scrape me out of the messes I get into?
But I can’t. I won’t. Because he’ll shrug, thick skinned as always, and stubbornly tell me it means nothing.
...Won’t he?
Before I was sure, but now...?
Ugh. I hate that element of doubt... that... hope. That faint fizzle that warms my stomach and tells me lies. Because I know whatever I say to him it’s going to hurt again.
So why do I want to tell him so badly? Why can’t I just move on? Am I a glutton for punishment? What?
I screw my eyes up angrily, not sure how to handle all the emotions surging through me. I want to deaden them like before, but there’s no chance of that working these days. It takes all my willpower not to listen to the voices in my head and forget I’m not one of them. Fuck all chance of getting a handle on my feelings as well.
Glaring at myself in the mirror, trying to ignore the dark smudges under my eyes, I tug my running shoes on instead.
I head outside into the muggy afternoon; push myself too far, too fast, until my skin is slick and my muscles burn; my throat thick and raw with the effort. Only when each step is an ordeal and I can no longer feel anything but the jarring thud of my feet and the screeching pain of my lungs, do I finally let myself slow down and head for home.
The journey back’s a dizzy blur, legs light and head spinning. By the time I get there I’m exhausted, but it makes no difference because - and something inside me still has the power to lurch painfully - Logan’s there. Sitting on my doorstep. Sleeves rolled up his forearms, legs stretched out in front like he owns the fucking place.
After two days, I want to give up.
I just... Now? I’m supposed to do this now?
He looks up, squints into the setting sun at my back. "Thought I’d come and find out why you’ve been avoidin' me."
I can’t manage anything more intellectually complicated than resting my hands on my knees and fighting to breathe. Seriously, God? Fate? Karma? Whatever, whoever you are, you really dislike me, don’t you? Why now? Of all times?
He gets up when it becomes apparent I won’t be going anywhere any time soon. "You should keep movin’, stop your muscles from seizing up."
Yeah, thanks for the helpful advice. Got any on how not to screw up your life? Or how to talk to the man you lust after when he treats you like a kid sister? I start walking around anyway, only because I know he’s right. Damn him. My legs are stiffening already. "What do you want?"
He raises an eyebrow at the shortness of my tone, but lets it slide. "You gonna tell me what that was all about the other day?"
"What what was all about?"
"You tryin’ to be smart, kid?"
Yes. "...No."
"You suddenly developed a taste for Cyke’s clothes?"
I run my hands down my calves, trying to loosen the increasing tightness. "...No."
"Then what?" This time his voice is gruff. "Did I upset you again? Are you sick? What?"
"Why does it bother you so much?"
"Because I don’t like it when you run away from me."
My hands stumble to a halt and I stare blankly at him. If all the breath wasn’t already knocked out of me, that would have done it. What am I supposed to say to that? It definitely comes under the mixed signals category.
...Right?
He looks faintly annoyed. "...Well?"
Oh, fuck it. My brain fumbles around for...something... anything. "I thought you would... well... I thought you were still gonna be mad at me." That’s believable... isn't it? "I thought ... especially after..."
"I am."
Really? Okay, that’s not improving my confidence. "Then... why are you over here being... nice?"
"Darlin’ this ain't me being nice, this is me being concerned. It happens. Occasionally."
He says it with such an air of glaring casualness that I’m thrown completely off balance. Concerned. Ha. That’s the same as ever though. Good ol’ Wolverine, gruff as they come, but always looking out for the stray.
...Although...did he did just call me darlin’?
Um. That’s new.
I try really, really hard not to hyperventilate.
"Look," he says, matter of fact. "You got two choices. Either out with it, whatever’s causing you to run scuttlin’ away and hide in Cyke’s closet, or you continue playin’ whatever game it is you think you’re winning at."
"Oh, believe me," I huff out some kind of strangled laugh. "I’m not winning at anything."
Yeah... he doesn’t find that funny..
Oh God, this is like now or never time, isn't it.
Fuck.
"I just..." My palms are sweating. I actually feel faint. "I... you...’Ro said we should...y’know...talk... And Scott. Not you, me and Scott. But Scott also said, so I was gonna, but then I didn’t, and now you’re here and I... should, I think, but I... can’t..."
I don’t think that even began to make sense.
"Talk about what?"
He understood? My stomach plummets down to somewhere beneath my feet. The tightness in my chest intensifies.
I am not ready for this, no matter what the others said.
...Am I?
I take a gulping breath. Tell myself it’s simple. Just form words, and no shouting, arguing, draining, injuring, accusations or homicide of any kind. Just a talk. Tell him you’re confused. That’s all. Easy.
I close my eyes for a second. Gather my courage and...
...I don’t need to say a thing.
He can read everything I’m thinking on my face, plain as day. I can see it in his expression.
"About you an’ me?"
My heart judders to a stop. I manage a nod.
A faint breeze rustles its way through the leaves.
For a moment Logan does nothing but watch me, his gaze fixed like a mask over a myriad of thoughts. Then his jaw tightens, and the darkness that saturates his eyes is enough to send heat chasing all the way down my spine. I see his chest rise and fall, a tiny part of me reaching out to him with all I’ve got thinking... maybe... maybe this time...
But almost as soon as it appears, it’s gone. Flickering like a fading flame. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then that’s gone too, and I see it happening; the way his face closes up; the shutters that go down. They always fucking go down.
He steps back a pace, puts some distance between us. He looks behind him for a solution that isn’t there.
"Logan?"
"No."
I blink. Swallow.
I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. "I'm...sorry. I didn't... I mean-"
"No. Not gonna happen."
"I just-"
"Don't." The word is so cold and hard it cuts right through me.
For a moment I just stand there in shock. Is the idea so repulsive that he won't even talk about it? Oh God, I must be such a joke to him. Humiliation floods through me, heating my cheeks, and the fact that he's still there, watching every reaction spill out of me only makes it ten times worse.
I look away, struggling to hold myself together, the muscles tightening in my face as I force them to stay frozen. I try and find distraction, anywhere but his eyes, anything that’s not him; my focus blurring over spiky grass, mottled walls, mossy trees. My teeth clenching and my jaw aching as I give up with pretending and stare blankly at my stupid front door because I will not cry in front of him again. Not like this.
He really doesn’t want me.
I don’t see him leave. Instead I walk blindly into the kitchen, the almost rational part of my brain trying to separate emotion from reason, telling me that I really should pick up my jacket from the hall floor, that I probably need water after my run. But I don’t make it as far as the fridge. Instead I falter, sinking to the cold flagstones, the emptiness in me hurting more than anything else that’s happened in the last few months.
Because he finally gave me an answer. And it was the wrong one.
It’s over an hour later when I hear the front door open again.
Some abstract part of me wonders about locking it, and why I never actually do that. Maybe it’s ‘Ro, maybe she found out. Or Moira checking up on me. Maybe it’s the government come to take me away to a rusty lab and a padded cell. Hell, they can have me. God knows I probably deserve it.
But there’s no greeting. No explanation. None of the usual things. Only a silent presence and a hollow ache that grows in my belly.
I know without question that it’s him.
It would be, wouldn’t it?
I sniff and wipe my eyes before he can see me, hiding behind the damp hair that sticks to my face. I don’t know what this is. Pity? Explanations? Whatever. I just want it to be over.
He comes as far as the kitchen doorway. I can’t see him from where I’m sitting, but I hear him; the tread of his boots, the faint brush of his shirt against a wall as he leans there.
He’s quiet for a very long time.
Then eventually, softly, "So talk."
Something inside me just crumples. About what? What more can there be left to say?
My hands are trembling, so I grip them together. I try and keep my voice light, but it comes out sounding croaky and thick. "It’s not important."
"Yeah, it is."
What’s that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to do with that?
I hear the breath he slowly exhales. "You want to know if there’s a future for me an’ you. Together."
He says it so carefully that my heart lurches painfully.
"I don’t know, kid. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do... or say... or..." His voice is rough and gravelly in the darkness. "I don’t know how to fix this."
I wish he wouldn’t say anything. I wish he wouldn’t try, because he always does, and it never helps. It just makes it so much harder.
He stays where he is. "I don’t wanna hurt you."
So that’s what this is. Guilt.
"I'm not the guy you date. I’m the fuck-up. I’ve given this teacher thing a good shot, but you know what I am."
You know what? I thought I did, but I don't. I really don't.
"And my track record in these things, it ain't good. Everyone I’ve cared about... they’re dead." His voice cracks slightly. "All of 'em. Except you. And sometimes the things you make me..." he trails off with a frustrated sigh.
I wait for him to finish, but he never does. Instead the silence between us grows thick and heavy, and I can't bring myself to break it.
"What do you want me to say?" He says after a while, sounding, of all things, tired. "You're seethin' angry one minute, runnin' away the next. And I am not your god-damn hero, or bodyguard, or anythin' else anyone seems to think. I’m just some fucked up guy they poured metal into and one day you’re gonna wake up and realise that. You've seen the things I’ve done."
The image of him outside that bank flickers through my mind. Soaked with sweat and blood. Claws through the skull of the man next to me.
That scared me. He knows it.
"Most of the time I don’t think you can handle that." He says it bluntly. "It's better I stay the hell away and put distance between us. How it should be." He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him mutter a reluctant curse under his breath. "I’ve been walking round the damn woods for the last hour, trying to tell myself that’s how it should be."
It takes a few seconds for that last bit to sink in. He didn't go back to the Mansion?
I try not to make anything of it, but my breath catches. I know he hears it. And on top of everything else, something begins to unfurl inside of me. A creeping nervousness that makes all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
There’s usually a blanketing kind of security in darkness, but right now I can't find it. Instead the dullness brings all my other senses to life. The annoying breeze rattle of the screen door, the leafy scent of outdoors he brings in with him. It makes my head spin.
Why didn't he go back?
He finally comes into the room, a dark shadow that leans against the counter and watches me. Still and quiet, like the hunter he is. I'm intensely aware of all the tension radiating off him, feeling it mirrored in my own stomach. I know he's waiting for me to say something, but I don't dare move, let alone speak.
I’m no longer sure what this is. It doesn’t feel like guilt. Not anymore.
Eventually, he's shakes his head slightly. "I don't have the answers, kid." A hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "You want me to be honest? You're so young, and sometimes I don't think you get that. But then you’re miserable. And you got that filthy temper o’yours. And I’m... fuck knows what I am. You confuse things."
I do? My skin prickles slowly, all over.
"An' every time I look at you... I think..." He doesn't take his eyes off me. "I just..."
Just... what?
"What if I didn’t say no?"
My pulse thuds so loudly, it’s almost deafening.
He reaches forward and holds out a hand to help me to my feet, but I shake it away, standing slowly, on my own terms. Back still firmly against the wall.
My jaw feels like it's wired shut.
"Y’know," he says, when I still say nothing, "there are a hundred different reasons I can think of that we shouldn’t even be havin’ this conversation."
My ears ring.
"You gonna say anythin'?"
I don’t even know how to put what I’m thinking into words. It’s such a confusion of fear and tangled hope that it knots me up inside.
But he’s still waiting, and my hands feel heavy and clammy at my side, and I... I just... "...Are we having this conversation?"
His eyes are on me. Intense. "Yeah. I think we are."
Something within my chest clenches so fiercely, it’s almost painful.
Is this real?
Thoughts come at me, thick and fast, muddled from the bombardment of emotions to hit me this afternoon. Am I awake? Is this a trick? I feel like I'm teetering over the edge of a vast cliff, and I can't quite bring myself to step back.
Or over.
"So... what... " I swallow, the words tangling round themselves. "What does that mean?"
"I don’t know."
The way he says it sends a wave of fear chasing through my veins. Or is it something else? I can’t tell any more. Whatever it is, he’s still looking at me and I realise he’s waiting for a reaction. A response of some kind? Was there a question? My eyes dart round the darkened room for an answer. Stupid. It doesn’t help. Instead I notice the sandwich I’d made earlier, but shoved aside and my stomach chooses the worst possible moment to growl loudly.
It brings me down to reality with a bump. I suddenly remember my grim, sweaty state and the fact that I really can’t smell too good right now, let alone look okay.
He frowns slightly. "You hungry?"
No, I’m mortified!
"You need go get some food?"
I blink. "As in...out somewhere?"
He raises an eyebrow and gazes pointedly round my devoid-of-everything-but-a-stale-sandwich kitchen.
I see his point. Then my stomach growls again.
"That a yes?"
I study him for a moment. Then I give him a cautious dip of my head. "It’s a... an okay."
"Okay," he repeats back, and when he exhales, he sounds relieved, although what he’s got to be nervous about, I don’t know. I’m the one always screwing everything up round here.
"Give me half an hour. I’ll be back with the bike."
...Okay, now I’m not hungry, I’m terrified.
He gives me a nod and heads quickly back outside, leaving me to sink back down to the floor in a wobbly, gloopy excuse for a Rogue.
Follows on from X3 - after the cure has failed - Rogue's POV
Genre: Action/Shipper/Angst/Humour fic... so basically everything.
Rating: Varies between chapters, but overall R - NC17
Disclaimer: Marvel, Stan Lee & Fox own everything. Probably even my soul... oh no... wait... I'm pretty sure I signed that away to a mortgage company sometime last year.
A/N: Ick. I think I edited this one to death. I've got to the stage where I can recite bits of it in my sleep, so I'm just gonna post it, clap my hands over my eyes and pretend that if it can't see me, I can't see it.
Thank you again to empressnan and dutchxfan for putting up with me *g*
All previous chapters can be found here
Two days later and I’m sitting out on the back porch, trying my hardest to concentrate on the book in my hand, pants rolled up to my knees and my toes dipping in the freezing cold water. Which is probably not a good idea, they’re actually beginning to turn slightly blue. Still, I never said that I was sensible, did I?
Whatever.
Two days, and I’m still hiding. My mind's full of maybe’s and what if’s, and wondering what would happen if I did talk to him. Because if ‘Ro and Scott seem to think it would make a difference... then... well... surely they can’t both be wrong? Right? They know about this stuff... don’t they?
But I know Logan. Or, more specifically, I know me and Logan. And we don’t talk. Not like that. Not anymore.
Why is that?
Is it me? Is it my fault? Am I resentful because he keeps himself at a distance? Probably. But he’s just as bad! He snaps right back at me, so what’s his excuse? Or rather, he used to. And dammit, why has he been so goddamned nice to me since I got back this time? Because at least I understand the snapping. I like him, he doesn’t feel like he should like me back. I snap. He snaps. Normal. So, what? What’s with this uneasy truce between us? Is that what it is?
Ugh, it's all so goddamned confusing.
Moira comes and goes. She tells me off for freezing my feet in the water for so long. Says in that Scottish accent of hers that she’ll not be around to fix me up much longer, so I’d better not go absorbing half the government again anytime soon. Ha. Yeah, thanks. Love a doctor with a sense of humour.
She leaves me some fresh food though and I pick at my lunch, then push it to one side, shove my chair angrily against the wall and storm around needing to do... something. Argh! Anything! But there’s nothing but books and the lake and nature surrounding me, and none of it helps. None of it has any answers.
I flop back on my bed with a frustrated sigh.
I could ask him outright. If there’s nothing going on between us, why do you look at me the way you do? Why do you get close? Why do you always find me, and risk everything to scrape me out of the messes I get into?
But I can’t. I won’t. Because he’ll shrug, thick skinned as always, and stubbornly tell me it means nothing.
...Won’t he?
Before I was sure, but now...?
Ugh. I hate that element of doubt... that... hope. That faint fizzle that warms my stomach and tells me lies. Because I know whatever I say to him it’s going to hurt again.
So why do I want to tell him so badly? Why can’t I just move on? Am I a glutton for punishment? What?
I screw my eyes up angrily, not sure how to handle all the emotions surging through me. I want to deaden them like before, but there’s no chance of that working these days. It takes all my willpower not to listen to the voices in my head and forget I’m not one of them. Fuck all chance of getting a handle on my feelings as well.
Glaring at myself in the mirror, trying to ignore the dark smudges under my eyes, I tug my running shoes on instead.
I head outside into the muggy afternoon; push myself too far, too fast, until my skin is slick and my muscles burn; my throat thick and raw with the effort. Only when each step is an ordeal and I can no longer feel anything but the jarring thud of my feet and the screeching pain of my lungs, do I finally let myself slow down and head for home.
The journey back’s a dizzy blur, legs light and head spinning. By the time I get there I’m exhausted, but it makes no difference because - and something inside me still has the power to lurch painfully - Logan’s there. Sitting on my doorstep. Sleeves rolled up his forearms, legs stretched out in front like he owns the fucking place.
After two days, I want to give up.
I just... Now? I’m supposed to do this now?
He looks up, squints into the setting sun at my back. "Thought I’d come and find out why you’ve been avoidin' me."
I can’t manage anything more intellectually complicated than resting my hands on my knees and fighting to breathe. Seriously, God? Fate? Karma? Whatever, whoever you are, you really dislike me, don’t you? Why now? Of all times?
He gets up when it becomes apparent I won’t be going anywhere any time soon. "You should keep movin’, stop your muscles from seizing up."
Yeah, thanks for the helpful advice. Got any on how not to screw up your life? Or how to talk to the man you lust after when he treats you like a kid sister? I start walking around anyway, only because I know he’s right. Damn him. My legs are stiffening already. "What do you want?"
He raises an eyebrow at the shortness of my tone, but lets it slide. "You gonna tell me what that was all about the other day?"
"What what was all about?"
"You tryin’ to be smart, kid?"
Yes. "...No."
"You suddenly developed a taste for Cyke’s clothes?"
I run my hands down my calves, trying to loosen the increasing tightness. "...No."
"Then what?" This time his voice is gruff. "Did I upset you again? Are you sick? What?"
"Why does it bother you so much?"
"Because I don’t like it when you run away from me."
My hands stumble to a halt and I stare blankly at him. If all the breath wasn’t already knocked out of me, that would have done it. What am I supposed to say to that? It definitely comes under the mixed signals category.
...Right?
He looks faintly annoyed. "...Well?"
Oh, fuck it. My brain fumbles around for...something... anything. "I thought you would... well... I thought you were still gonna be mad at me." That’s believable... isn't it? "I thought ... especially after..."
"I am."
Really? Okay, that’s not improving my confidence. "Then... why are you over here being... nice?"
"Darlin’ this ain't me being nice, this is me being concerned. It happens. Occasionally."
He says it with such an air of glaring casualness that I’m thrown completely off balance. Concerned. Ha. That’s the same as ever though. Good ol’ Wolverine, gruff as they come, but always looking out for the stray.
...Although...did he did just call me darlin’?
Um. That’s new.
I try really, really hard not to hyperventilate.
"Look," he says, matter of fact. "You got two choices. Either out with it, whatever’s causing you to run scuttlin’ away and hide in Cyke’s closet, or you continue playin’ whatever game it is you think you’re winning at."
"Oh, believe me," I huff out some kind of strangled laugh. "I’m not winning at anything."
Yeah... he doesn’t find that funny..
Oh God, this is like now or never time, isn't it.
Fuck.
"I just..." My palms are sweating. I actually feel faint. "I... you...’Ro said we should...y’know...talk... And Scott. Not you, me and Scott. But Scott also said, so I was gonna, but then I didn’t, and now you’re here and I... should, I think, but I... can’t..."
I don’t think that even began to make sense.
"Talk about what?"
He understood? My stomach plummets down to somewhere beneath my feet. The tightness in my chest intensifies.
I am not ready for this, no matter what the others said.
...Am I?
I take a gulping breath. Tell myself it’s simple. Just form words, and no shouting, arguing, draining, injuring, accusations or homicide of any kind. Just a talk. Tell him you’re confused. That’s all. Easy.
I close my eyes for a second. Gather my courage and...
...I don’t need to say a thing.
He can read everything I’m thinking on my face, plain as day. I can see it in his expression.
"About you an’ me?"
My heart judders to a stop. I manage a nod.
A faint breeze rustles its way through the leaves.
For a moment Logan does nothing but watch me, his gaze fixed like a mask over a myriad of thoughts. Then his jaw tightens, and the darkness that saturates his eyes is enough to send heat chasing all the way down my spine. I see his chest rise and fall, a tiny part of me reaching out to him with all I’ve got thinking... maybe... maybe this time...
But almost as soon as it appears, it’s gone. Flickering like a fading flame. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then that’s gone too, and I see it happening; the way his face closes up; the shutters that go down. They always fucking go down.
He steps back a pace, puts some distance between us. He looks behind him for a solution that isn’t there.
"Logan?"
"No."
I blink. Swallow.
I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. "I'm...sorry. I didn't... I mean-"
"No. Not gonna happen."
"I just-"
"Don't." The word is so cold and hard it cuts right through me.
For a moment I just stand there in shock. Is the idea so repulsive that he won't even talk about it? Oh God, I must be such a joke to him. Humiliation floods through me, heating my cheeks, and the fact that he's still there, watching every reaction spill out of me only makes it ten times worse.
I look away, struggling to hold myself together, the muscles tightening in my face as I force them to stay frozen. I try and find distraction, anywhere but his eyes, anything that’s not him; my focus blurring over spiky grass, mottled walls, mossy trees. My teeth clenching and my jaw aching as I give up with pretending and stare blankly at my stupid front door because I will not cry in front of him again. Not like this.
He really doesn’t want me.
I don’t see him leave. Instead I walk blindly into the kitchen, the almost rational part of my brain trying to separate emotion from reason, telling me that I really should pick up my jacket from the hall floor, that I probably need water after my run. But I don’t make it as far as the fridge. Instead I falter, sinking to the cold flagstones, the emptiness in me hurting more than anything else that’s happened in the last few months.
Because he finally gave me an answer. And it was the wrong one.
It’s over an hour later when I hear the front door open again.
Some abstract part of me wonders about locking it, and why I never actually do that. Maybe it’s ‘Ro, maybe she found out. Or Moira checking up on me. Maybe it’s the government come to take me away to a rusty lab and a padded cell. Hell, they can have me. God knows I probably deserve it.
But there’s no greeting. No explanation. None of the usual things. Only a silent presence and a hollow ache that grows in my belly.
I know without question that it’s him.
It would be, wouldn’t it?
I sniff and wipe my eyes before he can see me, hiding behind the damp hair that sticks to my face. I don’t know what this is. Pity? Explanations? Whatever. I just want it to be over.
He comes as far as the kitchen doorway. I can’t see him from where I’m sitting, but I hear him; the tread of his boots, the faint brush of his shirt against a wall as he leans there.
He’s quiet for a very long time.
Then eventually, softly, "So talk."
Something inside me just crumples. About what? What more can there be left to say?
My hands are trembling, so I grip them together. I try and keep my voice light, but it comes out sounding croaky and thick. "It’s not important."
"Yeah, it is."
What’s that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to do with that?
I hear the breath he slowly exhales. "You want to know if there’s a future for me an’ you. Together."
He says it so carefully that my heart lurches painfully.
"I don’t know, kid. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do... or say... or..." His voice is rough and gravelly in the darkness. "I don’t know how to fix this."
I wish he wouldn’t say anything. I wish he wouldn’t try, because he always does, and it never helps. It just makes it so much harder.
He stays where he is. "I don’t wanna hurt you."
So that’s what this is. Guilt.
"I'm not the guy you date. I’m the fuck-up. I’ve given this teacher thing a good shot, but you know what I am."
You know what? I thought I did, but I don't. I really don't.
"And my track record in these things, it ain't good. Everyone I’ve cared about... they’re dead." His voice cracks slightly. "All of 'em. Except you. And sometimes the things you make me..." he trails off with a frustrated sigh.
I wait for him to finish, but he never does. Instead the silence between us grows thick and heavy, and I can't bring myself to break it.
"What do you want me to say?" He says after a while, sounding, of all things, tired. "You're seethin' angry one minute, runnin' away the next. And I am not your god-damn hero, or bodyguard, or anythin' else anyone seems to think. I’m just some fucked up guy they poured metal into and one day you’re gonna wake up and realise that. You've seen the things I’ve done."
The image of him outside that bank flickers through my mind. Soaked with sweat and blood. Claws through the skull of the man next to me.
That scared me. He knows it.
"Most of the time I don’t think you can handle that." He says it bluntly. "It's better I stay the hell away and put distance between us. How it should be." He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him mutter a reluctant curse under his breath. "I’ve been walking round the damn woods for the last hour, trying to tell myself that’s how it should be."
It takes a few seconds for that last bit to sink in. He didn't go back to the Mansion?
I try not to make anything of it, but my breath catches. I know he hears it. And on top of everything else, something begins to unfurl inside of me. A creeping nervousness that makes all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
There’s usually a blanketing kind of security in darkness, but right now I can't find it. Instead the dullness brings all my other senses to life. The annoying breeze rattle of the screen door, the leafy scent of outdoors he brings in with him. It makes my head spin.
Why didn't he go back?
He finally comes into the room, a dark shadow that leans against the counter and watches me. Still and quiet, like the hunter he is. I'm intensely aware of all the tension radiating off him, feeling it mirrored in my own stomach. I know he's waiting for me to say something, but I don't dare move, let alone speak.
I’m no longer sure what this is. It doesn’t feel like guilt. Not anymore.
Eventually, he's shakes his head slightly. "I don't have the answers, kid." A hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "You want me to be honest? You're so young, and sometimes I don't think you get that. But then you’re miserable. And you got that filthy temper o’yours. And I’m... fuck knows what I am. You confuse things."
I do? My skin prickles slowly, all over.
"An' every time I look at you... I think..." He doesn't take his eyes off me. "I just..."
Just... what?
"What if I didn’t say no?"
My pulse thuds so loudly, it’s almost deafening.
He reaches forward and holds out a hand to help me to my feet, but I shake it away, standing slowly, on my own terms. Back still firmly against the wall.
My jaw feels like it's wired shut.
"Y’know," he says, when I still say nothing, "there are a hundred different reasons I can think of that we shouldn’t even be havin’ this conversation."
My ears ring.
"You gonna say anythin'?"
I don’t even know how to put what I’m thinking into words. It’s such a confusion of fear and tangled hope that it knots me up inside.
But he’s still waiting, and my hands feel heavy and clammy at my side, and I... I just... "...Are we having this conversation?"
His eyes are on me. Intense. "Yeah. I think we are."
Something within my chest clenches so fiercely, it’s almost painful.
Is this real?
Thoughts come at me, thick and fast, muddled from the bombardment of emotions to hit me this afternoon. Am I awake? Is this a trick? I feel like I'm teetering over the edge of a vast cliff, and I can't quite bring myself to step back.
Or over.
"So... what... " I swallow, the words tangling round themselves. "What does that mean?"
"I don’t know."
The way he says it sends a wave of fear chasing through my veins. Or is it something else? I can’t tell any more. Whatever it is, he’s still looking at me and I realise he’s waiting for a reaction. A response of some kind? Was there a question? My eyes dart round the darkened room for an answer. Stupid. It doesn’t help. Instead I notice the sandwich I’d made earlier, but shoved aside and my stomach chooses the worst possible moment to growl loudly.
It brings me down to reality with a bump. I suddenly remember my grim, sweaty state and the fact that I really can’t smell too good right now, let alone look okay.
He frowns slightly. "You hungry?"
No, I’m mortified!
"You need go get some food?"
I blink. "As in...out somewhere?"
He raises an eyebrow and gazes pointedly round my devoid-of-everything-but-a-stale-sandwich kitchen.
I see his point. Then my stomach growls again.
"That a yes?"
I study him for a moment. Then I give him a cautious dip of my head. "It’s a... an okay."
"Okay," he repeats back, and when he exhales, he sounds relieved, although what he’s got to be nervous about, I don’t know. I’m the one always screwing everything up round here.
"Give me half an hour. I’ll be back with the bike."
...Okay, now I’m not hungry, I’m terrified.
He gives me a nod and heads quickly back outside, leaving me to sink back down to the floor in a wobbly, gloopy excuse for a Rogue.