Fic - Callous (Part 3)
Title: Callous (Part 3/7)
Author: skybound2
Characters: Wolverine/Rogue (Logan/Marie), other assorted X-men.
Word Count: ~3750 this chapter (~7950 so far)
Rating: T
Summary: Rescued from a mutant experimentation facility, Rogue is left damaged.
Author's Note: You know what sucks? Wanting to write, wanting to work on polishing a chapter, wanting to POST, and not being able to because you don't have access to a computer except at work. *sad face* This should be remedied tomorrow. YAY! In the meantime, posting from work *shifty eyes* As always, thanks to everyone for reading! You guys are awesome! Fic is also up on WRFA, FFN, and Ao3.
Previously:
Prologue, Ch 1
Chapter 2
Before: Four Months Ago
The good thing about it being five-thousand degrees outside, is that you pretty much get a free pass to veg-out inside and eat all the ice cream you want. Rogue, and all of the occupants of Rogue's head, agree upon this.
Though there is some debate over which ice cream to indulge in. Logan prefers strawberry, which both Erik and Rogue think is just ludicrous. Strawberry ain't an ice cream, Sugah. It's a fruit. Erik prefers anything with dark chocolate. Belgian, if you can manage it, my dear. Cody craves vanilla. Which every other occupant of her head (Rogue included) agree is as boring as the name implies. The two truckers, and the one diner waitress, don't really weigh in on the topic very much - not enough of 'em left in there to talk a lot - but she thinks they all would enjoy any kind of processed sugar they could get their hands on.
And Rogue doesn't disagree.
Plus, since she's got time to kill before the Beta team is scheduled for training, indulging her sweet-teeth seems like a phenomenal idea. Which is precisely what she is doing - propped up on one of the blessedly chilled metal stools in front of the kitchen island - when Jean walks in. Either freshly showered, or freshly in from the sauna outside, given her still-soaked hair, and slightly wet clothes. Rogue's gonna have to go with the former, on account of the scent of lilacs wafting off of her. No one can smell that good soaked in sweat, not even Jean.
"Ohhh! Is that Chunky Monkey?"
Rogue smiles around the spoon in her mouth, producing a garbled: "Uh-huh."
In the space of a heartbeat, the other woman makes for the freezer, and starts scuttling things around. "There any more?"
Rogue shakes her head, though Jean can't see her, buried neck deep in frozen vegetable patties, and loaves of bread as she is. "Nope, but I think I saw a carton of Half-Baked way in the back. Behind the frozen peas."
Jean pulls her head out of the freezer and leans back past the door, one sculpted eyebrow arching. "Hiding provisions for later, are we?"
"Mmmhmm." Rogue gestures in Jean's general direction with her spoon, a bit of frozen banana tumbling off of it, and onto the counter. "Dig around a bit beneath the package of collard greens, there's a stockpile of chocolate chips. If you're interested."
A squeal of delight is followed by a head first dive back into the freezer, the redhead yelling out in triumph when she finds her prize. Arms loaded with goodies, she closes the freezer door with her shoulder and joins Rogue at the island, settling down to prepare her own treat.
The next few minutes are spent debating the relative deliciousness of all the flavor's of Ben & Jerry's they can think of, with Rogue trading off her bottle of caramel syrup for the bag of chips Jean has commandeered - and generally having the most unhealthy and yet delicious afternoon snack either can think of - when Logan saunters into the scene.
The instantaneous stop he comes to upon spotting them, giggling like school girls and licking traces of chocolate from their respective spoons, makes Rogue burst into a full-bodied laugh. Whatever he'd been thinking of on his way into the kitchen must have been distracting enough that he didn't hear or smell them on his way in (which is damn near impossible, Rogue knows, her inner Logan chastising his counterpart for not paying attention, while also grumbling that he understands) and yet, by all appearances, it has now been completely forgotten.
He blinks dumbly for a few seconds, his mouth agape, as he continues to stand there staring at them; his oil-stained tank clinging to his broad chest, and his step frozen mid-stride. Like someone has pressed pause. As delicious as she finds the image, unable to hold herself back from licking her lips at the sight, she also finds that she can't help but poke fun at him for it . An internal growl egging her on, she takes a scoop of ice cream up with her spoon and waves it towards him. "Want some, Logan?" Was that her voice? All deep and sultry like that? Couldn't possibly have been...
Two more blinks. "Huh?"
Jean lets out a very unladylike snort, and bows her head closer to the table, a curtain of hair hiding her face from Logan's view, but not from Rogue, who can see the other woman doing her damnedest not to fall off her stool laughing. Cheeks turning the color of her hair as she holds herself in check.
Logan visibly shakes himself, eyes that had been dark pools a moment before, gaining back some focus as he completes his trek to the fridge. "No." A cough. "Thanks."
Rogue shrugs, and takes the bite for herself, moaning a little at the flavor. "Your loss."
From the depths of the fridge, where Logan has buried himself (Rogue is beginning to notice a pattern with people sticking half their body in the thing just to find something to eat - she knows from experience that you damn near have to go on an expedition just to find pickles), Rogue thinks she hears a mumble that could be an 'I know' though she isn't certain. The little half-laugh that Jean chokes on makes her think that maybe it was.
Eventually, Logan manages to find whatever he's looking for and moves on to the microwave. From the looks of it, Rogue thinks he's uncovered the leftover meat-loaf surprise from the night before. Blech. (The only problem with living in a school during the summer - even a boarding school as nice as the Professor's - was that inevitably some of the staff went on vacation, and the group meals were never quite as good as the rest of the year. Rogue isn't about to complain though, beats living on the streets any day.)
Logan pops his meal into the microwave and sets the thing, before turning back towards the pair of them, and leaning on the counter; his body back-lit by the light inside the little oven. Rogue beams a smile at him, before Jean and her take synchronized bites of ice cream, to which Logan just rolls his eyes. Whatever power they had over him before, now gone. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it a second later, opting just to grumble some more instead. And that makes her smile even more.
It amazes Rogue how just having him in the room with her has upped her enjoyment factor of the afternoon several notches. She loves it when he's home.
The little plate inside the microwave is tick-tick-ticking around in time with the digital countdown, when the whole thing sparks, then fizzles, and finally pops. Sending a spray of fireworks in Logan's direction. He jumps back, claws popping from between his knuckles with a 'snikt', and a low growl in his throat: "What the fuck!"
The overhead light in the kitchen blinks out next, and the regular whirring of the refrigerator comes to an abrupt stop. She groans. "Ugh. Not again, Timmy."
Logan's eyes are darting towards all the exits. Claws still sprung free, his whole body on alert for an attack. A stone of sympathy lodges in her throat at the sight. "Timmy? Who the hell is Timmy?"
The sound of the air conditioner kicking off a moment later plunges the whole room into a silence interrupted only by Logan's heavy breathing and occasional growls. Which she finds too damn sexy in any situation... Rogue lowers her head to the counter, dropping her forehead against it with a thunk. The last thing they need in this weather is to lose power in the place. She finds it hard enough to think sane thoughts when she isn't suffering a heat stroke.
When Jean speaks her voice has that far off quality that it gets with she's talking to someone in her head. "He's a student, Logan. Just started this year."
"And what? He blows up microwaves? Wha' the hell kinda mutation is that?"
"He's an electropath."
Rogue can hear the crinkle in Logan's brow when he speaks. "An awhatapath?"
Jean doesn't answer that time, Rogue figures she's too deep in her internal conversation at the moment so she takes over explaining, raising her head from the counter. "Electropath, Logan." She waves a hand at the light-bulb, and the burnt out microwave. "Means he talks with electronics. Can make 'em do what he wants."
His whole body freezes for a moment, his stare a thousand miles long, stuck on some thought that Rogue can't grasp. She knows that look, knows what it means. The Logan in her head bristling. A memory is tickling the edge of his mind, just out of reach. She aches at the knowledge that he can't grab a hold of it. That they always slip through his fingers like mist. She wishes she could get it back for him. Wishes she could do something to fill the gaps.
The chased memory lost again, he arches a brow, and crosses his arms over his chest, highlighting every inch of muscle in the too-tight tank he wears, still sweat-slicked and dirt-smudge. Despite herself, Rogue has to swallow back the tiny pool of saliva that forms in her mouth at the sight. Down girl. "There a reason he decided to explode my damn lunch?"
Rogue shrugs, but it's Jean who answers, internal conversation obviously done. And she hasn't gone running, so Rogue thinks that must be a good sign. "He can't control it yet, Logan. He's young, and his power isn't stable. Though, this is the first incident we've had in awhile."
"Why the hell haven't I heard of 'im?"
Jean sweeps both hands through her hair, pushing the long strands behind her ears, the ends of them brushing against the counter. "You haven't exactly been here that often, Logan."
He frowns, "I'm around."
"Logan, you go out every night, and can't be found most of the day." Jean's matter-of-fact statement is coated in reproach. Seeing the way that Logan's back straightens, and his body goes tense, Rogue decides to cut off that line of conversation before it escalates into a full argument. The day has been a good one so far, and she doesn't want to see it tainted by tired debate that never goes anywhere.
"Last time was about a week before you got back, Logan. He's gettin' better at it, probably have everythin' back up and runnin' in a few." She turns to Jean, looking for confirmation. "Right?"
"Mmm. He's fine. Just got a little spooked by some of the boys playing by the pool; they threw him in. 'Ro's with him now."
As if on cue, the light flickers back on, and the fridge and AC come back to life. The microwave, however, just sputters before sparking again, and going out. Rogue grins, and aims for cheerful. "See? Everythin's fine, and just one little appliance casualty. Not so bad."
Logan snorts, and snatches his partially heated meal from the remains of the microwave, staring at it before shrugging, grabbing a fork and a stool, and digging in. Any agitation, or broiling anger, dispersed in favor of mystery meat for Logan, and ice cream for Jean.
Rogue licks the last remnants of ice cream from her spoon, and crosses the room to the sink. Rinsing the bowl carefully around her gloves (she's wearing cotton today, and they don't dry that easy), before fumbling it into the dishwasher. She makes her way over to Logan and bumps him with her hip. "We hittin' up Mickey's tonight?"
He glances up at her, dark eyes gone bright with an air of mischief. "Nah, Darlin', some of the boys up that way found two brain cells to rub together. Better lay off there a while. I gotta 'nother place we can check out. Should be decent."
She nods, doing her best to suppress the little shiver of joy that runs through her every time Darlin' passes his lips (that, combined with all the time they've been spending out lately, has kept her in a perpetual good mood), and pats him once on the shoulder, knowing she'll be late if she doesn't get a move on. "Meet you later, then."
"Where you goin'?"
She turns around, walking backwards out of the room. "Danger room session, Sugah." He lifts the corner of his mouth in an almost smile when she gives him a wave and a wink before completing her exit.
She hasn't quite made it out of hearing distance when she catches Jean's laughing voice. "You got some happiness on your mouth there, Logan. Looks good on you."
Logan's growled, "Can it, Jeannie" is audible for quite a bit longer.
~~~\/~~~
Rogue doesn't get to find out just how gullible the patrons of the newest pool hall Logan had planned for them to infiltrate are. Instead, she spends half the night up and waiting for the Alpha team to get back from a last minute mission.
Spends half the night waiting to make sure everyone of them gets back in one piece, knowing she won't be able to sleep otherwise.
But when they return...when they return she finds out that they didn't. Not all of them. And when it is Logan that is wheeled out on a gurney, looking like he went twelve rounds with a farm combine and lost, she's so shocked she can't even scream.
~~~\/~~~
After: Day 5
They are trying. They are all trying so very, very hard. And it makes her ache. Makes her want to stomp and cry, and plead and beg them to let up. To let go. To let her just be. But she doesn't have the strength. Doesn't have the strength, so she goes along with it. A paper-doll pantomiming life.
Pantomiming a life filled with routine. Filled with a routine not unlike before...before...but infinitely so different now that it is after...
After.
In the morning, she gets up. She gets up, and she sits in her bed, and she lowers her feet to the ground. She lowers her feet to the ground and she pads over to the door. Because on the other side, on the other side is Logan. Always. Always Logan. Waiting for her. Sometimes looking as lost and disheveled as she feels, and other times doing a better job with his pantomiming skills.
She pads to the door, and she lets him in, and she makes her way to the bathroom. Leaving him to sit on her bed, or her desk, or her windowsill. Or to just stand awkwardly in the middle of the room if that's what he chooses.
She doesn't really know what he does while he is out there, waiting. She only knows that she finds him in a different spot every time.
She goes into the bathroom, and she looks into the medicine cabinet while she brushes her teeth. Looks in the medicine cabinet because there is no mirror there to look at anymore. Not ever since that first day. That first day when Logan had brought her to her room - brought her to her room swaddled in only the white terry-cloth towel that had been at hand when she was sitting naked on a bathroom floor in the med-lab, and laughing until she cried.
That first day when she had carried her to her room, and set her down on unsteady legs, and she had wandered into the bathroom. Wandered into the bathroom, taken one look in the mirror, and screamed. Screamed and yelled and raged at the shiny surface. Hands balled up into tight little fists as she launched herself at it. The shards scattering and spraying and slicing.
The stitches come out in two to five days.
And it is so odd. The itching that her skin feels around the pieces of thread. Such seemingly insignificant little things, tying and knotting, and keeping her together. She is aware of them, constantly. Wants to pull at them. Pull and pull and pull, until she unravels.
It wasn't so long ago that she wouldn't have needed them. Wasn't so long ago that the glass would have bounced off her, and fallen harmlessly to the floor. Wasn't so long ago that she would have heard a chiding voice in her head when she flinched and blubbered like a little girl at the pain.
Wasn't so long ago. But that's all done now.
They are all gone now.
The teaming masses that piled in her head. One over the other over the other over the other Silenced.
"Marie?"
She blinks, and leans over to rinse the frothy debris from her mouth. Takes a moment to watch it swirl down the drain. Not bothering to answer him even when he calls a second time, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door.
She wipes her mouth, and her hands, on a towel, and pulls the door open. Logan standing just on the other side. Always. Brows pinched tight together, and a frown etched along his face. The mass of him takes up the door frame, the tips of his boots landing just shy of her uncovered toes. His presence fills up all her senses. Heat, dark, tobacco and pine. A steady breath of air. One drag in, one push out. She wants to curl up and into him. Wants to cling to the familiar that he represents. Bury herself in the safety, in the surety, that is Logan.
The hand at her shoulder, shaking her out of her daze, is much too tentative to be Logan's. She is certain. But when she opens her eyes, it is still the wall of him before her. It is his smooth palm grasping at the cotton of her shirt. It is his warmth she is leeching through his skin and the material, and into herself.
She is still leeching things from him.
"Come on, Kid." Eyes too soft, and voice too low with concern. Logan shouldn't ever sound like that. Look like that.
Defeated.
"Grub's on, time to eat."
She nods. Of course. Breakfast is the next part of the routine.
She takes a moment to pull on a pair of thick socks, and throws a sweatshirt on over her upper body, leaving the sweatpants she slept in alone. Logan's brow doesn't furrow, doesn't crease, like it did that first day. That first day she left her room, which was really the second day she was back. That time he had asked her why. Asked her what the hell was up with all the layers.
"I'm cold."
He hasn't asked again since.
~~~\/~~~
There are stares, and whispers, and fearful eyes when she wanders the school.
Or at least, she thinks there should be.
Instead, everyone just looks on with either pity or concern or confusion. Or they don't look on at all. And she really has no idea what is worse.
After the slow-boiling torture that is breakfast. Where she picks and nibbles, and attempts to swallow down solid food while fighting the urge to gag - her flinching at anyone that comes too close, and Logan growling to warn them off - she moves onto the med-lab.
She moves onto the med-lab where Jean - and now Hank, newly arrived from Washington - try to unravel the mystery that is her, with little to no success. Logan pacing and grumbling and snarling every time they go near her with a needle, and her turning her mind off. Tuning out, shutting down, so that they can do their job.
Shuts down so they can their job, and she can get out of there. Out from under the too-bright lights and the too-clean smell, and get back to her room. Back to her room, where it is quiet and warm and the empty spaces inside of her don't seem so large.
Seem more like craters, and less like black holes.
But that isn't part of the routine, so that isn't what happens. Instead, she hangs back. Hangs back and waits. Waits while Logan paces. And Jean and Hank pour over files. Her files. And she wonders what it was that they don't say, that those sheets of paper don't tell the people in front of her, that they keep trying to figure out. That they spend an hour, or more a day, trying to learn.
When they are done, Jean, with a look of sympathy so keen that Marie wants to comfort the other woman, releases her for the day. Releases her to the next part of her routine.
A routine that includes Logan walking with her to meet the Professor. Walks, guides, escorts. A hand so large that it spans her whole lower back, pressed lightly to the small of her spine as they move. Step after step, tile after tile, through the mansion and to Xaviar's office. Leaves her at the door with a grimace that is probably meant to be a smile, and tells her he'll see her in an hour.
She wonders if he merely sits outside the room and waits. Listens. Or if he goes somewhere else. Somewhere else to burn off the tension that coils around him like a snake.
Her wondering is answered ten minutes later, when instead of drinking her usual afternoon tea with the Professor and pretending she can taste it, and him trying to get her to open up about what happened without ever calling her a murderer, she starts to scream.
She starts to scream and writhe and flail. Words and phrases and epithets spilling forth from her in English and German and French. Her body hitting the floor, and her spine arching up off of it; an electroshock of pain. Her skin flickering from blue to green to porcelain pale.
And then Logan is there. Logan is there, hovering over her, a look of fear such as she has never seen before on his face.
Logan is there. Watching over her. Like always.
On to Chapter 3