Fic: The Unrequited Kind (3/4)
Summary: Sometimes love is the unrequited kind. Rogue is growing up. Logan is in love with Jean. And nothing is simple.
Genre: Yup. Still angst. With a bit of goriness on the side.
Verse / Rating: Set after X1 / NC17
Disclaimer: I don't own, so please don't sue. I'd hate to be forced to give up my 40 ft yacht, my team of buff shirtless masseurs and my holiday home in the Bahamas
A/N: As before, no beta on this one, so apologies for any errors, goblins or gremlins. Especially the British breed. Just got back from holiday as well, so my brain's all fuzzy and I'm sorry that I've not had chance to reply to anyone's comments this week. Didn't even have a hint of an internet connection where we were staying (just a beach... sigh... hard life *g*) It was lovely to come back and find them in my inbox though - so thank you! :oD
After the first mission, I throw myself into my training. I decide to take a different track and ignore the tensions running rife through the mansion in the hope that they will go away. But they don’t. The longer Logan stays. The worse they get.
Since Scott and Jean got engaged I know she’s not sleeping with Logan any more, although I can’t quite bring myself to a place where I can give Jean credit for that. Even though I know Logan flirts like hell. Especially when Scott’s around.
There will be a sidelong glance, a touch that lingers a little too long. And the next day Logan will be sent on a solo mission that takes him far away from the Mansion.
A week later and the game will begin anew. A casual comment. Some idle gossip. And suddenly Scott feels the need to throw a belated engagement party. We can all see what he’s doing. He just wants to rub Logan’s nose in it. Stake his claim.
To be honest I don’t even blame him.
It’s late now, and the celebrations have been going most of the night, but I’ve reached my limit of enforced happiness. With a slight wave to Jubilee, I step outside, instantly relishing the freshness of the night air on my face and the muffling of the music as the door shuts behind me.
I sigh to myself. Better. This is better.
Logan of course, although invited, didn’t show. There were speeches, congratulations, but he remained conspicuous only by his absence.
I find him by the lake with a six pack and a cigar for company. He’s on his back, just staring blankly upwards. There’s already several empty bottles beside him. Big ones. The sort that hold strong liquor.
He says nothing as I approach, but he must know I’m here. He will have heard me long before I even saw him, yet he remains stubbornly quiet.
I’m the one forced to break the silence.
“So are you star gazing? Or are you just drunk?”
To my relief that brings a ghost of a smile to his face. He doesn’t look up at me, just pats the empty ground beside him in invitation. “Haven’t decided yet, kid.”
I’m not sure what sort of an answer that is, but I go and sit by him anyway. It really is a pretty night. The sky is completely clear, a vast pool of black speckled with flecks of brilliant light.
“You want a beer?”
Not really, but at least it will give me something to do with my hands. I shrug. “Okay.”
He sits up to pass me one, and our bare fingers brush for a second. I’ve been practising, my control’s been getting better, and I’m not wearing gloves tonight.
As my fingers close round the bottle, his gaze lingers just a little too long.
“How’s that comin’?” he asks.
“My control? Not bad.” I smooth my thumb over the thick glass and revel at the feel of it without the barrier of cloth. “The Professor’s been helping me concentrate. I’ve increased my time from a few moments, to almost an hour.” Words can’t describe how proud I am at that. It’s not easy. In fact it’s a constant uphill struggle. But it is improving.
Slowly.
“I’m pleased for you.” And I know he genuinely is. He knows how much I want this. A chance to be normal.
I take a long swig of my beer to hide what could almost be a smile. Then he brings the conversation back round to her.
“How’s the party?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice.
I try not to let my disappointment show. “You know,” I shrug, forcing my voice to remain light. “Same old. Speeches, dancing, more speeches.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s not that bad. Just a little overcrowded, that’s all.” I felt like I was suffocating in there. All those people, all dancing, having fun, pressed in against each other. I had to get out. “I needed some fresh air and open space.”
A hint of a smile touches the corners of his mouth. “You sound like me when you say stuff like that.”
I take another swig of my beer and don’t point out the obvious. “It’s a nice night,” I say in my defence. “It’s calm out here, there’s nothing but the sound of the trees… and the lake sloshing over the stones…”
“And the dull thump of the music from inside.”
“That too.” I smirk, and he huffs out something that's almost a laugh.
But all too soon it fades. And then he’s looking at me so strangely. “Why’d you come here Marie? Really? Why do you bother with me?”
Something crushes within me, the moment suddenly gone. I don’t want to answer that, I don’t even know how to. So I stand up. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
“No.” I think the word comes out more forcefully than he expected. So he adds, “Stay. I’ve had a hell of a day. Could use the company.”
His hand reaches out for mine and holds it firmly, pulling me back down. It’s strong and warm, and all the while a silent battle is raging inside my head. I mustn’t show him how I feel. I mustn’t give myself away. And on top of that I have to fight for control, to stop my skin from sucking him in.
I can’t hold it off for long. I can’t concentrate and I’m forced to pull away. It happens a little more sharply than I intended, and a brief frown crosses his face, before I’m compelled to explain with a quiet, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
He gives me a nod, and doesn’t push the matter.
We talk then, about the safe things. Fight tactics. Missions. Meetings. Training. He drinks more and more. More than I’ve ever seen him drink, but when the night grows too cold he still insists on walking me back to the Mansion. Which is stupid really. No one can get in to the grounds here, and even if they could, I’m perfectly able to defend myself.
When we get to my door however, he hesitates. Usually he just gives me a rough hug or drops a chaste kiss on my cheek and leaves. But tonight he hovers close. Leaning closer, until my back is pressed against the wood in an effort to keep that distance I need.
A hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair back from my face, and those two furrows appear, lining his forehead. “What goes on in that head of yours?” he says, almost with an element of curiosity. His voice is soft, but remains perfectly level. There’s no sign of the drink lacing it. “You’re so quiet. So closed off to everyone. Even me.”
The hand reaches for my cheek and I flinch back slightly, a reflex from the days when my skin could kill.
“Rogue?”
Oh.
I hate it when he uses that name. Even when he says it softly, like he does.
I stare down at my feet.
“Look at me.”
My shoulders rise and fall, and I turn my head to the side, but I do not meet his gaze. Not until he reaches a thumb under my chin and tilts it up, so I am forced. My thought’s laid bare to those hazel eyes.
I want to hide it from him. I want to so badly, but my chin trembles and I know I’m not able to. Not this time.
A strange look crosses his face. “I see,” he says. And for the first time, I know that he knows.
He sees me.
Hot colour flairs up in my cheeks and I try and push him away. “Please, just go.”
But he’s being stubborn, refusing to do as I ask, so I decide to make the first move instead. My fingers fumble for the door handle behind me and I twist it open.
For a moment I think I’ve got away with it, but he sees the movement and catches my shoulder before I can escape into my room. Then he steps closer, invading my space, his jeans almost brushing against mine.
He drops that brotherly kiss on my cheek, before he turns to go.
My fingers are shaking, but I manage to close the door behind me before I sink back against the wall, the silent tears of frustration running in blotchy streams down my face as I slide down to the floor and bury my head in my hands.
Logan disappeared again. No one was surprised.
He took off. Presumably because he couldn’t handle Scott and Jean and their togetherness. Even I can’t handle them right now. I’m feeling sore and bitter and God damn it everyone else should be too.
Up until last week, until that night by the lake, I could tell myself that there was nothing between Logan and I because he didn’t know how I felt. Because I was so good at keeping it a secret. Ha. What a big fat lie that turned out to be.
He knows. And he still took off. And all that he left was one small note, weighted down with a mug on my desk.
Didn’t want to make things awkward for you.
Heh. Yeah thanks Logan. Didn’t want to have to make me feel bad for wanting him when he could give nothing in return. So considerate.
I threw the note away and stormed out of my room. Then five minutes later, I came back and pulled it out of the trash, just in case. There was still some stupid feeble residue of hope.
It’s still hidden in my draw between a book and a postcard of the town I grew up in.
I wish it didn’t hurt as much as it does.
Life determinedly trips on by, but I can’t concentrate on anything. My training slacks off, I still work hard, but my heart’s not in it. Scott snaps at me for missing obvious threats. I can’t focus, and that worries me. I don’t want to become a liability. I’m already enough of a danger as it is with my skin.
And that’s another thing. Maybe it’s because I’m not practising every day with Bobby, maybe it’s because the hope that kept me going gazed moon-eyed at Jean, then ran back off to Canada, who knows, but my control's not as strong. It’s fading.
Sometimes I can get a grip on it, I can go for nearly an hour, act like I'm normal. But others… it wrenches out of my grasp. I hurt Jubilee the other day. Badly. We were only working out together, she knocked me for six and held out a hand to pull me to my feet. My mutation kicked in before I had time to even register it.
She went down so fast I was terrified. She didn’t have time to react, her face was just frozen in shock and she crumpled without a sound. She had to spend the night in the med bay and she’s still unsteady on her feet. She keeps telling me it wasn’t my fault, but she’s not Logan, she doesn’t heal from these things, and I feel sick about what I could have done to her.
It’s this that fuels my decision to get away for a while.
I seek out the Professor. Ask for some time off. It’s not like I’ve had any other vacation time, and I think he, more than anyone else, is aware of what’s going on in my head.
Heh. He’s probably even more aware than I am.
I borrow the beat up old truck that stands out like an eyesore next to the metallic sleekness of the classic car collection in the garage. Scott’s only too pleased to let me have it, he practically forces the keys upon me. It’s only when I go to explore my new acquisition that I discover it has Logan’s touch all over it. Another one of his projects. Just like me. No wonder Scott wanted to get rid of it.
I head down south, back towards the place where I grew up. It’s a long journey by road, but I don’t mind. I like the solitude. It gives me time to think. I enjoy the strange break from routine. I sleep when I want, eat when I want, and I don’t have to worry about accidentally touching someone when my power’s turned on.
I can tell, now, when I'm alone. Tell if it's on or off. It's subtle. Just an edge of a feeling. But its enough for me to notice.
Enough for me to practice with.
All by myself I increase my time to two hours. Then three. Then an entire morning. Yesterday I even touched a complete stranger. The guy behind the counter at a cheap diner. He brushed my hand when passing me my change, completely unaware of what a big step this was for me.
I take the journey to my home state slow, stop off at lots of places along the way. I tell myself that it’s because I’m savouring it, but I think if I’m honest it’s more to do with being nervous of what I’ll find when I get there. Each familiar landmark jolts a memory.
I had only planned to go as far as the outskirts. Stay for a while, enjoy the Southern food. But now I’m here and I’m so close, I can’t quite resist the draw of going home.
I find myself driving the old streets of my home town without really planning to be there. When I stop at a light, I take the opportunity to look around. I remember walking down this stretch of the sidewalk so many times. Some of the shops have changed, but others are still exactly as they were, almost frozen in time. The sign on the laundromat is still broken. Groups of students still hang around outside the school, smoking and laughing as they lounge over the steps out front.
I wonder what my old friends are doing now. Would they even recognise me? Did they know why I left?
Butterflies flutter nervously in my stomach as the lights change and I drive on. I head down my street to pull up outside my old house. My heart aches to see it. So familiar. So many things exactly the same. This is where I grew up. The tree over there, I fell out of that when I was five. The gate dad always used to yell at me for swinging on. The scent of early blossoms that smell so much like home that it almost makes me want to cry.
I never thought I’d come back here.
My hand finds the handle of the truck and I wonder if I’ve got the courage to get out and knock on the front door. What would happen if I did? Would they be happy to see me?
But then the car that pulls up in the drive is unfamiliar, and the people that step out unknown to me. A mother helps her daughter out of the back seat. A father shields his eyes from the sun as he looks across the road at my battered car and wonders who I am, and my heart sinks.
They’ve gone.
Several days later and I'm in an average motel room. It has an average sized bed, an average roll up blind, and average coloured carpet. Grey-ish. With a faded blue squares. A less than average TV sits on a dresser. An cheap bottle of water stands behind two average sized glasses. It's the same as every other motel room I've stayed in for the past month.
Maybe it's time to go home.
I don't move though. Don't get up from my place on the bed.
It's strange. I know I can move. I know I could make that decision. In fact, I know that I even want to.
I just... don't.
Maybe I'm just average, too.
Eventually I fall asleep. I dream of my childhood and swinging around in circles on that rope swing beneath the tree in the yard. I sleep heavily, well into the following morning. It's as if I haven't truly slept in years.
The loud ring of my cell phone jolts me awake. It takes me a few moments to realise it's not the alarm. I fumble around on the average dresser beside me, find the offending object and briefly consider simply switching it off. But that's not who I am.
I sit up, rub a hand over my face before answering. “Hello?”
“Rogue.”
“Scott?” My heart immediately speeds up. He's not the last person I'd expect to hear from, but he's hardly the first. Something must be wrong. “What is it?”
He gets straight to the point. Calm. Controlled. As always. “We’ve got another pick up,” he says. “We could really use your help on this one.”
Turns out that I'm the closest. The rest of the team can't be here for several hours and they need someone to go in and scout out the situation.
Of course I said yes. How could I not?
My first solo mission.
I get there by following Scott's detailed directions. He took the time to go through them with me properly. Preparation, he said. It was important.
The Logan in me wanted to go rushing right in and tear something up. Strange how that part always seems to rise to the front in situations like this.
It's not a long drive. Half an hour, at most. To a backwater place that's almost hidden by the trees surrounding it.
When I do get there, I realise it's a disaster. Literally.
It was a safe house for mutants, at least, that's what Scott was told. There's not much left of it now, though. A fire has eaten away at most of the roof, leaving a smoking dark hole in its stead. The walls are clean and upright in some places, with curtains still attached and waving lightly in the wind, while in other places they're little more than piles of rubble.
I hear someone wailing. It smells like charred wood and death.
I reach for my cell. Thumb in the number blindly, listen to it ring without taking my eyes of the carnage sprawled in front of me. How many people lived here? It's huge, almost the size of the school.
“Rogue.” Scott’s voice is authoritative, reassuring. It feels close, like he's stood behind me, coaching me in class, not down the other end of the phone. “We're on our way. ETA three hours. Can you give us an update?”
I don't know what to say to that. It looks like the place has been bombed to hell. How could anyone have survived that?
“Rouge?”
“It's a mess,” I say quietly.
Scott doesn't judge the tremor in my voice. “You can wait for us,” he says. “No one expects you to-”
“No,” I say back, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. Suddenly the chance to be able to do something, something that doesn’t involve Logan, that doesn’t involve any of them fills me with more sense of purpose than I have felt in months. “I can handle it.” And I flip my cell shut before I have time to change my mind.
I know Scott will send in backup when he gets here. I know the emergency services won't be called. Not for a place like this. I’m not stupid. But I have three hours in which to make a difference. Or at least, a start.
The first body I find is just that. A body. Nothing much left of the person it used to be. I try not to gag as I move on past. Pick my way through the rubble.
The next body is just the same. And the next. The fourth was only a child. There's not much left of the right side of his face, but his dark hair is still glossy and well kept. Like he was made to wash it just this morning.
I turn away. I'm too horrified to even cry.
The fifth body is not even recognisable. This time I am sick. I crouch, doubled over, leaning on the remains of an armchair. It still has half of its patterned quilt draped over the back, and I clutch at it as I wretch. I can't help myself. I get up afterwards, though. I don't let it stop me. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and carry on.
The deeper I go into the shell of the house, the more dangerous the way becomes. My training comes into play; assessing the situation; recognising the instability of the floor. The stairs look likely to collapse at any time. The crying that I heard earlier is getting louder though, so I don't stop. I head in further. There has got to be at least one person I can save. There has to.
I need there to be.
Because if I can't do this, then I can't do anything.
I head up the broken staircase even though I know it's not safe. I'm not reckless, far from it. In fact, my legs are shaking as they carry me upwards. I'm terrified. But I don't turn back. I walk carefully along a broken corridor. Most of the wall is missing, but at the end one door remains.
When I open that, I find what I'm looking for. Two of them. Huddled together in a black sooty mess. Neither can be any more than fourteen.
I take my time, ask them to trust me. I try and be like Ororo; calm amid the chaos. It's not easy, I tell them. Trusting someone after what they've been through. But if they let me help, then I can show them the way out.
I tell them to shut their eyes as I lead them. They let me guide them. Hands clasped on to my hands. No gloves. Just trust and terror all mixed up.
When they're outside and sitting on the ruined front drive, I head back in. Determined.
By the time Scott and the rest of the team arrives, I'm as covered in grime and soot as the survivors. And there are seven of them. Seven people who's lives I have helped save today. And I'm not sure how to handle that. Or what to make of it.
The only thing I know for sure is that I'm exhausted. As soon as I sit down, I simply fall asleep.
Genre: Yup. Still angst. With a bit of goriness on the side.
Verse / Rating: Set after X1 / NC17
Disclaimer: I don't own, so please don't sue. I'd hate to be forced to give up my 40 ft yacht, my team of buff shirtless masseurs and my holiday home in the Bahamas
A/N: As before, no beta on this one, so apologies for any errors, goblins or gremlins. Especially the British breed. Just got back from holiday as well, so my brain's all fuzzy and I'm sorry that I've not had chance to reply to anyone's comments this week. Didn't even have a hint of an internet connection where we were staying (just a beach... sigh... hard life *g*) It was lovely to come back and find them in my inbox though - so thank you! :oD
After the first mission, I throw myself into my training. I decide to take a different track and ignore the tensions running rife through the mansion in the hope that they will go away. But they don’t. The longer Logan stays. The worse they get.
Since Scott and Jean got engaged I know she’s not sleeping with Logan any more, although I can’t quite bring myself to a place where I can give Jean credit for that. Even though I know Logan flirts like hell. Especially when Scott’s around.
There will be a sidelong glance, a touch that lingers a little too long. And the next day Logan will be sent on a solo mission that takes him far away from the Mansion.
A week later and the game will begin anew. A casual comment. Some idle gossip. And suddenly Scott feels the need to throw a belated engagement party. We can all see what he’s doing. He just wants to rub Logan’s nose in it. Stake his claim.
To be honest I don’t even blame him.
It’s late now, and the celebrations have been going most of the night, but I’ve reached my limit of enforced happiness. With a slight wave to Jubilee, I step outside, instantly relishing the freshness of the night air on my face and the muffling of the music as the door shuts behind me.
I sigh to myself. Better. This is better.
Logan of course, although invited, didn’t show. There were speeches, congratulations, but he remained conspicuous only by his absence.
I find him by the lake with a six pack and a cigar for company. He’s on his back, just staring blankly upwards. There’s already several empty bottles beside him. Big ones. The sort that hold strong liquor.
He says nothing as I approach, but he must know I’m here. He will have heard me long before I even saw him, yet he remains stubbornly quiet.
I’m the one forced to break the silence.
“So are you star gazing? Or are you just drunk?”
To my relief that brings a ghost of a smile to his face. He doesn’t look up at me, just pats the empty ground beside him in invitation. “Haven’t decided yet, kid.”
I’m not sure what sort of an answer that is, but I go and sit by him anyway. It really is a pretty night. The sky is completely clear, a vast pool of black speckled with flecks of brilliant light.
“You want a beer?”
Not really, but at least it will give me something to do with my hands. I shrug. “Okay.”
He sits up to pass me one, and our bare fingers brush for a second. I’ve been practising, my control’s been getting better, and I’m not wearing gloves tonight.
As my fingers close round the bottle, his gaze lingers just a little too long.
“How’s that comin’?” he asks.
“My control? Not bad.” I smooth my thumb over the thick glass and revel at the feel of it without the barrier of cloth. “The Professor’s been helping me concentrate. I’ve increased my time from a few moments, to almost an hour.” Words can’t describe how proud I am at that. It’s not easy. In fact it’s a constant uphill struggle. But it is improving.
Slowly.
“I’m pleased for you.” And I know he genuinely is. He knows how much I want this. A chance to be normal.
I take a long swig of my beer to hide what could almost be a smile. Then he brings the conversation back round to her.
“How’s the party?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice.
I try not to let my disappointment show. “You know,” I shrug, forcing my voice to remain light. “Same old. Speeches, dancing, more speeches.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s not that bad. Just a little overcrowded, that’s all.” I felt like I was suffocating in there. All those people, all dancing, having fun, pressed in against each other. I had to get out. “I needed some fresh air and open space.”
A hint of a smile touches the corners of his mouth. “You sound like me when you say stuff like that.”
I take another swig of my beer and don’t point out the obvious. “It’s a nice night,” I say in my defence. “It’s calm out here, there’s nothing but the sound of the trees… and the lake sloshing over the stones…”
“And the dull thump of the music from inside.”
“That too.” I smirk, and he huffs out something that's almost a laugh.
But all too soon it fades. And then he’s looking at me so strangely. “Why’d you come here Marie? Really? Why do you bother with me?”
Something crushes within me, the moment suddenly gone. I don’t want to answer that, I don’t even know how to. So I stand up. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
“No.” I think the word comes out more forcefully than he expected. So he adds, “Stay. I’ve had a hell of a day. Could use the company.”
His hand reaches out for mine and holds it firmly, pulling me back down. It’s strong and warm, and all the while a silent battle is raging inside my head. I mustn’t show him how I feel. I mustn’t give myself away. And on top of that I have to fight for control, to stop my skin from sucking him in.
I can’t hold it off for long. I can’t concentrate and I’m forced to pull away. It happens a little more sharply than I intended, and a brief frown crosses his face, before I’m compelled to explain with a quiet, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
He gives me a nod, and doesn’t push the matter.
We talk then, about the safe things. Fight tactics. Missions. Meetings. Training. He drinks more and more. More than I’ve ever seen him drink, but when the night grows too cold he still insists on walking me back to the Mansion. Which is stupid really. No one can get in to the grounds here, and even if they could, I’m perfectly able to defend myself.
When we get to my door however, he hesitates. Usually he just gives me a rough hug or drops a chaste kiss on my cheek and leaves. But tonight he hovers close. Leaning closer, until my back is pressed against the wood in an effort to keep that distance I need.
A hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair back from my face, and those two furrows appear, lining his forehead. “What goes on in that head of yours?” he says, almost with an element of curiosity. His voice is soft, but remains perfectly level. There’s no sign of the drink lacing it. “You’re so quiet. So closed off to everyone. Even me.”
The hand reaches for my cheek and I flinch back slightly, a reflex from the days when my skin could kill.
“Rogue?”
Oh.
I hate it when he uses that name. Even when he says it softly, like he does.
I stare down at my feet.
“Look at me.”
My shoulders rise and fall, and I turn my head to the side, but I do not meet his gaze. Not until he reaches a thumb under my chin and tilts it up, so I am forced. My thought’s laid bare to those hazel eyes.
I want to hide it from him. I want to so badly, but my chin trembles and I know I’m not able to. Not this time.
A strange look crosses his face. “I see,” he says. And for the first time, I know that he knows.
He sees me.
Hot colour flairs up in my cheeks and I try and push him away. “Please, just go.”
But he’s being stubborn, refusing to do as I ask, so I decide to make the first move instead. My fingers fumble for the door handle behind me and I twist it open.
For a moment I think I’ve got away with it, but he sees the movement and catches my shoulder before I can escape into my room. Then he steps closer, invading my space, his jeans almost brushing against mine.
He drops that brotherly kiss on my cheek, before he turns to go.
My fingers are shaking, but I manage to close the door behind me before I sink back against the wall, the silent tears of frustration running in blotchy streams down my face as I slide down to the floor and bury my head in my hands.
Logan disappeared again. No one was surprised.
He took off. Presumably because he couldn’t handle Scott and Jean and their togetherness. Even I can’t handle them right now. I’m feeling sore and bitter and God damn it everyone else should be too.
Up until last week, until that night by the lake, I could tell myself that there was nothing between Logan and I because he didn’t know how I felt. Because I was so good at keeping it a secret. Ha. What a big fat lie that turned out to be.
He knows. And he still took off. And all that he left was one small note, weighted down with a mug on my desk.
Didn’t want to make things awkward for you.
Heh. Yeah thanks Logan. Didn’t want to have to make me feel bad for wanting him when he could give nothing in return. So considerate.
I threw the note away and stormed out of my room. Then five minutes later, I came back and pulled it out of the trash, just in case. There was still some stupid feeble residue of hope.
It’s still hidden in my draw between a book and a postcard of the town I grew up in.
I wish it didn’t hurt as much as it does.
Life determinedly trips on by, but I can’t concentrate on anything. My training slacks off, I still work hard, but my heart’s not in it. Scott snaps at me for missing obvious threats. I can’t focus, and that worries me. I don’t want to become a liability. I’m already enough of a danger as it is with my skin.
And that’s another thing. Maybe it’s because I’m not practising every day with Bobby, maybe it’s because the hope that kept me going gazed moon-eyed at Jean, then ran back off to Canada, who knows, but my control's not as strong. It’s fading.
Sometimes I can get a grip on it, I can go for nearly an hour, act like I'm normal. But others… it wrenches out of my grasp. I hurt Jubilee the other day. Badly. We were only working out together, she knocked me for six and held out a hand to pull me to my feet. My mutation kicked in before I had time to even register it.
She went down so fast I was terrified. She didn’t have time to react, her face was just frozen in shock and she crumpled without a sound. She had to spend the night in the med bay and she’s still unsteady on her feet. She keeps telling me it wasn’t my fault, but she’s not Logan, she doesn’t heal from these things, and I feel sick about what I could have done to her.
It’s this that fuels my decision to get away for a while.
I seek out the Professor. Ask for some time off. It’s not like I’ve had any other vacation time, and I think he, more than anyone else, is aware of what’s going on in my head.
Heh. He’s probably even more aware than I am.
I borrow the beat up old truck that stands out like an eyesore next to the metallic sleekness of the classic car collection in the garage. Scott’s only too pleased to let me have it, he practically forces the keys upon me. It’s only when I go to explore my new acquisition that I discover it has Logan’s touch all over it. Another one of his projects. Just like me. No wonder Scott wanted to get rid of it.
I head down south, back towards the place where I grew up. It’s a long journey by road, but I don’t mind. I like the solitude. It gives me time to think. I enjoy the strange break from routine. I sleep when I want, eat when I want, and I don’t have to worry about accidentally touching someone when my power’s turned on.
I can tell, now, when I'm alone. Tell if it's on or off. It's subtle. Just an edge of a feeling. But its enough for me to notice.
Enough for me to practice with.
All by myself I increase my time to two hours. Then three. Then an entire morning. Yesterday I even touched a complete stranger. The guy behind the counter at a cheap diner. He brushed my hand when passing me my change, completely unaware of what a big step this was for me.
I take the journey to my home state slow, stop off at lots of places along the way. I tell myself that it’s because I’m savouring it, but I think if I’m honest it’s more to do with being nervous of what I’ll find when I get there. Each familiar landmark jolts a memory.
I had only planned to go as far as the outskirts. Stay for a while, enjoy the Southern food. But now I’m here and I’m so close, I can’t quite resist the draw of going home.
I find myself driving the old streets of my home town without really planning to be there. When I stop at a light, I take the opportunity to look around. I remember walking down this stretch of the sidewalk so many times. Some of the shops have changed, but others are still exactly as they were, almost frozen in time. The sign on the laundromat is still broken. Groups of students still hang around outside the school, smoking and laughing as they lounge over the steps out front.
I wonder what my old friends are doing now. Would they even recognise me? Did they know why I left?
Butterflies flutter nervously in my stomach as the lights change and I drive on. I head down my street to pull up outside my old house. My heart aches to see it. So familiar. So many things exactly the same. This is where I grew up. The tree over there, I fell out of that when I was five. The gate dad always used to yell at me for swinging on. The scent of early blossoms that smell so much like home that it almost makes me want to cry.
I never thought I’d come back here.
My hand finds the handle of the truck and I wonder if I’ve got the courage to get out and knock on the front door. What would happen if I did? Would they be happy to see me?
But then the car that pulls up in the drive is unfamiliar, and the people that step out unknown to me. A mother helps her daughter out of the back seat. A father shields his eyes from the sun as he looks across the road at my battered car and wonders who I am, and my heart sinks.
They’ve gone.
Several days later and I'm in an average motel room. It has an average sized bed, an average roll up blind, and average coloured carpet. Grey-ish. With a faded blue squares. A less than average TV sits on a dresser. An cheap bottle of water stands behind two average sized glasses. It's the same as every other motel room I've stayed in for the past month.
Maybe it's time to go home.
I don't move though. Don't get up from my place on the bed.
It's strange. I know I can move. I know I could make that decision. In fact, I know that I even want to.
I just... don't.
Maybe I'm just average, too.
Eventually I fall asleep. I dream of my childhood and swinging around in circles on that rope swing beneath the tree in the yard. I sleep heavily, well into the following morning. It's as if I haven't truly slept in years.
The loud ring of my cell phone jolts me awake. It takes me a few moments to realise it's not the alarm. I fumble around on the average dresser beside me, find the offending object and briefly consider simply switching it off. But that's not who I am.
I sit up, rub a hand over my face before answering. “Hello?”
“Rogue.”
“Scott?” My heart immediately speeds up. He's not the last person I'd expect to hear from, but he's hardly the first. Something must be wrong. “What is it?”
He gets straight to the point. Calm. Controlled. As always. “We’ve got another pick up,” he says. “We could really use your help on this one.”
Turns out that I'm the closest. The rest of the team can't be here for several hours and they need someone to go in and scout out the situation.
Of course I said yes. How could I not?
My first solo mission.
I get there by following Scott's detailed directions. He took the time to go through them with me properly. Preparation, he said. It was important.
The Logan in me wanted to go rushing right in and tear something up. Strange how that part always seems to rise to the front in situations like this.
It's not a long drive. Half an hour, at most. To a backwater place that's almost hidden by the trees surrounding it.
When I do get there, I realise it's a disaster. Literally.
It was a safe house for mutants, at least, that's what Scott was told. There's not much left of it now, though. A fire has eaten away at most of the roof, leaving a smoking dark hole in its stead. The walls are clean and upright in some places, with curtains still attached and waving lightly in the wind, while in other places they're little more than piles of rubble.
I hear someone wailing. It smells like charred wood and death.
I reach for my cell. Thumb in the number blindly, listen to it ring without taking my eyes of the carnage sprawled in front of me. How many people lived here? It's huge, almost the size of the school.
“Rogue.” Scott’s voice is authoritative, reassuring. It feels close, like he's stood behind me, coaching me in class, not down the other end of the phone. “We're on our way. ETA three hours. Can you give us an update?”
I don't know what to say to that. It looks like the place has been bombed to hell. How could anyone have survived that?
“Rouge?”
“It's a mess,” I say quietly.
Scott doesn't judge the tremor in my voice. “You can wait for us,” he says. “No one expects you to-”
“No,” I say back, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. Suddenly the chance to be able to do something, something that doesn’t involve Logan, that doesn’t involve any of them fills me with more sense of purpose than I have felt in months. “I can handle it.” And I flip my cell shut before I have time to change my mind.
I know Scott will send in backup when he gets here. I know the emergency services won't be called. Not for a place like this. I’m not stupid. But I have three hours in which to make a difference. Or at least, a start.
The first body I find is just that. A body. Nothing much left of the person it used to be. I try not to gag as I move on past. Pick my way through the rubble.
The next body is just the same. And the next. The fourth was only a child. There's not much left of the right side of his face, but his dark hair is still glossy and well kept. Like he was made to wash it just this morning.
I turn away. I'm too horrified to even cry.
The fifth body is not even recognisable. This time I am sick. I crouch, doubled over, leaning on the remains of an armchair. It still has half of its patterned quilt draped over the back, and I clutch at it as I wretch. I can't help myself. I get up afterwards, though. I don't let it stop me. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and carry on.
The deeper I go into the shell of the house, the more dangerous the way becomes. My training comes into play; assessing the situation; recognising the instability of the floor. The stairs look likely to collapse at any time. The crying that I heard earlier is getting louder though, so I don't stop. I head in further. There has got to be at least one person I can save. There has to.
I need there to be.
Because if I can't do this, then I can't do anything.
I head up the broken staircase even though I know it's not safe. I'm not reckless, far from it. In fact, my legs are shaking as they carry me upwards. I'm terrified. But I don't turn back. I walk carefully along a broken corridor. Most of the wall is missing, but at the end one door remains.
When I open that, I find what I'm looking for. Two of them. Huddled together in a black sooty mess. Neither can be any more than fourteen.
I take my time, ask them to trust me. I try and be like Ororo; calm amid the chaos. It's not easy, I tell them. Trusting someone after what they've been through. But if they let me help, then I can show them the way out.
I tell them to shut their eyes as I lead them. They let me guide them. Hands clasped on to my hands. No gloves. Just trust and terror all mixed up.
When they're outside and sitting on the ruined front drive, I head back in. Determined.
By the time Scott and the rest of the team arrives, I'm as covered in grime and soot as the survivors. And there are seven of them. Seven people who's lives I have helped save today. And I'm not sure how to handle that. Or what to make of it.
The only thing I know for sure is that I'm exhausted. As soon as I sit down, I simply fall asleep.