There is something she hasn’t told to anybody. A secret.

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“Hey, Rogue! Are you coming to the mall with us?”
“Sure, Jubes. Let me just grab my purse.”

She knows that the professor and Jean both know that something is different in her. She sometimes catches the professor looking at her with unreadable look on his face. She often meets Jean’s gaze, filled with questions and concern, but as long as she keeps up with other students they let it slide. Everybody in Xavier’s little haven is entitled to their little quirks.

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“Ready to play some serious foosball?”
“I’m going to kick your ass, Iceman!”
“In your dreams, girl, in your dreams…”

She holds her secret close to her heart. Always in mind, not forgotten. Always there, comforting weight upon her shoulders.

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“Johnny, no!”
“Oh, yes!”
“You can’t! Mr. Summers will ground you for life if you do that!”
“He’ll have to catch me first. Come on, fuse is burning already!”
“Johnny, you’re an ass! Johnny? Johnny, wait up! You can’t blow up that outhouse!”

And somewhere in the back of her mind a silent presence stirs, mildly amused when rickety outhouse blows up. Brief memory of the same trick, done decades earlier flares up, burning off as quickly as a matchstick in the wind. She smirks and bolts after Johnny before the noise draws Mr. Summers to explore the culprit. At least there was nobody inside of the outhouse that Johnny blew up.

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“This will put some hairs on your chest!”
“No thanks, Jubes. Got all the hair I need right here, on my head. But I’ll have that beer thank-you-very-much…”

A beer. A night. Scent of cigars and pine. Crisp snow. In the middle of heat wave of the decade? She shakes her head and takes a sip, enjoying the brew as it trickles down her throat.

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“Just be careful. The flame is nearly invisible, but extremely hot.”
“M… Mr. Summers? I don’t… I don’t feel so well…”
“Rogue? You do look a little pale. You’re excused. Go and see Dr. Grey, she’ll write a note to you for the rest of this day.”

Mere sight of a blowtorch, and the scent of burning metal at shop class raises a barrage of horrid images. She goes through the checklist Mr. Summers taught them at the beginning of the class. Close the gas vents. Check that nothing’s burning. Cool off the metal. She tries not to scream when hot chunk of iron hisses as it hits the water, spitting droplets, steaming. Somebody is screaming, but nobody around her hears those cries of absolute horror. She leaves the room just in time, revolting stench of sizzling hot metal stays with her for the rest of the day, but the scalpel closing in on her skin stayed back behind the door she closed.

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“You’re so dead!”
“No, you are!”
“No, you.”
“You! I win!”

Thumb wrestling instead of kissing. When Bobby’s face is only inches apart from hers, she can actually feel those lips on hers. Harder, more masculine than they look and there’s a prickly feel of stubble, but if she really concentrates it’s almost as if she was kissing Bobby. Then they’re apart and she’s running with great leaps towards the grand entrance because he’s back. Standing there, battered knapsack flung over one shoulder, hands stuffed deep in to his pockets. He cocks his head and smiles.

“Enjoying the ride?”
“Most of the times. Welcome back home!”

For a moment she revels in the feel of those hands around her, strong and unwavering. Then Bobby’s there, and the pissing contest between the men in her life begins.