He drove off. The bastard. What kind of guy just leaves an innocent little girl standing in the middle of the road, in the middle of frickin' Canada for Christ's sake? And, oh goody, it's starting to snow. Brilliant, because this is just icing on an already shitty cake.
And - wait a second. Just. Wait. He stopped, or at least paused, and I don't have time to think right now. Got to pick up my bag and run over there before he changes his mind. God only knows a guy like him probably would. He'd wait until I got to the cab then pull off. Ugh, what a jerk.
Door's open, so far so good. Push the bag under the seat, and now I'm just going to - hmm. How does one climb into a camper this size? Especially if said 'one' isn't particularly tall and-
Whoa. He just reached over, grabbed me by my arms and hauled me up. That's - that's seriously screwy. I mean, he could've touched my skin by accident or something, then where would I be? I'd have a camper, but no-one to drive it. Not to mention the fact that he'd be, y'know, dead. And floating around in my brain. I know I'm staring at him, but I can't help it. The could-have's are making me nervous, and kind of scared. I'm shaking and he's saying something but I can't hear him through the buzzing in my ears, and he looks exasperated and - he's coming closer. Oh, God. He reached over and, and... closed the door? I can feel his arm brush against my stomach as he grips the armrest and pulls the door shut. He's so close I can smell his hair, and it's strangely... fresh. Like snow. There's also this tobacco-ey tinge to the scent, which isn't altogether unpleasant.
He's back in his own seat now, but I'm still staring him and trembling like a leaf. I can feel the vibrations in my toes and for one hysterical moment I wonder if I'll drill a hole in the floor -- or whatever it is that you call the bottom of a car --and just keep on drilling 'til I get to Australia. The thought is enough to make me giggle, and then I realize that the shaking isn't all me. It's the truck starting up and driving down the road, and he's pulling a cigar out of his pocket. Aha, I have successfully identified the source of the tobacco smell.
Well, now that things (read: me) are calmer, I can finally get a good look at this guy. I mean, yeah I was staring at him, but I hadn't really noticed much, due to the whole 'oh-my-God-he's-a-psycho-he's-going-to-get-us-both-killed' train of thought.
So. Hmm... not bad, not bad at all. He's tall, which is always a plus, dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. Strange hair, it's all pointy, kind of reminds me of when I was a little kid trying to learn the alphabet, and the teacher showed us all pictures of things that resembled the letter we were trying to learn (also started with that letter, but that doesn't help me here, so whatever). Anyway, his hair would definitely be a big, capital 'W'. Or even a little 'w' would work, I guess. I'm not really all that fussy.
He has strong bones, good bone structure. He's not a pretty boy, more like one of those men in an ad for cigarettes or jeep's, you know the kind, where they have these really macho manly-looking men doing dangerous things with a little smirk and coming out on top at the end. Hee, on top, that's funny. He'd probably like to be on top, he looks like the controlling type. Not that I'm interested in what sexual positions he prefers or anything, I mean I've only just met the guy! Plus there's the whole 'untouchable skin' thing, which is generally a pretty big deterrent to sex of any kind.
He's looking at me pretty strangely, I must be flushed or something, which really isn't my fault, I think he exudes some kind of fantasy-inducing pheromone or something.
"Do you - do you have anything to eat?" There, that should get his mind -- and hopefully mine, too -- off of why I'm blushing.
He looks a little, I don't know, annoyed at having to actually open the cubby-hole and get something out. It looks like, hmm, jerky. Well, thinking about it, I am actually kind of hungry.
After eating a few pieces -- taking the gloves off, because eating with them on is not only difficult, but also ruins the material -- I revise that former statement from 'kind of hungry' to 'starving'. Huh, who knew? Must've been those thoughts of Mr. Rugged over there, because honestly, how could I concentrate on anything else? It's not every day you meet a guy who's sexy, has weird hair (yeah, that 'W' could definitely be for weird) and claws - Lord, the claws! How could I have forgotten those? Geez, all this time I'd been worried *I'd* hurt *him* -- and in the process, he'd hurt me -- and those hands he's steering so competently with have shiny metal claws hidden between in them.
Either he sensed me looking at his hands or he's also thinking about the claws, because he just flexed his hand and stared down at the knuckle.
"Does it hurt?" I can't help it, I have to ask.
He glares at me. "What?"
"When they come out," a quick indication towards his hands, "does it hurt?"
He stares at me for so long I feel a little... disconcerted. And a little worried, because while he's watching me, he's not watching the road. Finally, he says, a little angrily, "Every time."
Hey, relax pal. It's not *my* fault.
Somehow, without realizing it, I've finished the packet of jerky, and I rub my hands together for warmth. His window's open a little, and anyone who describes the wind in Canada as merely being 'brisk' is insane. It's fucking freezing, even inside a camper and wearing layer upon layer of clothes.
He must've noticed, because he flips the heater on and reaches for my hands. I manage to jerk away just before his fingers touch mine. Wow, close call. He says he's not going to hurt me, and I kind of believe him, I mean if he hasn't so far, even though he has an excellent weapon with the claws and although I don't know him, he doesn't seem the type to hurt people. At least, not people who haven't done anything to him. I wouldn't want to get on his bad side, though. I don't think shish-kebab would be a good look for me.
"It's nothing personal. I'm a mutant, and my skin, it hurts people."
"How?" he sounds interested, probably because he's a mutant too.
I shrug. "I don't know. They just kind of... flow into me, and then they're generally unconscious or dead."
"Hmm. What about you? What happens to you?"
Me? Now that's - that's really whacked. I've just told him I can kill with a touch and he wants to know what it does to me? Whacked. But also kind of... sweet. No-one's cared about me in so long that I'd almost forgotten what that warmth inside felt like.
"Well, it's like... getting a new personality, only not. Because your old personality is still in there, and you can kind feel that it isn't you, sometimes."
A grunt, and then he- did he just... smell me?
But he's back to watching the road thank God, so I must've imagined that twitch of the nostrils. He could've just had a tickle or maybe a bug flew up his nose. Although if that'd happened I would've probably seen it, and maybe Mr. Stoic over there would have had a stronger reaction than just a soundless sniff. Hell, I wouldn't have sniffed if *I* had a bug crawling around in my nasal cavity, I mean you'd think he'd have exhaled or blown his nose or something, anything but-
"Hey."
Talk about a gift for startling people. I almost jumped through the roof, or maybe out the window, though I guess that'd entitle jumping *sideways*, not up. Hmm, well, I guess that's the end of my previous train of thought. Good thing too, I don't want to spend the entire journey -- heaven knows how long it'll be -- contemplating what a person should do in case of a bug-up-the-nose emergency.
"Um, yeah?"
Then comes the dreaded question. "How old are you?"
Old? Um... age, dammit Rogue, think. He's staring at me with those hard dark eyes, uncompromising is what he is. Dammit all to hell, why did I have to hitch with the one guy on this planet that I can't lie to? Or rather, that I *could* lie to, but he probably wouldn't believe me. Dammit to infinity.
"...Twenty-One?"
Again with the stare. It's level and implacable. God, you'd think this was a police interrogation or something. Not that, uh, I've ever been involved in one. No sirree, not me.
"Fine. Eighteen."
He snorts out a laugh. "Try again, kid."
Well now there's a laugh for you. Tell the truth and *still* he doesn't believe me. Geez, what is *with* this guy? His trust level is so far down they don't even have a number for it.
"That was the truth, mister." Okay, not the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God, but close enough not to warrant going to a confessional. I mean, what's a week or two as far as age goes?
"Right."
"Hey!" It is one thing to admit to myself that I may not be the most honest person in the world, but this guy doesn't even know me and he's already judging me.
"Look, kid, at some point in your life you're gonna have to trust someone."
"So, why should it be you?"
His lip curls up a little. It's either a smirk of disdain or some kind of latent humour he's kept hidden up 'til now. Should've kept it hidden, because that little whatever-it-is just changes his whole expression. He looks... well, not welcoming, I don't know if he's capable of that, but less unapproachable. It makes me like him. It also makes me want to grab him and kiss the living daylights out of him -- which, with my power, it probably would.
"Why *not* me? I picked you, a complete stranger, up in the wilds of Canada out of the goodness of my heart. Even gave you food, and warmth," he gestures toward the heater.
That's true, but... he's putting a different spin on things. And it's a twist I don't like at all. "Please. You picked up a seventeen-year-old girl for God knows what purpose, gave her food and warmth to soften her up for whatever kind of sick pleasure you have planned."
Oh-oh. Shouldn't have said that, no matter how mad I was. Great, now he's pulling over to the shoulder of the road. He's going to ask me to get out, or maybe just open the door and shove me onto the ground. Probably steal my bag too, the bastard.
I brace myself for what's coming next, but he just switches the ignition off, then turns to me. And strangely, he doesn't look all that angry, in fact I think he's... amused? Anyone who'd be amused by an insult has to be seriously screwed up.
"So," he says softly, with that same little smirky-smiley thing, "you're seventeen."
Shit. Can't believe I let that slip. I bristle a little, more out of anger for myself than the fact that he picked it up. "Only for two more weeks."
"You probably shouldn't tell a man you've just accused of picking you up to have his wicked way with you that you'll be legal in two weeks."
Oh, I'm just full of fun mistakes today.
"It's crunch time, kid. Either you trust me, or you don't."
Yeah, I think I'm gonna go for *don't* here, thanks. Blind leaps of faith are just *not* my thing.
He must've seen my less-than-trusting look, because he says, "Look, there's this school I work for. It's for mutants, and they, well they might be able to help you learn some control, at the very least you could finish high school."
"Who says I haven't?"
"You look like you've been on the run a long time, kid. You don't get eyes as hard as that by making daisy chains in the castle gardens."
I take a deep breath, release it. He's right; it's been two years on the road. Two years of fighting for survival, fighting *off* stupid assholes who think 'no' means 'yes, take me, I want you'. Two years of hiding under more layers of clothes than a grunge rocker would wear. Two years.
"I get that it'd take a... a blind leap of faith, but c'mon kid, trust me."
Maybe it was the words he used, the same ones I'd recently thought, but something in me told me to do as he asked. To trust this guy whose name I don't even know and let him help me.
"Where is this school?"
He exhales and looks a little relieved. "Westchester. New York."
I debate internally for a few more minutes, then let that last barrier go, and decide to trust him. "Okay. You've got yourself a travel-buddy."
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is somewhat movieverse, and things aren't the way they were in the movie, at least not precisely. Oh, and the camper is much higher than it should be, think a mix of a truck and a camper, and that's the camper I'm writing about. Thanks to: The usual suspects -- Karen (whose advice I appreciate, even if I don't always take it *g*), Caroline (who knows all kinds of weird and wonderful things), and Helena (who is patient *beyond* belief)