“I’m doing the right thing,” I repeat this to myself like a mantra.
“Then why are you convincing yourself of that?” another voice speaks. It has to be Eric. He’s the only one voicing an objection. He’s the one filling me with doubt.
David is all for it. He tells me I should have done it a long time ago – fix myself – as he puts it. Bobby and John, they fade into bickering with each other to pay any attention to me. And no one else is loud enough to weigh in, no one but Logan. But he’s the same as in life, he crosses his arms over his chest and says it’s up to me.
And I suppose, it is.
So, I’m waiting. In a long line of mismatched mutants. We all look normal, aside from the small child with pointed ears and small tail desperately clinging to his mother’s side. There’s fear in the way his tail hides between his legs.
But we all look nervous, anxious. Unsure. Desperate.
It’s more than the screaming protestors on the other side of the street. Or the police with their guns and riot gear. It’s more than any thoughts of betraying our kind.
Part of it is that. But it’s so much more than all of that. We’re afraid. Afraid of who and if we are, we will be.
“Can you believe how crazy all this is?” the boy behind me blurted out. He’s desperate to take his mind off of the wait. I can almost smell it on him. But he looks so…normal. Dark eyes and a shaggy hair cut. Stone washed jeans and a matching jacket. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I almost ask him what his mutation is, to know what it is he’s looking to escape, but I stop myself. Instead, I offer him a strained smile of understanding and a nod.
His smile is nervous, but he looks genuinely happy for the distraction. Or maybe it’s just getting the smile itself.
“I can’t believe the wait at this clinic is so long. Do you think they’ll get to us today? I’d hate to be stuck here waiting all night,” he rambles on, and I just listen.
I’m liking the distraction too. It blocks the other voices in my head. Takes my mind off the fact that it’s getting late; the sun is starting to set. And I’m starting to feel cold. And alone.
“…it’ll be nice to finally go home again after all this.”
Home? I hadn’t thought about that. Where do I go after this? Where do I belong? I hadn’t planned beyond this moment. Where will home be? Where would my home be?
He chuckles at something he said, or thought, “Here I am going on and on and I never introduced myself. Real manners there,” his smile is more relaxed now, “I’m Mark.” He extends his hand to shake mine, and it’s then I notice the delicate webbing between his fingers.
He catches me looking and pulls back his hand, hiding it again deep in his pocket, “So…who are you anyway?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t. I didn’t have an answer. Who am I anyway? That shouldn’t be such a hard question, should it.
I’m not Rogue, or at least won’t be once the cure hits my blood-stream. Rogue is the girl with untouchable skin. Actually, she isn’t even a girl anymore, she’s older, she’s aged from the memories of others in her head. Rogue is a mutant.
But Marie…I wouldn’t be her either. Not exactly, not like before. That Marie is gone; the road up to Canada changed that, being thrown out of her childhood home changed that. She’s no longer the little girl from Mississippi, not the sweet Southern girl with the débutante dreams. That Marie was made homeless, parentless, friendless. She’s alone. And she’s gone. Marie is a memory.
Rogue is not alone, lonely maybe, but not alone. She has an extended family; she has a greater purpose. It’s just, somethings are harder, maybe even impossible, for her. It’s not the cushioned life that killed Marie, but it’s a life… It’s Rogue’s life.
I looked back at Mark, this time with an answer ready for him, and for me.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
When I make it to the end of the street, it’s dark. And strangely quiet. The protestors left once the clinic closed and only a few mutants remained, stalking out places in line for when the clinic reopened in the morning. Although the barricades are bigger now, it’s peaceful.
In some small way, it’s settled.
Settled, in my small way.
I’m so caught up in that feeling, I don’t see Logan leaning against one of the mansion’s motorcycles on the corner.
“Logan?” the question hangs from my mouth. I can’t believe he’s waiting there.
“I thought you might need an escort,” he shrugs, standing up straight. He reaches forward to take hold of my hand.
I pull back sharply, a flash a bare wrist just out of his grasp.
His raises an eyebrow, confused.
And I smile, “Careful Sugar, ah’m still dangerous.”
He chuckles, “Aren’t we all darlin’,” and pulls me, Rogue, this Marie, into a tight hug, “Aren’t we all.”
It may not have been without a protective layer of clothes and leather gloves, but it was touch. It was unafraid, and it was mine. I think I could get used to it.
“Let’s go home Logan, let’s go home.”
End.
End Notes: I must point out, I’m not against Marie wanting to experience human touch without killing someone. Obviously, her mutation sucked like that. And I’m very sympathetic. And I understand her wanting the idea of the cure. But, it just didn’t fit well with her. It changed more than just her mutation; it changed her character as well. I just didn’t think it fit with her, she’s never been (and I know this is the wrong word) sappy like that. So, I found the way it fit to me.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything X-Men related.
Completed: June 5, 2006
Notes: I saw the movie, I had to ‘cure’ a few things of my own. More notes at the end.
Completed: June 5, 2006
Notes: I saw the movie, I had to ‘cure’ a few things of my own. More notes at the end.