Transparent fabric, pale flesh. That's all I could think of for days after I saw her wearing that goddamned gown of hers.
Would you think any less of me if I told you I hid? Screw that. I don't really care. That's exactly what I did. After that night in the kitchen, I made it a point of finding out what she was doing. Then, I stayed the hell away.
I'll tell you why. That night, I had a dream. I could blame it on bad deli meat, but I won't. It wasn't one of my usual nightmares but, I tell you, it disturbed me more than any I've had in a long time.
Yeah, she was in it. And that poor excuse for a nightgown she had on, too.
The images weren't too vivid - though certain parts of her are indelibly etched in my brain. No, what I can mostly remember are the sensations.
In my nightmares, I can almost taste the blood in my mouth sometimes; the stinging, burning feel of needles penetrating my bones makes me shout so I wake myself up on occasion.
In a way, I think this was even more painful than that.
I remember touching her through that flimsy material, really touching her; grabbing, kneading flesh through that soft, gossamer gown. I don't know why I didn't just go for skin. Maybe, even in my dream I knew I couldn't touch her. But I know I didn't care because I felt her and it felt as good as touching flesh. And she was warm beneath my hands.
In the nightmares I hear sounds, too. Usually, the sound of constant drilling, men murmuring things I can't make out, bubbling liquid metal.
In my dream, Marie was a screamer. Yeah. I know. Quiet, little Rogue? Nah, she's too calm, too laid back for that, right? Shit, that's what I thought, too. Then Dream Rogue showed me. She was loud. She responded to my touch with sounds I never expected. What really got me were the small sounds. Tiny moans of encouragement, hissing breath expelled in pleasure. Oh, that was good. It was just getting better (or very, very bad) when she started purring out my name, whispering "Logan, Logan", like she couldn't get enough of me. Then she started getting louder. That's when I woke up.
I know where her room is. Everything inside me was screaming, "Go and get her." And I almost did. I got out of my bed and walked out of my room and went so far as to reach her door. My hand was on the knob and I was sick to my stomach with need and self-loathing. My palms were slick with sweat and my mouth was dry and I was very aware that it was six in the morning and people would start getting up soon.
So, I ran. And I hid for the next few days, putting up any excuse I could think of so that I wouldn't run into her. It worked. For a while.
Then she came after me. Well, sort of.
I was eating my lunch in the dining area when I knew she was supposed to be in class. No chance of seeing her then, I thought. Trouble is, kids do on occasion cut class. There I am, sitting there, eating something I swiped from the refrigerator, when she walks in. I damn near spit out my food. I don't think she was looking for me, but when she caught sight of me, let's just say she didn't look so pleased.
She walked in and the room tilted a little and I had trouble swallowing the mouthful of food I'd just shoved in my mouth. What could be more pathetic than that? I left.
My food was still in my mouth, my plate was left behind, and I just walked out of there without once glancing back. Spitting out all that garbage was the first thing I did. I'm surprised I didn't throw up.
This never happened with Jean. I was cool, confident, devil-may-care, bad-ass Logan around her. And I didn't give two shakes about what old Cyke thought. Nope. I flirted shamelessly and enjoyed every second.
I didn't know what to do with myself. Hiding ain't my style, and running isn't either. Not when I can help it.
I could lie and say it's the age, but we're both consenting adults. I know Chuck wouldn't approve, but that's neither here nor there.
I'm a bastard, I know, but it's the skin. Untouchable Rogue. And I'm dying to touch her. And I don't know if I can start something I can't finish. Not with her. She doesn't deserve that kind of crap.
So, for now, I go back to doing what I hate. I go hide. And every jerky kid is probably laughing at me for asking, day in and day out, what she's doing so I can run away. And I want to leave the school and I want to go back to cage fighting and I want to go back to my miserable existence. But I can't.
Because I can smell her and I can feel her and, at night, I can taste her in my dreams. And if I have to live like a pansy for that, I don't give a shit.
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