She smelled like paper, money, and fresh drywall. Her skin was dry; he could tell by the way her cuticles were cracked and chafed. The dust, she'd explained to him when he'd asked. They were renovating her office, and the dust was drying out her skin. She didn't seem to mind this as much as he did. (He'd known all along that she hated the very skin he loved. She'd die to slither out of it; he'd die to crawl into it.)
She liked working at the office and everybody said it was good for her. She didn't wear her gloves but she worked at the front desk and never had to touch anyone, so that made it okay. She'd tried wearing the gloves the first day, but found that it made her fingers clumsy on the keyboard of her computer, the buttons on the phone, and the keys of the adding machine. Since those were her main duties, it stood to reason that she could not wear her gloves. She hated inefficiency with a passion that reminded him of himself. Of Scott. Of the rest of the team, who had learned quickly that there was no room for tiny mistakes or delays, even though she was not on the team. So she did not wear the clumsying gloves, and everyone in the office smiled and treated her normally and took their messages from her like they would from any other secretary.
He liked seeing her come home with bare hands.
He liked the skirts she wore, the stylish slacks, the blouses. So did she. She said she felt 'grown-up,' which was what this whole thing was about anyway. She wanted a job, a real job, a normal job, something to make her feel a little bit like the woman she'd thought she would become when she was a child. That, and she wanted a little bit of spending money of her own; she said she didn't feel right spending the Professor's money on the things she wanted to buy. He never asked her what those things were and she never volunteered.
She especially loved her shoes. He knew this because he caught her looking at the reflection of her feet anytime she passed a floor-length mirror, window, or glass door. And even though she smelled like pain with every step she took at the end of the day, she still watched as her feet stepped one in front of the other with a small smile of admiration. Personally, he tried not to think about her shoes. That just led to trouble.
They were black pumps: imitation leather with three-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels. She called them her "take me seriously" shoes. He'd never told her they were more like "take me now" shoes. No man could be serious with thoughts of those shoes resting against the small of his back. Not that he had those thoughts -- ever. And neither did anyone else, if they knew what was good for them.
He'd known something was wrong before he ever laid eyes on her, but he never could have guessed what it was. The acrid scent of tears and bitterness lingered in Xavier's office, and the claws instinctively itched at the back of his knuckles.
"Wolverine," Xavier addressed him, and he was instantly on alert. The Professor drew heavy black lines of distinction between codenames and real names. They were each only used in their proper context, and he wanted to know why his professional name was suddenly being used in a setting that was saturated with the scent of Rogue's anger and sadness.
"Rogue has informed me that she wishes to resign her position in the city and join the team. We have discussed in detail her motivations, and I believe she has spent a great deal of time in consideration of this decision. I feel that she is making an educated choice and that the time may indeed be right for her to move on. I would like for you to personally undertake her training."
"Listen, Charley --" He paused for a moment as Xavier lifted an eyebrow, and sighed. How could he put this? Frankly, he couldn't. "All right. But lemme talk to her first."
Xavier conceded, and Logan left the office to follow the trail of salt that would lead him to his new pupil.
"Hey," he greeted her softly, barely able to keep from calling her 'kid'. She was joining the team, and she didn't need to be called 'kid' anymore; it wouldn't help her think of herself as the fighter she needed to be. He knew better than anyone that no amount of skill or strength helped in a battle like the flexibility and firmness of self-confidence. She didn't need to be thinking of herself as a kid.
"Hey," she returned, just as softly. The sound of tears still lingered in her voice; her rich, earthy timbre was muted by the congestion in her nose. She wasn't crying anymore, but she had been recently.
"Chuck tells me you're finally joinin' up. What's the story?"
She'd been offered a position on the team upon graduation, but had hedged uncomfortably and finally refused. It wasn't what she wanted right now, she’d said. She hadn't felt like she was cut out for it – she had felt like she'd only be playing dress up. She hadn't felt like she'd grown up and she’d wanted to do that first before she was given the responsibility of holding her teammates' lives in her hands.
Now she shrugged one shoulder, rubbing absently at her denim-covered thigh. "I just... I feel like I'm playing dress-up." Her laugh was short, ironic. "Figures, huh?"
His eyes narrowed, and she smiled. "My skirts. My shoes. They're not who I really am, you know; I just like dressing up in them. I like playing normal. But I'm not normal, Logan, I'm not... and I have a responsibility." She sniffed a little. "I'm like... Peter Parker, or something."
He'd tilted his head, not understanding. "Spiderman," she smiled, and somehow it was hushed, muted by her seriousness. "Threw away his uniform. Didn't want to fight. Just wanted to be normal."
He wanted to contradict her, wanted to comfort her, wanted to tell her that she was wrong -- she *was* normal. But he couldn't lie to her. She wasn't normal, not in any sense of the word. She was bright, powerful, and beautiful. He understood the weight of responsibility and he would not take it from her strong, slender shoulders. It was a weight he welcomed on himself, and one he knew she could carry, better than most. She was meant to carry it.
"But..." she stopped, and he could hear the tears in her throat again. "I saw something today, Logan, something that made me realize I’ve been wasting time." She turned her eyes to his. "They killed a girl in Butler, Alabama -- just thirty miles away from my hometown in Mississippi. They killed her because she was different -- like me. She -- she could've lived, and I could've helped her. I probably grew up goin' to the same shopping mall she did. She probably rode the old carousel at the Jimmy Rogers State Park, just like I did every Sunday. They took her out into an old field at night and... did horrible things to her. Then they hung her. Burned a cross on her parents' front yard."
She shivered and he heard more voices than her own blending in her throat as she told him in a metallic growl, "They painted a swastika on a sheet with her blood and hung it over her bedroom window."
He nodded. He knew part of him should tell her it was a knee-jerk reaction and advise her to think about it a while longer, but he knew she was right. She was making the right decision. She was like him on the inside, bound by honor, her soul reinforced with a soldier's conscience that demanded she always side with the helpless right against the powerful wrong. And what those people were doing was very, very wrong.
"I'll train you," he told her, and even if she wanted to argue, he didn't leave her room to do so. She didn't want to.
She gave him a half-smile that settled in his bones. "I knew you'd understand," she whispered.
And he did. That night he watched with deep, if tinged with regret, satisfaction as her high-heeled office shoes were relegated to the back of her closet and the heavy black boots with a blacked-out buckle were moved to the front.
She was becoming who she was meant to be. There would be no more dress-up for her, no more ignoring the right of her birth. She was an avenger, a protector. She was like him.
She smelled like triumph, satisfaction, and hard-won victory. Her skin was no longer her enemy, but a weapon. A weapon to be guarded carefully like any of the high-powered, hair-triggered firearms Wolverine was so adept at using. She no longer hated it, but respected it. It had saved people's lives. It had saved her own.
Her body was hard, her soul was determined, but her eyes and smile were still bright with tenderness for those she rescued, both human and mutant. She was older now, though only a year had passed since she had last worn the swaying skirts and button-up blouses of her erstwhile occupation. He reflected that he liked the leather of her uniform even better; it fit who she really was, who she had become.
He asked her if she regretted it. She never asked which "it" he meant -- her choice to play at being normal, or her decision to give it up. She just smiled, looked at the unconscious child in her arms, and said, "No."
Later, after Jean and Hank were tending the burns, scrapes, and bruises on the boy she'd brought in, she sat with Logan on his bed and elaborated on that answer. "I am doing what I'm supposed to be doing," she said with certainty. "But I think my time playing normal was good for me." She met his eyes and smiled. "I learned to love humans, not to fear or hate them. It kept me from becoming bitter."
He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him, breathing in the scent of her hair, her wounds, her sweat, her determination and satisfaction, and knew it was time to tell her the other thing she was meant to be: his.
The End.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I think this stuff is therapeutic, really. Huh. By the way, I spent a lot of time in Butler, Alabama and Meridian, Mississippi. There really is (or used to be) a wonderful carousel at Jimmy Rogers State Park, and people in Butler really did shop at the Meridian mall. I wrote this at work yesterday, and thl favored me with a beta. She said y'all would like it, so if you don't, it's her fault, not mine. ;-) (Just kidding!)