How long could a body go on without sleep? So far, fifty hours but fuck, who’s counting? You sure the hell ain’t and there ain’t anyone else around who gives a damn whether you actually sleep or not. You’re just using that hotel room as a place to store your crap, at least for the moment. In another moment, you could be gone. You almost smile at that or maybe it isn’t a smile. You’re already gone.
But sleep...you’re not even sure if you can get your body to switch off that way any more. When you try to lie down, it’s restless, because if you close your eyes, you see her face painted on your lids. Bad enough that her words rattle around in your head, to see her face too, joining the vitriol that she’d spit out at you, it’s still a little more than you can bear. And even though it’s over, maybe because it’s over, you’re not one for that psychoanalytical bullshit, you don’t really want your last memories of her to be the ones of her screaming at you.
Too bad that really ain’t your choice, she made the call and you walked away from her, from all of it because her little, ‘we can still be friends’ speech was practically written by someone like you. Except, damn it, you never actually ever said the words before, you just got gone. And you wonder why you didn’t see it coming, because you thought, damn, you thought she really cared. That when the two of you finally stopped the pussyfooting around you’d been doing for the past six months, you’d be like some fucking fairy tale. You’d watch her back, she’d watch yours; you’d be a team of two.
When you’d first met her, yeah, some meeting, her warning you of someone trying to get the better of you, all you’d seen was her innocence. She was just a kid, out there on the road and you knew damn well how cold that road could get. She’d gotten under your skin quick; maybe the molasses of her voice or her way of sassing you just seconds after you decided to let her into your truck. Sometimes, you wondered what might’ve happened if Sabretooth hadn’t tried to grab her. If Cyke and Storm hadn’t shown up when they had. You’ve never been good at the ‘what if’ game though; you tend to let the chips fall where they will and make the best of it.
You toss back the alcohol and let it burn bright fire down your throat. The bartender’s already learned when you empty one glass to set another full one in front of you and you thank whatever gods might watch over mutie freaks that bartenders were willing to keep you in liquor.
The television is on over the bar and a special report flashes on, some tight-faced reporter that looked way too young to be reporting anything besides high school sports came on and announced there’d been some sort of attack on Washington, D.C. You find yourself tensing up, not that you’d been in a state of relaxation prior to that but the booze was starting to do what you were paying for it to and sure enough, the reporter talks to another one on the scene who points out the appearance of Scooter’s other favorite toy, the Blackbird. You tell yourself you’re not feeling guilty about leaving the team, about leaving her but you shove those thoughts down and chase them with another gulp of booze. ‘Cause you know that your leaving made the team short-handed; that your place wouldn’t be easily filled and that you walking away cost them not just a warm body but also a helluva lotta firepower. But you resolve not to feel that doubt that’s trying to worm its way into your stomach, the pride you have isn’t gonna let you go trailing back to Westchester any time in the near future.
Or that’s what you tell yourself.
You thought you’d finally got that winning hand, a home, a girl, a real place where you belonged. You weren’t even quite sure when that had happened, what made you think that. Another shot of booze and your memory clears a bit; of flirting with her, shit, when exactly had that started? Spending time with her, learning her likes and her dislikes and taking some pleasure into rubbing it in Jeannie’s face that this girl, this woman, wanted you.
The newscaster babbled on about the attack and how unprecedented it was and that nearly made you smile again. ‘Cause normal humans never took into consideration that someone might want them dead. That just wasn’t it. Couldn’t be. But you really didn’t care, didn’t wanna care, could care less once the camera showed that flash of the Blackbird landing and the four people stepping off.
Even through the distance of the camera lens to her, you could pick out the dark circles under her eyes. She moves like spun glass, brittle and apt to shatter at rough handling. You note to yourself that she looks almost as shell-shocked as those people she’s there to help. A part of you takes some sick satisfaction at that and you want to drown that feeling with more liquor but you’re almost afraid it will ignite it instead. Smoke drifts into her vision and she brushes at a lock of her white hair in that way she has and your stomach clenches so tight, you think that whiskey you’ve been drinking is gonna make a second appearance.
"Mutie," someone in the bar mutters and your hand convulses around your glass. The word you’d teased her with sounds so different coming from someone else’s mouth, a blasphemy. And yet you revel in it too, knowing the word would hurt her the way she’s hurt you.
You shift on your stool, staring into the amber liquor in your glass. Jeannie’s voice rose unbidden in your memories, more you’d rather not have, her sharp words asking you what you thought you were doing? Her soft sigh as she told you that Rogue worshipped you. That disapproving look Jeannie had when she came upon you two in the gardens that day. Jeannie’d tried to talk you out of it but you’d been stubborn and your girl - shit, not your girl, just Rogue now - had been breezy and you’d thought that she loved you the way you loved her.
You take another slug of booze and instead of the t.v., you see your last memories of her. You see her face, red as Cyke’s visor as he tried to hold her back, her hate spilling out of her mouth like poison.
Her words burned. They cut like lashes and she just didn’t know when to shut up. When she told you, she said, "This thing," like it was fucking nothing. Here you’d given her everything you had, everything you were and she just tossed it back in your face like it was trash. She didn’t want any complications in her life, well, she didn’t have you to fuck it up any more. You cut the ties, you walked out that door, you weren’t going back.
Not while you have any feelings for her.
Those have to burn out first.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Story Notes:
Written for the Remix Redux Challenge (http://remix.illuminatedtext.com/). Original story is Jengrrrl's "Into the Fire", located here: http://disquieting.net/mt/archives/000053.html#000053. Go. Read!