The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Okay folks, this is the last chapter of part 1. Part 2 is almost there, but it still needs some work at the moment, so I'm going to take a couple of weeks break from posting to get it up to scratch and give my lovely beta's Dutchxfan & Empressnan time to catch up. Hope no one minds too much - I'll be back soon.
I wake up with a curious sense of familiarity. Like a dream I’ve already had.
I’m in my own bed. Or rather, what used to be my bed before I went away. It’s so surreal. Everything is pretty much as I left it. My pictures still hang on the wall, my oldest sweater is thrown over the back of a chair; its frayed sleeves frozen in time like some modern still-life. There’s even a pile of my homework notes still littering my desk. I’m surrounded by things I didn’t pack, things I forgot about. It’s almost as if I had never left.
Almost.
The echoes haunt this place like screams. It feels far from comfortable.
I stretch before I consciously know what I’m doing, easing out the ache in my-
Oh.
The sudden realisation that I can feel the way my toes have scrunched up the sheets washes over me like an icy bucket of water. It wipes every other thought from my mind and I sit up, throwing back the covers to stare at them stupidly.
My feet.
They look normal.
Logan.
Oh God. The thought crashes into me and I almost throw myself out of the bed, scrambling to escape the tangle of covers that wrap themselves around me in my haste, hot waves of sick panic washing over me. I wasn’t in control, I needed it. What if I took too much?
I don’t even bother with clothes. I’m in some sort of old t-shirt that reaches down to my knees and that’s enough. Isn't it? Eyes wild, I fumble my way out into the confines of the hallway, still dizzy, the floor a shock of cold against my feet. Logan's room is not far away and for a moment I don’t care that I’m back at the mansion, or who’ll see me. I have to know. I have to know I didn’t really hurt him. That he healed okay. I wasn't in control. Oh God let him be okay.
My heart hammers painfully as I push open the door... but his room is empty. Barren. The bed is neatly made.
The medlab, he must still be in the medlab.
They haven’t changed the elevator codes, I realise. The thought swims fleetingly around my head before it’s gone. Swallowed by fear. And I know I’m beginning to panic. Big time panic. And I keep trying to tell myself that if I know I’m panicking I must be sane and in control, because sane people don’t rationalise panic like this? ...Right? But I can’t stop it, my pulse thuds thickly through my ears and I know he’s rooted at the cause of it, but I can’t understand why it’s so bad.
Maybe I know something subconsciously. Maybe some sick part of me is all too aware.
The thought wrenches at my stomach and dances black dots in front of my eyes. Fuck I feel ill. The room starting to spin with a twisted giddiness that threatens to throw me off my feet. But I don't give in. I have to know. I have to. Even though it takes me an age to get down to the lower levels, and...
Oh God, the medlab’s empty too.
What happened? Where is he? Why is there no one here? My hands go to my temples as I try to focus, fingers sweaty and shakily running through my hair. You're panicking. Just stop panicking. But there’s nothing. Just stark clean angles and a sterile room. No sign of life at all. And I can't-
"Rogue?" Doctor McCoy’s hand falls gently upon my shoulder and it gives me such a shock that my legs nearly give way.
He frowns down at me with a look that’s almost paternal. "What are you doing all the way down here?"
"I was... I couldn’t... couldn’t... I... where’s Logan? What did I do?" It all comes out as a panicked jumble of words. My knees are trembling and it’s as much as I can do to keep standing.
But the doctor’s face smooths slightly and he adjusts his glasses to give me a faint smile. "It’s alright," he says. "You took far longer to heal than he did. You’ve been unconscious for days... although when you first started to show signs of waking, we moved you to your own room. The Professor thought it would be better for you to wake up in familiar surroundings."
His words drift over me. They’re not making much sense. "But I... but he’s okay? ...Logan?"
This time the smile is genuine. "Yes. Yes, he is fine. I believe he is in the kitchen, helping himself to some lunch."
He is?
I try and take the information in. Process it. But after everything I’ve been through, the idea seems too... normal. I can’t trust myself to believe it.
And I don’t think I can stand much longer. My legs are about ready to give.
"Steady there." Dr McCoy’s hand tightens and he helps support my weight. "You should still be in bed."
A cold sweat washes over me. Maybe he’s right. In fact I know he’s right. But the thought of going back to sleep without... "I just need to see him. Just to... just...I mean..."
"It’s alright," he says. "Take your time."
"I’m...okay." I manage.
"All the same, you should still be resting... I know, I know." He speaks over me as I try and interrupt. "Let me at least help you upstairs so that you can see him for yourself. On one condition, mind you. That you promise me you’ll go back to bed after?"
Fighting the stem of dizziness, I give him a shaky nod. I can cope with that.
He walks with me and I’m grateful for his calm presence. He shields me from the strange glances others give as we pass. They’re not cruel glances, just... I don’t know. Suspicious, I suppose. Curious. I catch snatches of nervous smiles; flickers of recognition. Uncertain. Unsure. As if they don’t know what to make of me.
I can’t say I blame them. I don’t know what to make of me either. Look at me, I disappear for months and when I come back I’m a fumbling mess. Not exactly the success story I hoped for.
"Here you go." The doctor jolts me from my thoughts and gestures to the kitchen with a nudge of an over-large blue hand. Then he elicits a second promise from me to go back to bed, before excusing himself to his lab, leaving me alone. Staring at the door.
Right.
My heart begins to race and suddenly, on top of everything else, I begin to feel very nervous. What if Logan doesn’t want to see me? What if he's angry? What if he doesn't care? That would be worse. And we haven’t exactly parted on good terms recently.
I wipe my hands anxiously on the t-shirt, belatedly regretting my decision to burst out of my room before getting properly dressed. I suddenly crave clothes like armour, something between me and the rest of the world.
God, I’m actually beginning to feel sick. See? This is why I didn’t want to come back here. I can’t control things here. Why do I feel sick? It’s just a stupid kitchen, for chrissake! Not the fiery pits of hell. All I have to do is go in there... make sure he’s okay, and move on with my life. I mean, so what? He’s having lunch... I’m sure he has lunch all the time... which is a stupid thing to think. Of course he does.
...Why can’t I do this?
I close my eyes, search for something inside me that resembles the ribbon of steel that was there before. But the only thing I find there is the knowledge that if I don’t do this now, I don’t think I will ever be able do it. So I prepare myself for the worst, push open the door.
He’s... not there.
Something floods through me. I can’t decide if it’s disappointment, or relief. Whatever it is, I feel like I can breathe again. The only person inside is Ororo. She looks up from the sandwich she’s making, and if she’s surprised to see me, then she doesn’t show it. Instead she puts down her knife and smiles. "Hello Rogue. I didn't expect to see you up so soon." Her soft voice lilts with the hint of an accent. "How are you feeling?"
I... um... what?
Something dawns on me, slow, because I’m struggling to think in non-linear paths and my brain’s not really responding to me on many levels right now... but... why are they all being so nice? What is this? I should be an outcast. Shouldn't I?
"I... ache...a little," I fumble slightly for the words. "But I’m okay...I think."
Am I?
Whatever I am, it’s probably much better that I deserve to be.
As that thought strikes me, I begin to feel even more uncomfortable, if at all possible. Ororo continues to look at me calmly, but I suddenly feel like I’m treading on eggshells or something. Waiting for her to explode in a rage of crashing thunder and typhoons. I mean, now that I’m no longer at death’s door, shouldn’t she be telling me how disappointed she is? Shouldn’t she be calmly disapproving, whilst quietly arranging my dismissal from the mansion? After what I did? Who I was with?
Instead she just turns back to her food with a warm, "I’m glad," then adds over her shoulder, "Are you hungry?"
Hungry? My mind jumps again, and the thought of food makes my stomach turn. I shake my head. "I was just... have you seen Logan?"
"Oh." A slight expression crosses her face. Barely there before it’s gone, too quick to recognise. "He took his lunch out into gardens. Down by the lake I think." She gives me that warm smile again. Then she gestures to my clothes... or rather, my lack of them. "Do you have anything to change into?"
For some reason the question totally throws me. I haven’t checked. Did I leave anything save that old sweater behind? I don’t know. It didn’t seem important at the time.
I simply shrug.
In response she reaches into her pocket and hands me a set of keys. "Use the smallest one, it’s for the locker in the changing room. You’ll find fresh clothes in there."
The supplies for those who come in with nothing, I realise.
With an edge of shock, it suddenly dawns on me that she must have no idea what I’ve been doing for the last few months. She doesn’t know.
God.
Okay, so that makes me feel guilty. Like I’m an impostor or something.
I reach out stiffly to take the keys, managing a quiet thanks before getting the hell out of the kitchen as fast as I can, trying to make sense of this new information.
Why on earth doesn’t she know? Surely Logan would have...? I mean why would he not say anything? I don’t understand. He must’ve known what I was up to. Who I was with. So...just...why?
As I force my feet to take me back down to the lower levels, worry sinks to the bottom of my stomach and only serves to make me feel much, much worse. On top of everything else, every room I pass brings back the ghosts of memories I’d really rather forget. Not because they are horrible, in fact, because they are quite the opposite. Warm. Friendly.
I pass the rec room, and see visions of us playing foosball in the slant of evening sun, the slight tingle and buzz of teenage hormones that knowing Bobby was at my side used to bring. I step inside the elevator; that plunge downwards, remembering the focusing of nervous tension before training. The easy banter between the team... I miss that, I realise. I didn’t think I would, but...
Dammit! I don’t want to miss it! All I want to do is to check Logan’s okay, and get out. Preferably in that order... but seriously, things keep going like this, I’m starting to think a nice safe phone call to check he’s okay when I’m a few hundred miles away is looking more and more welcome. I can’t stay here. It’s closing in on me. Making me think. Walls everywhere echo with memories and I don’t want them. Because if I let them in, if they crack through my shell...
Oh God, there’s the medlab again.
The sterile smell stings my nose and I move quickly past. Those memories are all too fresh and I fight to push them aside. Instead I move on, past the Danger Room... that one brings back a frisson of feelings. It was a place to vent my frustrations; a place where I could prove myself to my peers. A place where I could say ‘so what? I took the cure. I’m still as good as you.’
Not that the cure... oh. I’m here.
I blink into the light as it flickers on at my presence, wondering why I have no recollection of walking those last few steps.
The changing rooms are exactly as I remember them. Warm, softly lit; the salty undertones of sweat and hard work masked by the subtle fragrance of warm wood and the oils that burn in the sauna. It’s like stepping back in time; nothing’s changed. Well, why would it? It’s not as if the world stopped turning when I decided to run away. The X-men are still the X-men, with or without me.
For some reason that thought makes me feel very small.
The rows of lockers stand the same as they ever have; the uniforms hanging nearby, a slick row of sculpted black, ready to go. There are a few more than before and that realisation brings with it almost a twinge of jealousy. Jubilee now has a permanent name plaque, along with Shadowcat and Iceman, Colossus too. And there’s another, one I don’t recognise...Gambit. Then there are the older ones; Wolverine, Storm, and... my heart wrenches.
Cyclops.
Jean.
Empty pegs.
That’s all that remain. Empty pegs and memories.
That giant wall of emotion I’ve been trying to ignore turns into a ball of hollow loss and swells inside me until it’s so big it hurts. I know it’s cowardly, but I turn away. I can’t look. I can’t. Because right now I know that if I stop to think about them; the gaping holes they left behind, that something inside me will crumble and I really will break down once and for all.
I clench my jaw, my teeth ache from the pressure, but I walk past and unlock the storage closet, manage to take out some training sweats and head back up to the safety of my room as fast as I can without running. Logan or no Logan, I can’t stay here. I don’t want to have to face this every day.
It doesn’t take me long to shower. The pummel of hot water on my skin awakens in me enough energy to get me through the next few hours. Showers are useful like that. I don’t feel good though, I don’t feel alive... not like before. Which is ironic really, because after everything I’ve been through I should feel that more than anything.
I root through my cupboards to find the crappy underwear I left behind...at least it’s clean... then I pull on the sweats and a spare pair of gloves, and I-
Stop.
Look at them stupidly for a moment.
I don’t need them, do I? Not anymore. Not unless I want them.
It’s such a strange feeling. Like vertigo.
I take a deep breath, pull them off one finger at a time, and leave them on the chair. I try not to think too much as I turn my back to them. I just need to go. Need to clear my head and get outside before I can give myself time to come up with a good enough excuse not to. I ignore the way the door slams behind me, feet pounding down the main staircase, echoing across the hall, crunching on the gravel of the driveway. I need to find a cab. Or ‘borrow’ a car. Maybe I can get a lift? I wonder if my stuff’s still at that crappy motel in... in...
My thoughts trail off into blankness. I can't help it. I freeze where I stand. My gaze snagging on the outline of his tall frame as he walks casually towards me. Jacket slung over one shoulder.
He looks me over, casts a brief frown as he squints into the sun, bright at my back. "So. You’re up."
It’s cool and breezy, but suddenly I feel like I’m in an oven. My body does everything I don’t want it to. Skin prickles with colour. Heart going like a jackhammer, I know he can sense it. My eyes, looking for an escape, fix on the drop of condensation that’s sliding its way down the bottle of Molsons dangling in his hand. The smooth worn-in look of his jeans. The dark hairs on his arms. The sinew of his wrists.
Anything but his face.
"You tryin’ to ignore me kid?"
No.
...Well...yes.
I just don’t know what to say. Not now. He doesn’t sound pissed off, not like he usually does. I’d half thought he wouldn’t even speak to me. Instead he sounds... comfortable. This is his territory now. His home.
My mouth dries up, and man I feel dizzy. Maybe Dr McCoy was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have got up so fast.
I force myself to look up.
For a moment I feel almost naked under his gaze. I wonder if he’s going to say something damning and to the point, something along the lines of ‘what the fuck were you playing at?’ It almost looks as if he’s going there as well, and I tense, waiting for it, but then something makes him change his mind and instead he just frowns and leads me towards a bench. "Sit," he says.
My knees lock and I stare at the seat as if it might grow teeth and eat me any second. Tension coils tight within my stomach. I don’t know what to do. How do I act around him now? What do I say? He saved my life again, even though we argued, even after everything I did. He killed for me.
...I don’t understand this. Any of it. He’s angry at me when I expect him to be okay. When I expect anger, he’s nice. And he’s around except for every time I need him to be. It’s too confusing. I should have waited until dark before I tried to leave. I should have never got caught. I should have been more damn careful!
Not that 'should have's' help.
Ugh.
He sits down, even when I don’t, making me feel even more uncomfortable. I watch the way he hitches his jeans up, the way he kicks out his long legs in front of him. Lingering on the long legs part. Dammit. Stop it! That doesn't help!
I just wish I knew what he was thinking, that's all. He was always so unreadable, even back when we still talked. He was my protector. My mentor. I mean, on top of everything else, he was my teacher for chrissakes!
...Yet a week ago I tried to strip him of his belt. And he let me.
What the hell do I say?!
"So, you just gonna stand there?"
Maybe.
Right now it seems the lesser of two evils.
Or maybe not.
God I feel dizzy again.
His eyes study me for a moment longer. "Sit down kid," he says. "Before you fall down."
He moves along enough to make room for me and a tug on the back of my sweatshirt makes the decision for me. Knees buckling and landing with an uncoordinated thump. Really not my most graceful moment.
Okay... so now what?
I’m sitting. He’s sitting. We’re both...just... sitting. The smooth wood is warm and solid against my back. It should be comforting, but it’s not. Instead it feels awkward and hard and unyielding.
Does he hate me? Is he angry at me?
I would be, if I was him.
Does he know I was trying to get out?
"You runnin’ again?"
I stiffen. That would be a yes, then. "I...just..." The answer freezes on my tongue. I don’t want to confirm it. It feels wrong. Especially after what he went through just to bring me back here.
But then saying no would just be a bare faced lie, and I can’t do that to him either.
I try and change the subject. Yeah, call me a wimp. I really don’t care.
"Why didn’t you... I mean," I swallow so awkwardly that I almost choke. Nice. "You haven’t told anyone have you? ...What I was doing?" It’s not really a question, more like a garbled observation.
For a long while he says nothing and I begin to regret asking. But then he takes another mouthful of beer, turns his head to look at me. "What makes you think I haven’t?"
That throws me even more. They know?
But then why are they helping me? I ignored them! I shunned them! I used my powers for personal gain. I broke the goddamned law! Surely that goes against the X-men freaking code of ethics or whatever?
Logan just takes another swig, calm, even though my reaction must be obvious. Then leaning back, face warming in the sun, he sighs. The sound makes me aware of every part of his body next to me.
"Thank the Professor. He believes that everyone deserves a second chance."
I watch him absently rub the skin of his knuckles and some sort of understanding creeps over me. I’m alert enough to know that he’s not just talking about me. I know he’s done things... things he’s not proud of. Things he hates. But it’s the things he doesn’t remember. Those are the ones that give him nightmares.
I know. Before I could control the voices, I had them too.
"It’s your choice whether you want to take it..." he studies the beer bottle before looking directly at me, "or not." Then he chooses that moment to get to his feet. "Look," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I’m going away again. Tonight."
Oh.
I try to fight the way it feels like lead has suddenly lined my stomach. Always. Always the same reaction. Will it ever change? "For a... long time?"
He gives a curt nod. "A month or so." He glances back at the mansion and I wonder again what he’s thinking. Then his question hits me sideways out of the blue.
"Are you gonna be here when I get back?"