The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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"Easy there." A firm hand holds my head back against the bed. "Steady." It’s an unfamiliar voice.
My eyes feel sore and unused as I open them. A strange face hovers over me, drifting fuzzily into focus. White lab coat, reddish brown hair. My memory jerks and stumbles to conclusions in fits and starts. Lab coat brings fear, pulsing adrenalin. But there’s a kind smile. Warm hands. Jean. It looks so much like Jean. And after everything else, it makes my whole world swim with a sickening disorientation. What’s happening to me?
"Take it slow."
No. Not Jean. The accent. It’s strange, but it registers somewhere within my mind. It brings with it a long buried memory of one of the Professor’s lessons. A name. MacTaggart. That’s it. Moira MacTaggart
The thought gives me some clarity, something to focus on.
I try to sit up, but the action jolts a rush of voices and emotions that are not my own. Memories come surging back, flooding my mind with details, names, images, places I didn’t grow up, lovers I never met, pain I never felt and oh fuck it hurts. My head feels like it’s about to split open, right down the middle like a broken shell, and all I can do is sit there, palms pressed tightly against my eyes, smudging over the tears that are escaping down my face. Fuck. FUCK! OW!
"Hang in there. I’m going to give you something to help."
But it HURTS! Her words just wash away. They don’t even scratch the surface. I try and focus on the things around me, but it doesn’t help. I just see shapes. Lumpy outline of a strange bed. Clean smell, like fresh air and newly washed sheets. It overpowers me, makes me sick. Choking. It stings my nose and makes my eyes throb, the late afternoon light casting sickeningly long shadows that lurch across the walls. Voices crowding my head. Pressure. All clamouring to be heard at once. Toes feel itchy. All of me feels itchy. God the pressure. I kick at the sheets binding me. They stick to my skin as it grows sticky and damp and all I can think is, please, make it stop. Make them stop. Make it stop!
"It’s not a suppressant," comes the voice again. "In your case I think that would do more damage than good. It’s just a hefty painkiller and a sedative."
A needle pricks my skin, but I hardly feel it.
"Give it a moment..."
I swallow in the absence of the ability to form any words. I’m being ripped in every direction at once and it’s all I can do to remain conscious.
"Deep breath..."
Sharp daggers stab thoughts through my mind. Hundreds of them.
"Come on. Deep breath."
Ears ringing. Fingernails digging into palms.
Come on, I can do this.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I try and still my heaving shoulders; ignore the rawness in my chest. Deep, deep breath. The oxygen flows into my lungs like a soothing balm, the drug finally sinking through me. Just breathing.
Just breathing.
"Okay? Better?"
The owner of the voice leans over me, checking me over. Pulls up my eyelids, looks inside my mouth. Efficient, but gentle. I try and focus on her, but my eyes slide away from any fixed form, preferring to reside in the realms of the blurry where it takes far less effort. I manage a feeble nod, the pain receding slightly as the drug does its stuff, but the voices still throb in my ears like a constant furious hum, one memory clinging to me with such force. I don’t even know if it’s mine... but...
"I thought I saw him," I begin to babble uselessly. "I thought..."
Images come flooding back. Watery darkness. Smoke pouring out of blackened windows. Storm calling out. Eyes. Furious eyes.
"Logan?" It comes out as a croak.
"He’s fine."
They’re the last words I hear before I fall into a deep sleep, and I’m not sure I understand them, but they’re enough.
It’s the following morning when I next wake. Or at least I think it is. The way the light dances across the walls is fresh. There’s an open window; gauzy drapes drift in soft breeze, brushing against a picture that’s a splash of colour on the wall...watercolour cornfields...
...Where am I?
Still fuzzy with sleep, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and instantly regret the speed of the action; one hand going to press tightly against my forehead, as if pressure could help the stabbing pain that explodes there.
It doesn’t. It just makes me dizzy.
But I'm determined.
Yeah. I’m still that.
...I think.
Actually, I’m not sure what I am.
Ow.
As I push myself to my feet, far more gently this time, I realise that there’s not a scratch on me. Well, besides the cramp in my muscles and the thumping headache. Which I don’t think is going anywhere soon.
There’s a robe hanging on the door and I pull it on, pad my way downstairs, trying to figure out where I am. It’s a narrow staircase, leading into a small hallway. Definitely not the Mansion. Bright little windows, painted a faded, peeling blue, stand out against the fresh whiteness of the walls. My nose tickles with the slight smell of dust and cobwebs.
Well, wherever I am, I appear to be the only one here. It’s not big, although it does look familiar somehow. There’s a neat little kitchen, a living room, bright and airy, a couple of well worn armchairs slouching comfortably in the corner by an old fashioned hearth. Out back there is a small porch, with a smooth wooden jetty that reaches out into...the...
The lake house. I’m at the lake house.
A memory slides back into place. Visiting here one summer. Just briefly. I dropped off a letter to a friend of the Professor’s. The place seemed smaller than it does now. Now it seems... comfortable.
I roll the word around my head for a bit. Weigh it up. Keep it fiercely apart from all the other things I’m trying not to think about. Working out where I am? I can cope with that. But that’s it.
Comfortable.
Yeah. I’m okay with comfortable.
Comfortable is quiet. Comfortable is alone. Comfortable is not having to think about anything else.
Besides, apart from that one visit, this place is empty of memories for me. It’s a blank canvas, and I like that.
I push open the back door, taking a deep breath of freshwater air as I gingerly lower myself down on to the warm wooden steps, hands pressed tightly against my temples, trying to ease the relentless onslaught that continues without let up. I lose track of how long I sit there, just coping with existing. The lake reaches out as far as the dark smudge of the trees on either side, ribbons of light glancing off the rippling surface, and it’s gorgeous, but I’m such a contrast to the peaceful stillness that all I can do is try not to crack under the strain.
I try my usual technique to calm the pressing clamour of voices; concentrating on the smaller things; the fraying sleeve of my robe, the chipped nail polish on my toes.
It doesn’t work particularly well. Not this time. There’s too many of them. They’re a furious tide of thoughts and emotions; I want to be angry, happy, vengeful, sad all at once, and I can’t. My body can’t keep up. Instead I’m just drained.
It doesn’t stop me from trying though. I’m still stubborn. At least, I think that’s me.
Maybe it’s just someone I’ve absorbed?
I wonder briefly if it’s more wrong that I don’t know, or that I don’t care.
At some point during the sun’s watery journey across the grey expanse of sky, a noise registers. I ignore it at first, hoping it will go away and leave me to suffer in peace; human, animal, whatever, I don't think I can cope with it right now. But the noise doesn’t go. It changes into the soft click of a door and footsteps follow, quiet, but loud enough for me to hear. Intentional? I don’t know, but I do know I’m no longer alone.
I’m exhausted. I’m not even curious. If it’s someone come to hurt me, then I hope they just get it over with quickly. If it’s someone come to help... well... likewise. I can’t quite bring myself to move. I just look blandly across the lake at the sound of the screen door opening behind me, and I wish like hell I was fourteen years old again. Back when I lived at home. Back before mutations, when things were simple.
Then I hear the sound of his voice; rough and tense, and it hurts so much I wonder if I’m ever going to be whole again.
"You’re a goddamn idiot, you know that?"
My eyes close of their own accord, and the next breath that comes is long and shaky. I don’t turn around, I can't, because despite everything my mind looms with one thought over all others. What if it’s not really him? What if he’s not real?
I don’t want to look.
Whatever the doctor said, I know what I saw back there in the lab. Part of me is terrified that he’s nothing but another presence in my mind.
But then he steps closer, and his familiar smell envelops me. Like leather and soap and something that’s purely him. It prickles down my spine and I can’t help it, even though I clench my jaw to fight the swell of emotion, I start to cry.
Even my mind couldn’t fake that.
"You nearly got yourself killed." His voice is clipped. Harsh.
My head throbs with an influx of crushing opinions... weak... pathetic... all mocking the big, fat tears that soak into the collar of my robe. I don’t want to wipe them away in case he can tell I’m crying, so instead they cool quickly into the thick material, making it damp and itchy. Stupid. Probably no use anyway. He’ll know. Even the lake won’t mask the salty scent. My hands tremble pathetically as I wrap them around me.
"What the hell were you thinkin’?"
God, I don’t know. I don’t know. My fingers go shakily to my face. Cold and clammy. Press against my forehead. I wish I did know. I wish I understood myself better. Hindsight is a horrible thing.
"You ignorin’ me now?"
No. Never that.
I want to apologise for being such a mess up. For getting everything so wrong. For the hollow feeling of empty loss that always pervades me when he’s around. But I can’t even do that right, the words won’t come and I just sit there, looking out across the blank expanse of water.
The silence hangs like a lumpy weight between us, the rabble of noise in my head intensifying with the added tension. For a long while he doesn’t say any more. Doesn’t do anything. Just stands in the doorway, waiting for me to do God knows what. Make sense? Manage coherent thought?
I’m not sure I’m capable of either right now.
But then I hear him turn to go, and I know that if I don’t say something now, I might never again get the chance.
"I saw..." I try and twist my tongue into speaking, but it’s unwieldy, it doesn’t want to be used. "I... you... you got shot." Choked out words that hurt when I force my mouth to say them.
I wait for a response, shoulders hunched. But there’s... nothing.
Emptiness.
I wonder if he’s gone, silently, without me noticing. Wonder if he’s too angry to speak. Wonder if this is going to be like every other time recently where we ended up arguing. We always end up arguing, and I don’t want that. I can’t cope with that right now. I just want... I...
God, I want what I always want. And it hurts so much that even the pain in my head is dulled by it. I want him. Not a guardian, not a teacher. Just him.
Then I hear him draw in a long breath, and in that moment I’m so thankful he hasn’t just turned and walked away that relief adds another thick layer to the emotions that are threatening to drown me. The ones that I have buried so well for so long.
"Been shot before," he says eventually. "Don’t make much difference."
"But they had the cure. I saw it. I know what...they... they..." I trail off, and whatever he says next, I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything but the blood that rushes giddily through my ears.
How could I be so blind?
People only see what they want to see.
A wash of realisation sinks down to my toes.Mystique?
Oh, God.
A dozen things slide into place. The convenience of his arrival at the lab. The similar things he said. She said.
I try and take a moment. Try and gather my thoughts and understand the mountain of what this makes me feel. But it doesn’t help. The chaos of my mind can’t quite grasp the edges of what it’s trying to comprehend. "You weren’t there, were you?"
Nothing.
"You weren’t there. Not until I called the Professor."
I still don’t look at him.
"I thought it was you. But it was her. She tried to..." My words cut off with this horrible strangled sobbing sound and I can’t stop. I don’t want him to see this, but don’t know quite how to control it. Oh, God, she tried to save me? And it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. And I can’t decide which is making me cry more.
Through the mess of my tears there’s a tired sigh, then the wood of the porch creaks and instead of hovering in the doorway, he’s sitting beside me, long legs stretching out in front of him. He doesn’t try and comfort me though, not like he used to; there’s no protective arm heavy around my shoulder, just space. But he stays, staring out across the lake as he lets me choke out the hot tears that wrack through me.
"I’m sorry," I mumble at last, drawing in a deep breath to try and regain some vague illusion of control. It comes out all shuddery and pathetic. "You were right. I am a mess." I wipe my eyes roughly on the sleeve of the robe and sniff loudly, then instantly wish I was more sophisticated. Mystique would never have cried messily like that. Or Jean. I’m not one of those people who look pretty when I cry either. I go all blotchy and red and snotty.
"So what happened?" His voice is still grim.
I don’t... I... I stare down his feet, not knowing where or even how to begin. Frightened whatever I say will make this worse. Although how can it be? My eyes hunt for distraction. He ties his bootlaces in strong knots, I realise, fixing on that tiny detail and clinging to it. Tough. Practical.
"Marie?"
Oh, God, don’t use that name. I’m not worthy of that name. Not anymore. "I’m sorry," I begin to babble. "I’m so sorry. You’ve a right to be angry."
"I’m not angry," he snaps back, the tone of his voice a complete contradiction to his words. "You just..." He scrubs his face with a hand. "You scared the shit outta me back there. I thought you were hurt."
"I didn’t mean-"
"You sure about that? ‘Cause you seem to be doin’ it a lot lately."
That one sinks home. I bite my lip, scrunching up the sleeves of the robe in my fists.
"What were you thinkin’?"
"I just... I..."
"You got yourself right back into that whole damn mess!"
"I didn’t know what else to do."
"An’ what the hell is that supposed to mean?" He almost snarls it.
Feeling utterly miserable, I turn my head away. "I make people uncomfortable." It’s not even angry, not anymore. Just sad. "I always have. Even you. You stayed away because of me."
"That’s not what I-"
"Yes, it was." I sniff again, puffy and drained. "Maybe in a different way to everyone else, but it was."
He doesn't say anything and my heart sinks a little further.
"I was tired of it," I say quietly. "People always tip-toeing around me. Besides, you made it pretty clear you wanted me to leave."
"You think I wanted you to leave? How was me asking you to stay a sign that I wanted you to leave!"
"You weren’t exactly overjoyed to find me still here."
Tension bristles off him. "And that’s it? You’re blaming me?"
"...No."
"Then what? What the hell goes on in that head of yours?"
I don’t know what to say to that. Even I don’t know. It’s too raw, too complicated, and after everything else, it’s too much.
"What?" He snaps to my wall of silence. "You think I’ve got answers? You think I know what to do?" His fists clench. "I don’t have the first clue what to say to you right now."
"What do you mean?"
"What the hell do you think I mean?!"
"I don't..." Normally it would come out in a big explosion of words, but I don't have the strength for it. Instead it's feeble and tired. "I don’t know... I never know." I cover my face with my hands.
How the hell am I supposed to know? I don’t understand any of it. I have voices in my head that mock me, and if I had the energy I'd hate them for the taunts and the sick pain they lance through my skull. And everything he says just confuses me more. Every conversation we have, it never makes sense. He’s so stubborn and un-readable.
"Said I’d look out for you," he says eventually. "I can’t do that if you’re actively tryin’ to destroy yourself."
I swallow awkwardly. "You shouldn’t bother. You should just leave me to rot like I deserve."
"I know."
"Then why don’t you?" It comes out sounding dead.
He’s quiet for a very long time. So long that the faint ripple of the lake, the soft rustling of the leaves, they become deafening.
I begin to regret asking. "I shouldn’t have... never mind."
"Because I can’t walk away."
I blink. Wonder if I heard him right. "I don’t understand."
He sounds faintly tetchy. "Neither do I."
Then he refuses to say anything else and we both just sit there. Stubborn and tired, his tension, my awkwardness, bristling between us.
But he doesn’t go.
I wish I knew what that meant too.
The sun comes out from behind its veil of cloud and I blink at the sudden dazzling brightness of the lake. "Did you just come here to yell at me?"
"I’m not yellin’."
"But you are mad at me."
"It’s allowed," he says, without compromise. "You gonna tell me what happened?"
I don’t know if I can. I draw my knees up to my chest. Curl my hands around them. My head throbs and in my mind’s eye images of the lab flash back to me. The metallic smell of the elevator, the tap of Mystique’s heels as she walked ahead of me down those fluorescent strip-lit corridors. The synthetic swish of her stolen lab coat. The stench of formaldehyde. Fighting. Gunshots. The spreading stain of blood.
"I... I thought you were dead. I got... upset."
"Upset?" He sounds so shocked by the word that I actually snort some kind of snotty, tearful laugh. Okay, so that might have been a bit of an understatement.
"Remind me not to get in the way next time you feel 'upset'. You tore that place down from the inside out."
"I’m sorry," I fumble again, but this time he cuts in.
"No." His voice is firm. "You don’t get to be sorry for that. Not tearing the place down. You saved a lot of people. Did a good thing."
Good thing?
How the fuck was it a good thing?
His words make me feel suddenly claustrophobic. Like I’m a liar. No amount of saving people makes up for those I hurt. In the end of the day I’m no better than them. "No, I didn’t."
"They were bad people, kid."
"Yes, but they were people."
"You saw what they did there."
"You don’t have their memories."
But he doesn’t let me get away with that. "Look at me."
I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what I might see and I don’t want to deal with this anymore. I want to close my eyes like a child. I want to curl up into a ball.
"Look at me."
I stare stubbornly at his bootlaces.
Then he comes round to crouch in front of me, reaches out with a hand and nudges my chin upwards so I don’t have any choice in the matter. The touch is so unexpected that I freeze, and for a moment even the other voices fall silent.
"Listen, 'cause I'm only gonna tell you this once. It’s only ever the survivors, the fighters, that live long enough to feel guilt." He doesn’t blink and his voice is gruff. "It’s normal to feel like shit. Don’t lose yourself over this. Okay?"
He’s so close, so intense, I’m like a deer trapped in headlights. I hardly hear his words. I’m suddenly very aware of every part of him, from the faded warmth of his jacket, to the two furrows of a frown creasing his forehead as he studies me. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it, even though he’s stopped speaking.
Even though he’s staring back.
For a brief moment his gaze darkens and something I see there catches my breath. But then he looks away and gets to his feet, and the spell is broken.
"I have to go," he says, running a hand almost awkwardly through his hair, and I think everything that I must be feeling must be plainly written across my face, because he adds, "Not away again, just back to the Mansion. Got lessons to teach this afternoon."
Oh.
I feel faintly stupid for forgetting something like that. Yes, of course he does. The world doesn’t stop when I stop. This is his life here now. He has responsibilities.
And ‘Ro.
My chest tightens.
"When we brought you back this time, the doc wanted you at the Mansion again so she could keep a close eye on you. She’s worried about you," he adds, when he immediately notices the tension that rises through me, "that’s all. No one’s making you do anythin’ you don’t want, okay?"
I hesitate, then give him a nod. But my heart’s still hammering and I’m sure he must be able to hear it.
"The Professor, he said that last time that didn’t work out so well. So I’m to tell you that you can stay here as long as you want. The lake house is yours to use."
"Mine?" the word comes out with such quiet disbelief.
"But if you ever need anythin’," he jerks his head in the direction of the Mansion. I can’t see it. It’s beyond all the trees, a mile or so away. "You know where we are."