The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
My head hurts.
Eyeballs of pain stab directly into my frontal lobe, thoughts continuously twitching and babbling on about the different lives I now have trapped inside my busy skull. My brain feels like the highway at rush hour. Which is always nice. Ouch.
So I do what I’ve done every day this week... and most of last week. I stay by myself. I sit quiet. I breathe in and out. And I try my goddamn hardest to remember who I am.
Little things. It’s the little things that allow me to claw progress off them. I start making a list, pin it to the fridge. I like strawberries with peanut butter, that’s me, it’s no one else. I love the feel of the sun on my skin; it’s one of the things I missed the most when I had to cover up. Anchovies make me gag. I hate to swim, even though I can’t remember the last time I went. I’m ticklish behind my knees. I like crappy old movies. When I was six I had a dog called Meg. She died a few years later in a traffic accident, but the memory is mine, and no matter how sad it is, I treasure it.
Each day I try and add something new. Something that’s purely me. And each day it gets a little better.
I don’t sleep well though, not this time. This time the nightmares that reach me are real events that happened to the others; the things they saw, things that were done to them. Knives, injections, experiments. The beatings and hunger. Every night I re-live it.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve woken up covered in cold sweat, throat raw and constricted from yelling with blind panic.
I don’t have many visitors either. I think they’ve all been told to keep away. Doctor MacTaggart looks in on me once a day, but that’s about it, although I’m not sure how long she’ll be around for. Hank’s been busier than usual with all the politics surrounding the Registration Act, so the Professor called in a favour and asked her to stick around for a while. It's her job to monitor me. Like a child.
Or a wild beast.
I haven't quite decided which, yet.
Other than her once a day visit though, Doctor MacTaggart leaves me to my own devices and I appreciate that. It gives me time to work some things out. Lick my wounds.
When I can cope with it, I get on with the little things, the menial jobs. I dust. Tidy. Sweep the porch. Make a passable attempt at cooking food. I burn most of it, but what the hell. It’s a start, right? That’s what I tell myself anyway as I pick my fork through another dried out disaster. I even do some washing. There was a pile of spare clothes left for me when I woke up that first day, but none of them fit well. So on one otherwise unoccupied Tuesday afternoon I decide to set about cleaning up the stuff I had on when we... when I...
My mind trails off, sliding down its usual slippery path of denial, but this time I don’t let it.
When I destroyed the lab. When I took lives. Saved lives. I look at myself in the mirror as I think it; make sure it sinks home.
And you know what? It doesn’t finish me. I’m still here. I’m still coping. And I didn’t run away from myself.
I take a deep breath and wonder if it’s okay to feel proud of that?
My hands scoop up the pile of messy clothes. The top’s long gone, there’s no saving that, but the pants are probably okay... if I can get the sooty scorch marks out. And the jacket... My fingers catch on something hard in the pocket, and I frown. Unzip it to look a little closer.
The memory chip from my pen drive?
My thoughts flicker back to that tired old PC in the lab. The data. The names. It’s all here.
God.
For a moment my head spins and I fight the urge to throw it straight in the trash. I’m repulsed, I don’t want it. But... shit. A lot of people died for what’s on that stick.
Mystique died.
The thought wrenches at me, far more than I expected. Sadness laced with guilt. My eagerness to always assume the worst of her. That she tried to save me, even after I screamed at her to go away. Who knows why she did it, why she came back that time, and not the other?
I guess it’s something I’ll never know, and I’m not sure how okay I am with that. It wasn’t friendship, not in the traditional sense... but then, what about me is in the traditional sense?
God knows.
When I was growing up, I used to think that the transition between childhood and adulthood was a simple thing. Children learn, and adults know all the answers. They know what they’re doing.
Wish I knew what I was doing.
I look at the memory chip in my hand, still frowning, trying to think of an excuse to destroy it. But nothing is forthcoming and I know deep down that I have to take it to the Professor. It’s the right thing to do.
And for once I want to be right.
Although I don’t like to admit it, it actually takes me most of the afternoon to work up the courage to venture outside my front door. By the time I finally manage it, it’s colder than I expected, which is not good because my jacket is still drying over the back of a kitchen chair. I fight off a shiver. It would be so tempting to use that as an excuse...
Besides... what would the Professor do with a list of names? Thing’s probably worthless...
No.
I stop myself before that train of thought goes any further. Heh. I do it so forcefully as well that it actually peps me up a little bit, and I go with the motion it brings, letting it propel me forwards before I change my mind and...
....Ohhhh but changing my mind seems good right now. And easy. As well as-
Rogue?
Ah.
Or not.
I forgot the Professor could do that.
I’ll be in my study, should you wish to find me.
Which, roughly translated, means there ain't no backing out now. I wonder how long he’s been watching me. Waiting for me to step outside...
Uh-uh. Don’t go there.
Don't freak out about the 'path.
Also... try not to be too concerned that you're talking to yourself. At least you found the right personality. See? There's a positive side to every-
Rogue?
Oh. Right.
I steel myself, jaw clenching as I head firmly towards the Mansion in an act of pure will power. If I'm honest, I'm unsure of what I’m more afraid; meeting people, having people meet me, having to explain things to the Professor, or adding the noise and clamour of the school to that already going on in my head. Which thumps painfully at the mere thought.
Ugh. I swear, if this headache ever goes? I’m never going to touch another person again. Ever. Touch is highly overrated.
Then as if in penance for thinking that, I’m suddenly struck with a memory of years ago. Logan hooking my newly gained strands of white hair behind my ear, hovering in the doorway and the flurry of emotions that spiralled through my stomach as I told him I didn’t want him to go.
Yeah. Okay. Most touch is highly overrated.
My stomach still tingles at the memory.
The late afternoon lessons are well in progress by the time I get there, so the hallways are blissfully empty of chattering voices and the thud of teenage feet. In fact I don’t see a single person on the entire journey through the high-ceilinged corridors to the Professor’s room. Something of which I’m sure is his doing. It’s never usually that quiet.
I reach up a hand to knock on the door.
"It’s open," calls the Professor’s voice. My hand still hovering an inch away from the wood.
I forgot he could do that too. But I will not let it freak me out. Nope.
I take a deep breath, step inside...
...Then wonder what on earth it was I was worrying about. The air of calm that always resides in his study flows over me in soothing waves. My eyes are drawn to the window, washed pale with the promise of evening rain, a lamp in the corner glinting off the glass fronted cabinets and providing the warm circle of light that wraps the room in comfort. The Professor looks up from his desk and gives me a smile.
"Why don’t you sit?" he says kindly. "Then you can tell me why you’re here."
And he's so patient, so focused on me and ready to listen, that after the first few halting words it’s easy. I sit where he suggests and sentences flood my mind. Maybe he helps, I don’t know, but memory after memory flows out of me. Images, thoughts, feelings. I begin right back when I first left the Mansion and don’t stop until I’m handing over the memory chip, sliding it across the surface of his desk until it sits in front of him.
He studies it for a minute. A tiny little piece of circuitry, no bigger than the nail on my little finger. It looks so innocuous. Inconsequential.
Information. The most powerful weapon.
He takes it carefully in his hand, before placing it in one of the drawers at his side, locking it firmly with a twist of a brass key. He gives me a nod. "Thank you."
I shake my head. "I don’t want to be tha-"
But he cuts me off. "This information is enough to give us leverage. Maybe even enough leverage to prevent them putting the Mutant Registration Act in force. I mean it when I give my thanks Rogue, I do not give them lightly."
I don’t quite know what to say to that.
I’m embarrassed, but... slightly pleased. Yeah. That’s the strange emotion that’s eluding me. Underneath it all, I have a faint element of satisfaction.
I manage a quiet, "okay," and I get to my feet before the new feeling leaves me. I’m halfway out the door before a thought strikes me, and I suddenly feel so incredibly guilty for not thinking it before. "Scott?"
The Professor looks back up from his thoughts.
"Um... how is he?"
"He’s improving, somewhat."
I frown. That doesn’t sound as good as I had hoped. "Somewhat?"
"These things take time," he reassures me. "He’s... would you like to see him?"
I...
Yes, actually. I would. I really would.
I nod.
"I’ll take you there myself."
He gets up from his desk and takes a couple of long strides over to the door. As always it takes me by surprise and I wonder faintly if I’ll ever get used to that.
"You’re not the only one," he adds, with a slight smile.
...I forgot he could do that, too. Damn.
As I follow him, I try really hard not to think of anything incriminating. Or rude. Or involving Logan naked. Which instantly brings a whole heap of erotic images to the forefront of my mind, the very least of which is me, looking at the Logan-me, in the mirror. Doing... stuff.
Shit, the Professor doesn’t know about that, does he? Oh God, please don’t let him be reading this right now.
My face flushes an attractive red, so I stare very attentively at my feet as we head to the East Wing, counting the steps I take instead, hoping like hell that all he can hear in my mind is forty one, forty two, forty three...
He leaves me outside of Scott’s door, with a passing mention that he has to go and teach the last afternoon lesson. Which really I think is a nice way of saying ‘I’ll go, so you can stop worrying about what you’re thinking.’
Which he would only be saying if he knew what I was thinking.
...Wouldn’t he?
Ugh. The added thought only makes my sore head hurt even more. My eyes water in painful sympathy. Ouch.
I try and take my mind off the complexity... and hopelessness... of trying to second guess a ‘path, and knock gently on the door I’m standing like an idiot in front of.
There’s no answer.
Still, the Professor said Scott would want to see me... right? So I push it inwards.
Inside the curtains are drawn, casting the room in sweeping shadows. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. A bed sits against the wall, portable monitoring equipment all hooked up beside it. The only movement is the outline of a man, pushing himself into a sitting position. I can just about make out the bandages wrapped tightly around his eyes.
A strange mixture of sympathy, anger and protectiveness washes over me.
"Hello?" His voice cracks when he speaks, but it’s stronger than when I first found him. He’s stronger. That’s a good thing, right?
So what was the ‘somewhat’ about?
"If you’re just here to pity me, or stare, then the door’s that way. I suggest you use it."
Ah. That would probably be it.
"Hey," I say carefully, pretending to ignore his grouchy comment. As I grow used to the lack of light I see him hesitate, notice the way he listens to my footsteps as I tread quietly forwards.
I look at the chair beside his bed, wondering if I should sit. Or is that too intrusive? I mean, I did kind of invite myself in and everything. And now I’m here I’m suddenly remembering that this is... well...Scott. Team-leader Scott. As in Mr Summers. And he and I were never close. Not in that way. He was always up there doing good and saving the world with Jean and ‘Ro, while I was still struggling to come to terms with the Math homework he gave me. Big difference.
...But then... experiences like the one we went through do bring people closer together. Don’t they?
...Or is that just what people say to help you get over these things. Maybe it’s just me, him, and a bunch of nasty memories we have in common.
"So, whoever you are, are you just going to stand there?"
"Maybe. I don’t want to intrude if you want to be left alone."
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, "Rogue?"
I hesitate. Although I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s my last chance to pretend I’m someone else. "...Yeah."
"What are you doing here?"
"I had a meeting with the Professor. Thought I’d come and say hi... if that’s okay?"
He doesn’t answer and I’m not sure how to read that. But then he swallows and reaches fumbling for the glass of water beside the bed, and I watch him in some kind of sick fascination I feel instantly guilty for. As he takes a long sip, I notice how gaunt the hollows of his cheeks are.
"I owe you my thanks," he says eventually, trying to slide the glass back on the table beside him. He misses, and it clatters to the floor, a sudden patch of wetness spreading quickly across the carpet. "Damn it!"
The frustration in his voice wrenches and I stoop to help, but he senses the movement.
"Don’t. Just leave it."
I straighten back upright. "Okay," I say. "But on the condition you don’t go thanking me anymore. I’ve already had enough thanks to last me for the day. I’m not sure I know what to do with all this grateful feeling."
He huffs an annoyed sigh. "Stop being so melodramatic."
"I’m being melodramatic?"
He’s silent. Stubbornly so.
"It doesn’t help," I say eventually.
"What doesn’t?"
"Wallowing. I should know. I’m an expert at it."
"I’ll be sure to bear that in mind"
I ignore the sarcasm in his voice. "So, how are you doing?"
"Wonderful," he lies, leaning back against the headboard. "It’s like an extended vacation. You?"
"Peachy. I have a killer headache and the personalities of half the population, but I haven’t gone crazy in over two weeks. I’m practically sane."
I think I win some points there because his lips twitch in what could almost be the ghost of a smile. Although he tries to hide it. "Are you going to sit down?"
"Do you want me too?"
He shrugs.
"Well in that case, yeah. I think I might."
It’s a crappy wicker chair and it creaks loudly as I sink into the cushions, but I think he likes that. The sounds tell him what his eyes can’t. Hell, even my eyes can hardly see in here, the darkness is so thick and stuffy. "Why don’t you let me open the curtains, let some light in?"
He looks suspicious. "Did Moira send you in here?"
"...No."
"Well I’m fine with it the way it is," he snaps.
O-kaaaay. I make a mental note to steer clear of the curtain issue.
Then I hear him sigh. "I’m sorry. That was rude of me."
"It’s fine."
"No, it’s not. I owe you my life. The least I can do is make an effort to be polite."
A huffed laugh escapes me. "I’ve never really cared much for politeness. And doctors aren’t that bad." My mind flickers back to how Dr McCoy tried his best to look after me last time. "It gets better."
"You’re speaking from experience?"
"I’ve been busy this last year or so." Remembering Logan’s comments, I add, "Steadily trying to destroy myself I think."
At that Scott stays broodingly quiet, but it’s not an awkward silence, not like it is between Logan and me. Neither of us is expecting anything from the other and that’s... nice. Yeah. That’s what it is. It’s refreshing.
"So," he says eventually. "What happened to you then?"
"Short story? Car accident."
"Long story."
"I did some stupid things. Robbed a bank. Got shot. Logan, he... well he got me out, but he crashed the car."
"You robbed a bank?"
"They were handling mutant blood money. Besides," I make a half hearted effort to defend myself, "it wasn’t just me. Mystique was there too."
"You robbed a bank?"
This is more like the Scott I knew. "Several. Look, if you’re gonna get hung up on the details, I think I’d better go..."
"Wait." He reaches out, grabs my wrist. "Stay. Please?"
I frown. "You sure?"
"No, but I’m not sure of much at the moment."
God, I know how that feels. I want to tell him that too, but he looks like he's struggling with something, so I stay quiet. Wait.
Scott takes his time, searching for the right words. When he does speak, his voice is quiet and rough. "Everyone’s fussing around me, expecting me to be overjoyed that I’m... that I'm out of..." He swallows awkwardly. "They don’t quite understand... " He trails off, and in his other hand I notice he's holding his visor. It looks old and unused, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through me. "They picked me up from Alkali Lake." I can see the tension that whitens his knuckles. "I was in there for four years. I can’t just switch that off. You’re the first person to talk to me as if I’m not... broken."
His thoughts echo mine of a month ago with such clarity, that it sends a shiver down my spine. My head throbs and my only defence is to try and brush it off with humour. "That’s ‘cause I’m just as messed up."
Again, that twist of his lips appears. "Sucks to be us, then."
"Your eyes..." I begin tentatively, but he cuts me off.
"I’m blind." He says it firmly. Matter of fact. The lack of emotion behind it is startling, only... I know that blandness. I know it all too well.
"Dr McCoy-"
"Has said there is nothing that even he can do."
I’m not sure what to say to that. But I realise his fingers are still on my wrist from where he grabbed it, so I slide my hand round into his and give it a gentle squeeze. Then we just sit there for a while. Each lost in our own thoughts.
"So Logan saved you?" he says eventually, although I’m not sure why he chose that topic to focus on.
When I answer, it’s lightly. At least, I hope it is. "Yeah. He was just... in the neighbourhood."
"Of course."
I look at him for a moment. Try to establish what he’s thinking.
"You know," he says, oblivious of my study. "He talks about you."
My heart rate instantly speeds up. He does?
"I can feel your pulse rushing."
"That’s not fair."
"Why are you so ashamed of it?"
"I'm not." It comes out sounding sulky. "Besides, there's nothing there for me to be ashamed of. All we do is argue. And anyway, he's got 'Ro."
"Really? What makes you think that?"
The question hangs poised in the air, but it never gets answered. With a brief but warm "good evening," Moira MacTaggart lets herself in, and I’m asked, politely, if I would mind leaving.
Just as I’m halfway out the door however, I hear, "You know, I may be hiding away in this dark room, but I know half of what’s going on round here. 'Ro’s been dating Hank on and off for over a year now."