DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
thatcraftykid
track three // “BREATHE”
ALL YOU TOUCH AND ALL YOU SEE / IS ALL YOUR LIFE WILL EVER BE
“You know, if it kept you from horning in on his fiancée,
I bet Cyclops wouldn’t care if you were screwing me six ways from Sunday.”
– Rogue –
Bouncing the back of her head noiselessly against the metal headboard, she pulls her crossed legs in tighter. Space is rapidly diminishing as her new roommates fling borrowable jeans, tops, socks, shoes, pajamas, and even stuffed animals on what’s been designated Rogue’s bed. Community possessions. A necessary way of life in a place with wide open doors, where an introduction constitutes a friendship and it’s learn to coexist on top of each other or tough shit.
“Jubee, move your booty,” the Brazilian girl, Amara, demands, bumping Jubilee away from the closet with her hip.
Exaggerating a stumble, Jubilee catches her balance on Ric’s slender shoulders and plops herself into his lap. “Lo siento, papi,” she coos as she trails a blue spark down the front of his sweater.
Under normal circumstances, Rogue thinks she’d find Jubilee and her firecracking ways a riot. Right now, the ringing in her ears is making her nauseous.
“How about a little rumble?” Jubilee asks, presumably referencing Ric’s mutation. She wiggles in his lap cleverly. Rogue cringes. Is her own Lolita routine as absurdly transparent?
“Skank-slut,” John coughs into his hand loudly. He spins around in the computer chair closest to Rogue, dodging a slipper thrown by Kitty and a death look from Jubilee.
Ric murmurs something like, “Bless her heart,” making Jubilee focus her glare on him. “What? I said, ‘You’re pretty.’”
Beaming, she snuggles back up. Looking at Rogue, Jubilee explains, “Ric’s a big ol’ queen, if you couldn’t tell.”
“So’s Bobby,” John adds. He’s got his hands on a book of matches and a scented candle now.
Bobby glances up from his textbook, snorting out a frosty breath. “Keep dreaming.”
While the two argue over relative queerness, Kitty gets Ric’s opinion as to whether the boys are bordering on homophobic or protesting too much. Jubilee argues vehemently for the latter, allying John and Bobby against her. For his part, Ric throws up his hands, announcing, “Queen, king – all the same to me, so long as I’m the one handling the pieces.”
Over the fray, Amara emerges from the closet. “Success!” she cries, a pair of long, black gloves draped over her wrists. She presents them to Rogue with a joking curtsey. “For you. If never again I’m forced to sit through another opera, it’ll be too soon.”
“Thanks,” Rogue replies, not knowing what else to say. She lays the lacy gloves out on her knee.
“Fashionable and functional,” Kitty pronounces.
Rogue hopes her answering smile isn’t too bland. The throbbing against her skull hasn’t ebbed nearly as quickly as the Professor hoped it would. He prescribed the company of others to keep her out of her head. Flippantly, she thinks, in or out, her sanity’s in peril either way.
Suddenly trilling what can only be a string of Portuguese profanities, Amara steps right on Logan’s jacket in her hurry to swipe the massively lit candle and matchbook away from John. With her bare hand, she snuffs out the six-inch flame. “Look at the ceiling, otário! Still scorched from last time!”
“All right, all right. But give me the matches, okay? Grey has my lighter.”
Rogue smirks weakly. That’s what he thinks.
Amara raps him on the nose with her fingertips. “No!”
“Woman!” John throws his elbows over his head. “I am not a puppy!”
“You certainly sniff around people like one,” Rogue tosses out, eliciting appreciative noises from the room.
Golf claps hoity, Jubilee says in an affected British accent, “Marvelous bitchery.”
“A stunning display,” Ric mimics.
“Like I should even bother with you.” John’s gaze is on her gloves, and Rogue feels herself flushing with surprise and anger. His mouth twists into a leer. “Good thing I enjoy a challenge.” The last ember on the candlewick flares.
Asshole. Gloves off, she could show him a thing or twenty –
Bobby cuts through the antagonism before it gets ugly: “John, you need to stop talking. Rogue doesn’t want to hear it and neither do the rest of us.” Bright blue eyes find hers, eliciting a grateful smile.
“Seriously,” Kitty puts in. “I mean, can we, you know, actually study for this final, please and thank you?”
“I’d like to graduate,” Ric agrees, shooing Jubilee off his lap so he can read his notes.
Spinning again, John says, “Roman Empire, blah, blah, religious strife, Jesus Freak martyrs, Constantine issued the Edict of Milan in 313 after he contracted Christianity. Essay one, bam. Done. A-plus.”
“First of all, you’ve never seen an A-plus in your life and you will never, because, let’s be honest among friends, I break the curve every time.” Kitty has Bobby jokingly breathe on her fingernails. “Second, ‘contracted Christianity,’ what the heck?” she questions.
“Yeah, contracted. Christianity’s just like AIDS – it’s resistive to science, targets homosexuals, and completely raped Africa.”
Blasphemers burn, Rogue thinks, shocking herself with someone else’s ferocity. There are other opinions, no stronger than a conflicted drone, but the revival voice cuts through them. Should-have-been-voiceless Lora, who knows three ways to perform an exorcism, all of which failed against her Godforsaken deformity. Sinner, I’m a sinner –
Ugh. Rogue follows Ric’s hand as he makes the sign of the cross. Back, demon. Into the dark.
“You are one messed up mutant,” Ric says. No kidding, she thinks, except he’s not talking about her.
Jubilee and Amara trade low whistles and hen clucks, while Kitty’s jaw is practically touching her collarbone. “I’m not even Christian, and I still find that offensive!”
“It’s also a completely invalid comparison, because you can’t just stop believing in AIDS and be cured,” Bobby asserts.
John’s shit-eating grin remains intact. It was the rise he wanted, and he already got it.
What would it be like, Rogue has to wonder, to have someone so completely uncensored flying around her head? Crowded, of course. She’s crowded already, the Professor just stirred her up. Would the devil-may-care be worth it?
Stop it. She massages the base of her skull roughly. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
“You okay, chica?”
A hand on her shoulder makes Rogue jerk back, startling Jubilee. “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Headache.”
“We’re loud, aren’t we? We’ll go to the lounge,” Bobby offers, closing his textbook.
“That’s sweet, but, really, I like the company,” she says, meaning it in spite of her complaining. He smiles, and her head aches anew because suddenly she’s reminded of David.
Your fault. You did this. David’s there but, more than anyone, he doesn’t want to be.
John snorts. “I believe it. Big Bad Claws doesn’t strike me as much of a conversationalist.”
Laughing, Jubilee sits carelessly on the pile next to Rogue. “He has other qualities, I’m sure.”
“Jubilation,” Amara admonishes.
Not getting the hint, John throws up a colorful rubber band ball and catches it. “Makes you wonder how they passed the time.”
Rogue snaps, “You should just change your name to Asshole, save people the trouble.”
“Believe me, it’s starting to stick,” Bobby replies, an apology in his voice.
A knock on the door catches the attention of seven pairs of eyes. Looking every bit the proud teacher, Storm says, “A study party, I’m so happy to see you taking my advice. You’ll all do wonderfully tomorrow, I’m sure.”
Everyone does their best to look responsible. Except John, who slouches further in his chair.
“Could I borrow you for a moment, Kitty? The bathroom in Dr. McCoy’s old room isn’t stocked, and there’s something of a crisis on the third floor.” On cue, the light fixture shakes. Storm looks worried.
Kitty grins and hops up. “Sure thing, Ms. Monroe.”
“I knew I could count on you,” she says, eyes still locked on the ceiling as she hurries away.
John tosses the rubber ball to Bobby, who catches it one-handed. “Bet you wish she polished your apple that hard.”
“If you’re going to be lewd, at least try to make sense.” Kitty points at the hiking pack and jacket next to Rogue’s bed. “I’ll take that, too, if you want.”
“Actually, I’ll come with you,” she replies, gathering Logan’s things.
She can feel John staring at her ass. “Switching rooms – Damn it!” The rubber ball, which must’ve nailed him pretty soundly, rolls toward Ric.
“Shut your mouth,” Bobby orders, very slowly.
Another grateful look thrown his way, Rogue joins Kitty in the hall.
“We’re all really sorry about John,” she says as soon as they’ve started walking. “Basically, he’s like the handsy uncle with Tourette’s no one has the heart to disinvite to the family reunion. But he’s not always this bad – he’s really bring the rude today, clearly trying to get your attention. You know boys. Always kicking sand in your face if they like you.”
“I’m so flattered.”
“Right?” Kitty giggles. “And here we have the supply closet.” White walls and lots of towels. As she collects different items, she explains, “The staff goes home at six-thirty, so we’re on our own after that. They’re really nice, but – I mean, take Carl for instance, the maintenance guy. He should’ve graduated from MIT or something. Only he’s a super obvious mutant, so he’s a janitor instead of an engineer. Makes me so mad. Jubes and I want to become lawyers so we can fight injustices like that, you know?”
Kitty heads out the door. If Rogue’s not mistaken, her shoulder brushed right through the frame.
“Dr. McCoy’s old room is that way, south wing. Now he’s a super, super genius. He looks like a total science nerd – you’ve probably seen him on TV – but rumor has it his mutation makes him a serious beast. He was one of the X-Men, before he became, like, the mutant spokesguy. Bobby’s thinking about politics, too. Very Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, minus the ‘aw shucks.’”
On information overload, Rogue just responds, “He seems nice.”
“Bobby is nice,” Kitty agrees with too much emphasis. Like she’s trying to convince herself of something.
That gets her curious. “Have you been dating long?”
“A couple weeks. Jubes played matchmaker, like she always does. She kept saying I had to seal the deal now, or some new girl was going to swoop in and grab him. It was a little fast for my taste. Not that I’m complaining. Bobby’s wonderful. But I’m kind of on the rebound, because I just got out of a two-year relationship with my boyfriend, Josh. The long distance thing was making me ridiculously homesick, I was always in a bad mood. So we fought all the time and then we broke up –” Kitty takes a big breath and grins. “Drama, drama, drama.”
It’s enough to make Rogue prefer the road.
“This one right here,” Kitty says, tilting her armload toward the corner room ahead. “No need to get the door, just put your hand on me. Step lively.”
With widening eyes, Rogue grips the shorter girl’s shoulder as, together, they shuffle straight through the wall and into the bathroom. While Kitty’s setting down her pile in the sink, Rogue tests the wall’s solidity. Amazing. A touch dizzy, she drops Logan’s stuff next to the toilet and perches on the seat.
“I’m kind of a showoff,” Kitty confesses, filling up the medicine cabinet. “I got my first taste of the limelight in jr. high, when I dominated the all-school talent show. I made The Trib and everything. That’s how Professor Xavier found me. I literally begged my parents to let me come here. I had to promise them I’d go to college back home, like Northwestern or DePaul. Oh, I’m from Chicago, by the way. The suburbs, not the actual city. Although, how cool would that be? How about you?”
Montgomery to Calgary, twelve different answers from the dirty dozen echo in her head. She’d forgotten there are so many. Some are a whisper, some a shout.
“Meridian, Mississippi.”
“Awesome. Finally, something about you that’s not hearsay.” Kitty’s reflection rolls its eyes grandly. “We at Xavier’s Institute are fed by the rumor mill. To be perfectly honest, I’m no less gluttonous than the rest, as you might have noticed. However, I assure you, we are not all as apt as some people to jump to inappropriate assumptions.”
Oh, whatever. Rogue shrugs. “Gotta pay the rent somehow.”
Kitty freezes, her expression caught somewhere between scandal and revulsion.
“That was a joke. I was joking.”
Now Kitty looks embarrassed. “Yeah, totally. I getcha. It takes me a second, sometimes. Jubilee always makes fun of me for it.” Her laugh is awkward.
Saved by an opening door, Kitty motions to the wall. Rogue waves her on, keeping her seat. An exaggerated thumbs up, and she disappears.
So not that big of a deal, God. Her momma begs to differ, but Rogue refuses to listen.
Instead, she trains her ears on the sound of Logan’s voice.
“Where’s your room?” he’s asking, seemingly unaware of her presence in the dimly lit bathroom.
“With Scott, down the hall,” Dr. Grey answers.
Logan’s had plenty of time to ask her about Southaven already, but Rogue hopes that he finds a way to steer the conversation in that direction. It’s important what Dr. Grey thinks of her because she’s in a position to do something. The Professor more or less said so himself.
“Is that your gift? Putting up with that guy.”
Rogue has to smile, even though she doesn’t think Cyclops’s all that bad. He wouldn’t let her play with the controls on the ride to New York, but even his condescension was kind of cute.
“Actually, I’m telekinetic,” Dr. Grey replies. “I can move things with my mind.”
“Really? What kinds of things?”
Doors shut decisively. “All kinds of things.” More softly, Dr. Grey adds, “I also have some telepathic ability.”
Maybe that’s why, maybe Dr. Grey knows. It must’ve looked bad, whatever she saw. If only it was possible to explain.
Logan asks, “What, like your professor?”
“Nowhere near that powerful.”
Rogue’s shoulders relax. No, Dr. Grey couldn’t have seen anything, then. Even invited, the Professor wasn’t able to sort through the chaos in her head. A very fragile equilibrium, he called it, and told her evolution had equipped her with remarkable coping skills.
The devil’s work – Shut the hell up, you goddamn lunatic.
Yeah. Darwin could kiss her ass.
Logan and Dr. Grey are speaking in lowered voices now. Rogue moves to kneel by the open doorway, the better to hear if they get around to talking about something worthwhile.
“So read my mind.”
Rogue’s eyebrows shoot up. Getting information out of Logan was like pouring scalding water into a teacup balanced on the back of her hand. But Dr. Grey gets easy access?
He even goads her. “Come on. You afraid you might like it?”
“I doubt it.”
Ho-oh, not even. Rogue peeks around the corner. She knows Logan’s body language, they’re fucking flirting. Unacceptable.
What did I say about Trouble? What did I say? Her momma crows, triumph making Rogue nauseous again. He didn’t get what he wanted out of you, now he’s moved on to the very next thing in a skirt.
I listened, Rogue thinks fiercely. I didn’t let him make me any promises.
“Maybe your professor’s holding you back,” Logan observes. “Maybe he’s not alone.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that Scott’s holding me back.”
“I don’t know, he seems a little restrained for a woman like you.”
Rogue could throw up right here. Or all over Dr. Grey’s pointy red tranny heels. What does enormous feet correspond to on a chick? Logan would be the one to ask.
Okay, immature. Dr. Grey’s tone, to her credit, is no-nonsense. “If Scott opened his eyes without that visor, he could punch a hole through a mountain. I think it’s good for all of us if he has a sense of control. Don’t you?”
The floorboards creak under Logan’s weight as he waves the white flag.
“Wait. Come here.”
Dangle a pair of tits in his face, and he’ll come like a donkey follows a carrot on a stick. Spot-on critique, Guff. Also, be quiet.
“All right. I need you to try and relax.” Dr. Grey lifts her hands to either side of Logan’s face.
Both are so absorbed in the silence, they don’t notice Cyclops stop in the room’s second doorway.
Abruptly, Dr. Grey’s head snaps back. Logan grips her bare hands. “What do you see?”
After a moment, she answers, “Scott.”
Rogue can’t read his angle, so she leans her head against the bathroom wall.
“Goodnight, Logan,” she hears Dr. Grey say. To Cyclops she asks, “Are you coming?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Amusement drips from Logan’s voice. “You gonna tell me to stay away from your girl?”
“If I had to do that, she wouldn’t be my girl. And Jean doesn’t strike me as your type.”
Ooh, Cyclops just called Logan white trash. This deserves popcorn and bag of Twizzlers.
“Mm. Well, I guess you’ve got nothin’ to worry about. Do ya, ‘Cyclops.’”
“You know, I’d feel a lot better if you were taking this more seriously. Some mutants take pride in their gifts. Especially those of us who are willing to fight for what we believe in.”
Aw, heck, I knew it! Lock ’em all up. Put ’em in cages ’fore they take over – Eugene the Redneck, ladies and gentlemen. Worst security guard ever.
“Have you ever seen real combat, boy?”
“Have you?” Cyclops shoots back.
The silence takes a turn toward tense. Rogue risks a look.
“Don’t like to talk about your past?”
“Not to you.”
“It must just burn you up that a ‘boy’ like me saved your life. You gotta be careful. I might not be there next time.” Cyclops’s almost got the door shut when he adds, “Oh, and Logan? Stay away from my girl. And the students.”
Whoa now. Rogue stands up swiftly, hands on her hips.
“What’re you doin’ in there?”
Cyclops’s gone, leaving Logan one hundred percent pissed off.
Picking up his jacket, she digs around in his hiking pack as she emerges from the bathroom. “I brought you your stuff. Here.” She tosses John’s lighter and a cigar on the bed. “I thought you could use one of those. Everybody here is so uptight.”
Grunting, he picks up her peace offering.
“I’ll hang your jacket in the closet. I managed to fit a couple shirts and some socks and stuff. All your cigars, too, so you’re set. Oh, and your keys. I couldn’t do much about the window except put some plastic over it, but I did lock up.”
“Thanks, Marie,” he replies absently.
She folds her arms over her chest. “Call me Rogue here, okay?” No discernible response. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, puffing at his cigar. “Lighter, please.”
He tosses it underhand, still looking through her. It’s insulting. Less than twelve hours ago, she’d been the only woman in his life. The only person, come to that.
Instead of a left hook, she goes for a verbal slap: “You know, if it kept you from horning in on his fiancée, I bet Cyclops wouldn’t care if you were screwing me six ways from Sunday.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Yes, daddy.”
Too far. Way too far. He’s gone completely still, but his eyes burn sharp.
“Logan.” It’s almost a whine. “Don’t you think I’ve been called a ‘piece’ enough times to know the difference between a pervert and a decent guy? I’m not thirteen. I’m legal, and I talk a lot of shit. How were you supposed to know?” She kneads her damp forehead with her palms, eyes scrunched shut. “And it’s not like I didn’t ruin everything anyway.”
“Kid, you’re sweatin’ bullets.” He stands, reaching out.
“It’s my mutation and it sucks,” she snaps, backpedaling away from him.
Something is welling up inside of her, a mixture of half-crazed shame and excitement named
Gordon Neville. Thinning hair, doughy, with a new car and a room at the Holiday Inn Express. Harmless in action, not thought. He wanted her to be young, he wanted her to be damaged.
“I’m such an idiot,” she says, hardly realizing she’s speaking out loud. “I should’ve knocked him out with the telephone or something, not my skin. Now he’s – Same for Carol, I didn’t have to. I could’ve just…”
Me. Awake. Aware. Me.
Rogue’s sputtering water, next thing she knows. A gentle tug on her hair lifts her head, and a towel catches the water dripping down her chin. She opens her eyes, watching green fade to brown.
Logan’s face is next to hers in the mirror. “You with me?”
Smiling slightly, she nods. Better. She feels better now. Neatly arranged.
“You were just starin’ at nothin’, about ready to fall over.”
Her coma-narcolepsy. It’s been a while. Not really needing his help, she leans on Logan as he sits her on the toilet seat. He crouches in front of her, hands still on her hips.
She’s ashamed of herself for treating him so awful and then making him worry. “The Professor tried to read my mind earlier, and it scrambled things up a bit. I’m really okay. I just needed to hit the edge before I could bounce back.”
“The edge of what?”
Her one-shouldered shrug is a reflex. Why doesn’t she just tell him?
Standing, Logan hands her the towel so she can dry her face. “You need some sleep.”
Rogue follows him into the bedroom. “Did you find anything out for me from Dr. Grey?”
“Not much. I mean it, get some sleep. We’ll talk in morning.”
“The Professor didn’t have much to say, either.” Rogue frowns. “I figured they’d talk to you, at least. Since you’re…”
Logan holds the door open for her. “An adult?”
She walked right into that one. “I guess I don’t get to be one here. House rules.”
His mouth compresses at her bitterness. “You ain’t an adult, kid. That’s how it is.”
“That’s not how it is, that’s just how it looks to them. You know me. You know I’m just like you.”
He starts to shake his head, so she gives up with an audible sigh. Pivoting on her heel, she chooses the second way out. The door shuts hard, of it’s own volition. He probably thinks she slammed it, like petulant little girl. Kitty said it best – drama, drama, drama.
She should apologize, explain everything to him. He won’t be her ally if she’s not honest.
Before she can bring herself go back, Bobby comes around the corner. “Hey, there you are.” His eyes light up when he grins.
“Hi.”
“So, what’re you up to tomorrow?”
Continuing her endless cycle of trading wrong-doings and apologies with Logan, no doubt. That, or laying bare all her crimes and psychoses. Looking forward to it. “I don’t know yet.”
“Well, I’ve got finals pretty much all day, but do you wanna meet me for dinner? We can to get know each other. All of us, I mean. The whole gang.” He winces slightly, laughing at himself. “I promise I’m not as dorky as I sound.”
Rogue has to chuckle. “Sure.”
“‘Sure’ I’m not dorky, or ‘sure’ you’ll meet me for dinner?”
“Both.”
“Cool.” He starts walking backward. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rogue. Welcome to Mutant High.”
So much like David. It’s kind of painful.
She definitely needs to wipe the wistful look over someone else’s boyfriend off her face before she gets to her room.
Movement at the end of the hallway catches her attention. A tall, impossibly slender man in a navy uniform whose face and hands seemed to glow milk-marble white pushes a yellow cart. Carl, Rogue remembers, briefly wondering how bad the third floor crisis was that he had to come back and work overtime.
Luckily, the door to her room is open, otherwise she might not have recognized it. Kitty, Jubilee, and Amara aren’t inside. It’s just their other roommate, a younger girl with curly blonde hair named Tawny and a few of her friends. They trade hellos. The girls are studying for world history, too, only their final is multiple choice since they’re a couple grades younger. Rogue listens to them work out the Constantine issue as she tries to figure out what she should do with the pile of laundry on her bed.
“Need some help?” one of the friends asks, smiling just a little too sweetly.
Before she can get out more than a hesitant, “Uh,” the girl purses her lips together and blows. Arms windmilling against a tornado of fabric, Rogue’s compelled backward onto Jubilee’s bed.
The girls collapse into giggles. “Oops! Sorry,” Hot Air manages.
Hysterical. If she weren’t so tired, she’d casually lift the bed off the floor to pick up a shoe or something. That’d put a stop to the new-girl hazing right quick.
Be an adult, she tells herself. With great composure, she walks over to her bed and grabs the last remaining piece of clothing, a long-sleeved pink nightgown. “Exactly what I was looking for,” she says evenly.
Rogue takes her time in the shared bathroom, giving up more and more of the sink as girls of various ages vie for space. A few are obvious mutants, some are just obvious about their powers. Absolutely disconcerting. Mutations are something to be endured or employed, they aren’t, like Cyclops said, something to be proud of.
Shutting a stall door, Rogue changes in the cramped space. The nightgown fits, only she didn’t realize that it’s backless and the sleeves make putting her gloves on too awkward. She’s extra careful on the walk between the bathroom and her bed, hands tucked firmly under her armpits and eyes on the carpet.
If she’s proud of anything, it’s that she never used her mutation on Logan. Clearly, she has enough control to resist him, so all the little temptations around her should be nothing.
She climbs under the covers and curls up, even though the light’s on. Better safe than sorry.
One by one, the other girls drift into their beds and off to sleep. At least an hour passes, but Rogue’s eyes stay open.
So many ways today could’ve gone. Logan could be a prisoner, or Rogue could be on the road. Or they could be together back at the cabin. She’d be sleeping easy, or maybe she’d be awake and not sabotaging herself by over-thinking the one experience every single person inside her head has in common.
What she wouldn’t be doing is lying in the dark compiling a mental list of mutations, evaluating their level of desirability, and hating herself for it.
I wasn’t a monster until they made me one, she told Logan. She wants to believe it’s true. He doesn’t think so, at least. “You ain’t a monster,” he said. “You’re just” – Just what? Confused? Weak?
She needs to know. Right now. She needs to tell him everything and then, all evidence before the judge, make him finish that sentence.
As soundlessly as she can, Rogue slips out of bed and feels her way through the dark. The carpet is littered with shadowy objects, mostly clothes, but she stubs her toe on a textbook and has to bite her lip. Now would be a great time to have Kitty’s mutation.
The lock clicks when she turns the doorknob gingerly. Someone behind her rolls over, likely still asleep. If not, oh well. She could just be going to the bathroom.
She’s not a prisoner. This isn’t Southaven.
Rogue pads down the hallway with a purpose. Logan will wake up as soon as she walks in, but hopefully her lack of gloves will tell him that she’s not there to get him kicked out.
She hears his snuffling moans before she crosses the threshold. He’s on his back, muscles twitching in his sleep. Approaching cautiously, she tilts her head and tries to make out words in his low muttering.
Once, from the kitchen she heard him yell so loudly she shattered the mug in her hand. He told her he dreams about war. She doesn’t dream Carol’s dreams, but if she did they’d be about flying and camaraderie and a job well done, nothing like the violence that shackles Logan to his past.
Bare hand hovering over his shoulder, Rogue leans down to murmur his name. His body jerks, and she pulls her hand away. She tries again, louder, “Logan. Logan, wake up.”
The nightmare has him completely. His breaths are guttural huffs that sound like pleas. Rogue knows what is it be so trapped.
Without warning, his head snaps forward and his eyes fly open, making her catch her breath. She lets out a shriek that’s lost to a roar and a zing and a thud.
The air left in her windpipe chokes her, the sharp metal through her chest pools blood into her lungs. All she feels is the blind hatred on Logan’s face turn to shock as recognition seeps in and he looks down at where his claws join their bodies.
When he retracts them she realizes she’s going to die.
“Help me.” Logan’s wet-bright eyes dart to the open door, to her contorted face, and back again. “Somebody help!”
Rogue can help. Not him. Herself. In the end, she always helps herself.
Pain slowing down her brain, she falters forward by inches. They’re breathing the same air again, only they’ve reversed roles. The apprehension belongs to him. Her lips rest against his. For a moment, she pretends.
It’s a shaky effort to draw at his bottom lip, to press her hand to his cheek for balance and because she needs more. His mind falls open with his mouth. She stumbles back against a wave of shock and anger, grief and loathing. He was drowning in his dream, now she’s suffocating before his eyes. His fault.
Her fault. Fingertips against stubble, pulling from him the strength that siphons out blood and mends her punctured lungs. Rogue breathes, Logan chokes. He’s totally exposed, his expression utterly helpless. Closing her eyes does nothing to take the shame away.
Let go – Not yet, her skin is still broken. So supple, the way it comes together and makes her perfect. It’s the opposite of death, but death is still there, trickling in. She should take more –
No!
Rogue drops her arm. Logan hits the floor, convulsing with seizures.
“Scott, grab a pillow!”
The light is on, and there are so many people. Backing against a dresser, she watches Jean kneel beside Logan and cradle his head. Cyclops pushes past Rogue, and she turns to face Storm.
“It was an accident,” Rogue says.
Storm remains still. Gaping faces crowd the doorway. Sparing one more look at Logan – he’ll survive; she’s never touched anyone as long, but he can’t die, he never does – she sweeps out of the room. Past Amara, past Bobby. Head ducked, she just keeps walking.
Outside is where she needs to be, where the sky won’t pin her in. The lights are too bright, the place reeks, and she can hear the gossip start to buzz in time with the hum of her skin.
Windowed doors lead to a small balcony. The air is crisp in her repaired lungs. She sinks down, drawing in her knees and burying her nose in them.
Now you know everything, she thinks. What’s the verdict?
Logan doesn’t verbalize an answer. It’s enough that he’s there, ruffled and uneasy but not fighting her, not hating her. More than she could’ve hoped for.
He settles into her. She rocks herself, and it’s as soothing as he can manage.
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