It’s her third birthday, and her family is moving into a new house. Daddy’s gotten a promotion, and now she’ll have a bedroom and bathroom all her own. Now she will fall asleep to the sounds of crickets chirruping and the wind making the trees outside swish, rather than the endless arguing of the neighbors next door. Her parents are smiling a lot, laughing, and she is happy.
It’s her fifth birthday and she is sad. Her parents are pulling her out of a preschool she loves, where they learn a new song every week and Ms. McKinney brings fresh fruit for her class every day. Her father has explained to her why, in a voice that grows louder after each word. He snaps something about filthy muties, but she cannot connect this with the sweet boy who had pretty purple eyes and a green tongue who shares his crayons with her.
It’s her sixth birthday, and she has a new doll, which she clutches to her chest very tightly now. Her parents think she cannot hear them, whispering as they are, but the sounds of their anger travel up through the vent next to her bed. She cannot sleep. Her daddy has gotten home late again. Her mother is upset about this, but the little girl isn’t, even though he missed her party. For when he is home she must stay in her room and play very quietly, lest she interrupt his “important work”. If she doesn’t he tramps up the stairs to yell at her, sharp words that her young skin is too frail to protect against.
It’s her seventh birthday, and her mother wakes her up with a slice of cake, presents, and promises of a day without school, trips to the park. The two are smiling, but the cheerfulness doesn’t reach the older woman’s eyes. For beneath her left eye there is a purpling mark they both are trying to ignore. Something terrible happened last night. The little girl heard the words through the vent, voices that had long since ceased to be whispers anymore but were now shouts and curses. There is a woman at Daddy’s workplace, and Daddy’s clothes smell like a perfume her mother doesn’t own. She doesn’t know what this information means, but when her mother presents these facts there comes a sound of glass breaking, and her mother’s pained cry.
It’s her eighth birthday, and her father is swearing at the TV screen while she sits at the other end of the couch, reading a library book. Some politician is arguing for mutant rights. Her father says that all those animals should be locked in a pen and shot. In the kitchen her mother’s lips tighten, but she says nothing. Her father looks at the little girl and his eyes soften. He offers to teach her to ride the bike she receives as a gift this year, and the brilliant smile that emerges on her face makes something inside him twist painfully. They go outside, but before her hands can touch the handlebars, the phone rings. Work. “Another time”, he tells her, trying to ignore the voice inside him that wonders why he can’t meet an eight-year-old’s gaze.
It’s her ninth birthday, and her mother is taken up piano lessons. She wants the girl to join her, but after a few weeks this is proven to be a wasted effort. Still, the girl loves the sound of beautiful music filling the house. The melodies almost make up for the fact that her mother no longer smiles, and sometimes she looks out the window for long periods of time, then at her daughter as if reminding herself of a decision she never wanted to make.
It’s her tenth birthday, and she is happy. Her father is out of town, and tonight several of her friends are coming over for a slumber party. She is excited, sitting at her desk she can already taste the pizza, the ghost stories, the fun. Ten minutes 'til the bell is set to ring, and Ms. Korchek asks her to stay a moment. Ms. Korchek is the girl's favorite teacher- kind, new to the school, filled with tales of exotic places and people the girl has few hopes to ever see. She has a book in her hands, wrapped in pretty foil, and presses it into her student's hands with a brief smile. Great Wonders of North America, the title reads. The gift is an inspiration, and she finishes it quickly- though travel books are not exactly common material for a ten-year- old.A seed of curiosity, which will grow to longing, is planted, to see places beyond the town in which she lives.
It's her eleventh birthday, and last month she became a woman-though the phrase seems ridiculous and over dramatic to her. She doesn't feel different, and doesn't understand the foretold importance of this occasion-beyond the need to make room for other items in her bathroom.
It's her twelfth birthday, and she's sobbing in her bedroom. Nobody comes to check on her. The tears are running noiselessly over her cheeks, and somehow it is a sad fact that she has learned to cry without sound. Rumors have been flying around the school for weeks, though the little girl did not think much of them, caught up in the business of a child's life. Ms. Korchek was discovered to be a mutant. Today her house burned down, and although the police and fire department claim it to have been an accident, the investigation was strangely short. She heard the news at lunch, and was forced to endure an afternoon of smiling and pretend happiness in front of her parents and friends. How could she tell them why she was upset. She looks now at the worn book standing on her shelf and learns a lesson in human cruelty, without comprehending the reason behind it.
It's her fourteenth birthday, and she's outside on the front porch sipping tea and reading. Her parents are fighting within the house, and she wonders if they will remember what day it is. Perhaps she spend the night at Jessica's and get out of any potential last-minute celebration...Between the flip of every page she finds herself looking around, up and down the streets of a town that never changes.
It's her sixteenth birthday and the seed planted so long ago has steadily bloomed, and the haze in her mind has taken the shape of places up north. New York, Canada, and ultimately Alaska. Snow and cold; she has a faint itch to see mountains. The attraction stems from a complete difference to what she has always known. She shows her mother a picture she found in a magazine. The caption reads "Anchorage, Alaska." As far as the girl-now a young lady- can tell, nothing touches perfection as closely as this place. Pure, pristine snow; miles of untouched wilderness;blue skies. Her mother does not pause in the stirring of the cake batter, but smiles sadly at her daughter and says it sounds like a wonderful dream. The girl inexplicably feels ashamed, and folds the paper out of sight. She wonders if her mother ever dreamt of anything similar.
It's her seventeenth birthday and her parents are finally permitting her to redecorate her room. Hanging beads, scarves, and chests replace stuffed animals and posters of kittens. Her bookshelves, cleaned of all potentially embarrassing fairy tales and Nancy Drew stories, now share space with a hundred collected knickknacks. the best part is the wall above her bed, where her father has let her paint a huge map of North America. She's collected postcards and pictures, and pins them up now, arranging them along the route she plans to take. She is happy today; these plans are solidifying in her mind. The only thing she has yet to decide is when they will be executed...From downstairs she hears her mother's call; her friends are waiting at the door. Now for an evening of movies, popcorn fights, and gossip over potential boyfriends. She's pleased to have something to contribute- a cute boy in her gym class has been hanging around her. He has a look in his eyes that says he will ask her out. She will say yes.
It's her eighteenth birthday-though keeping mark of the time is becoming difficult- and she's using her duffel bag for a pillow, the tarp thrown over her for a blanket. Heavy as it is, the thing doesn't protect her much here, in the back of a trailer with the wind biting all around her at once. Once upon a time, she wouldn't have dreamed that wind could hurt. She's pretty sure all her fingers are blue, and she can't stop shaking. She's trying her best to stay quiet,praying he won't hear her. If asked, she would have no explanation for hiding herself in the trailer of an undoubtedly dangerous man, whom she has just seen slice a gun barrel in half like it was butter. Maybe it was desperation-well, certainly it was desperation, that's the most common mindset for her these days- but maybe it was a feeling of kinship, or safety. Or maybe it had something to do with a teacher she once had. Or perhaps it's all three, but she'd be dammed if she could find a way to connect them.
Her life has changed so much. And it only took one moment, one single moment for it to do so. Eight months and three weeks have passed since that instant, since she put that nice boy from gym class in a coma. All it had taken was a brush of her lips, lying on her bed where she had invited him up to show off her room after breakfast. Then a rush of thoughts that suddenly weren't hers, and a flow of life from his body into her own. It had been her first kiss, and David's, and now the experience is marred by pain and terror. She wonder's if how long it will take him to be able to kiss without nervousness. That definitely is not an option in her future...She can still feel him in her mind, though his voice is softer now, hushed by the more aggressive ones of others-accidental touches and drivers who got a little too handsy. Still, David pops up every now and then: she'll find herself asking the score of a basketball game at a diner, though she hates sports; or craving peanut butter, though she's allergic.
The town, as small towns tend to do at the first sign of abnormality, turned against her family quickly. It was no longer safe for her to leave the house, faced with the hatred and fear found in the eyes of those once called neighbors and friends. She stayed only until David woke up, needing to know he was okay. It took her that long for her father to snap, fed up with being shunned by his partners at work, and the whispers that claimed the D'Acanto family were freaks. Like a true southerner, he took a gun to his daughters head and gave her a choice between running and Hell where she belonged. Looking into his eyes-brown, like hers- she did not doubt his sincerity.
Now she is tired, more tired than she has ever been. She muses that it doesn't matter if the man hears her; she probably won't survive this ride anyway..and perhaps that wouldn't be so terrible. She images the look of outrage on his face when he finds her body, a human fishstick, and cannot even summon the strength to giggle.
What made him stop at that moment she doesn't know, though perhaps she'll ask someday.
But he does, and before she knows it her frozen, weak limbs are being forced back onto the road. It's desperation and anger at the unfairness of it all that makes her talk back to him. What does she care at this point if he skewers her?
This really is the end, she realizes, as he drives away. There's no towns for miles, and she will die from cold or animals before she reaches any of them. Then he stops, and she's running to before he can change his mind. In the next moment she is sitting in his truck and thanking the driver, and a God who just might still answer the prayers of mutants. Neither of the two reply. She dares to inquire about food and doesn't really expect him to offer anything- she's asked enough from him already,and he doesn't look like the type to share his meals. But she' hungry and the constant aching in a stomach that's been empty for too long makes her take the risk . The package of beef jerky tossed into her lap is more welcome right now than fresh lobster in the finest restaurant. She inhales the meat without tasting it, cannot bring herself to listen to those southern manners screaming for her to offer him some.
He watches the girl. She's young and pretty,or would be if she weren't about forty pounds underweight. He imagines nothing much stronger than a good wind could take her out, and finds himself wishing he had something more than old jerky to feed her. She smells of dust and build up from too many days on the road, but no real fear and a unique fragrance underneath it all that he can't quite place. Sorta like oatmeal and honeysuckle.
He wonders how long it's been since her last meal, why she's on the road and how come she's survived this long, if she's hurt and how many men have demanded payment for a ride, her body in lieu of money. Then he wonders why he gives a crap. It isn't his problem and he's certainly seen people in shittier situation's than this girl's. He's angry that this child has made him go against habit, and this shows in the way he ignores her attempts at conversation, snaps out when she dares to criticize his trailer. She sure does talk a lot- though this might stem from pure relief that he didn't actually leave her to die in the Canadian wilderness.
She's quiet now, shivering and rubbing her her ungloved hands. Well, of course she is, he thinks, feeling like a jackass, not everybody has his mutation. He flicks on the heater and reaches for her hands, not noticing how natural the urge to touch her comes. Then she flinches, and he realizes in disappointment that she just might fear him after all.
Something changes in the man's eyes when she jerks away, and she minds herself explaining about her skin, though this goes against one of the most important rules she's learned while hitchhiking. But perhaps since he's a mutant as well, the chances she will be tossed out of the truck are slimmer. He says nothing however but, "Fair enough," and the atmosphere has gone down several notches on the tense scale.
"So what kind or name is Rogue?", he asks. Usually her answer to this frequently-asked question is 'mine', but another retort rises to her lips.
"I dunno...What kind or name is Wolverine?"
She could swear he almost smiled, but perhaps that was just a muscle twitch in the dim light. He tells her his name is Logan. She hesitates for a moment, because her name is a link to who she is, a tie she has spent the last eight months trying to cut.
"Marie."
His smile is real this time, and it's worth it.
It's her nineteenth birthday and Logan is back, but they are on the run and there is certainly no time for celebrating. She gives the tags back to him, and the puzzled, uncomfortable hurt in his eyes surprises them both. But she is not a child , nor a puppy following it's owner and begging for affection-as the other residents of the mansion seem to believe. She does not want a man who is obsessed with someone else, and if anything is to bind the two of them, she wants it to be more than a piece of metal.
It;s her twentieth birthday, and her friends are throwing her a party. Logan doesn't attend- but this is no shock. he doesn't speak much to anyone anymore, not since Jean's second death six months ago. He drinks, goes on missions, buries himself in his bedroom and simulations in the Danger Room, and spends hours sitting by Jean's grave. She is worried, but doesn't seek him out, fearing he will run if pushed, and this time he won't come back.
That night she discovers that the cure wasn't permanent. She and Bobby were in bed when her mutation decided to return full force...at a rather unfortunate time for Bobby. Now Bobby is in the Med Lab, and though the voice in her head is reassuring her that he is not angry, she feels his thoughts about Kitty and knows it won't be okay.
She's sitting on the bathroom floor, crying, when she hears the unmistakable sound of Logan's claws. Apparently he's taken some unforgivable offense to the lock on her bedroom door, because he's suddenly there as she bawls her eyes out against his flannel shirt. It's a long time before they separate, and neither is sure who is hanging on to who.
It's her twenty-first birthday and tonight she's going to get drunk with Logan. Last week Bobby finally came out with the truth she was too chicken to admit, and now he is sharing Kitty's bed. She feels guilty and relieved- the first because she allowed him to lie so long, and the second because it's finally over. But she cried anyway, because it still hurts when you lose something you never had.
Logan asked if she wanted him to talk to Bobby; he pops his claw and winks. She laughs, but declines firmly because there is a feral glint in his eyes that says she's only half-kidding. Later Jubilee says he must have done something anyway: Bobby is unmarked, but every time he sees Logan enter a room he turns tail and runs, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.
It's her twenty-second birthday, and Logan has bought her a motorcycle. He's teaching her how to ride when she asks the question she's been puzzling over for months. Why hasn't he left the mansion? Why has he stuck around rather than continue his long-time pursuit of his past and new bars? Logan gives her a funny look and mumbles something about being the good guy. He shifts the conversation back to the bike before she can inquire further.
It's her twenty-third birthday,and they are suiting up for a mission. She lost all shyness about changing in front of Logan a long time ago, but when she strips off her shirt the look on his face freezes her. She can't quite recognize it, or maybe doesn't want to- because surely after all this time he couldn't be looking at her that way. Her heart thumps fast- she knows he can hear it, stupid heightened senses-and knows from the slow burn on her skin that she's blushing like a teenager. Before anything can be said, or reality can kick back in, the rest of the team are calling for them to hurry.
Now she's sitting by his side in the Med Lab. Once again his mutation has saved her life, and once again hers has almost ended his. Her last conscious memory of the mission is of Logan screaming and racing towards her, the sense of him pouring into herself then nothing.
She knows he will awake- Hank has promised her a full recovery of Logan- and is smiling when he finally opens his eyes because she's learned several things from his touch: One, that it's been a long time since Jean dominated his thoughts. And two, he's come up with some pretty creative ways to get around her skin.
"Marie" is the first word out of his lips, spoken in a tone that was never used with Jean and she never heard from Bobby. It lets her know that more promises are about to follow, happy ones, and she thinks the birthdays after this are going to get a lot better.
The End.
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Story Notes:
This is my first story in a long time...four years, I think. The idea for this came from the prompt,"it's your birthday//pillow." I believe I satisified it..at least on the birthday front. I'd really appreciate any and all reviews, and criticism- but go gently on the latter; I'm a fanfiction virgin.
Chapter End Notes:
Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed the ride, and once again: feedback good.