It’s the last time she’ll ever let him walk away from her, and he didn’t even give her the perverse satisfaction of watching his back disappear into the distance.
Rogue skids to a halt at the edge of the scarred-black crater, her demur heels slipping forward, her weight wrenching backward. Tailbone to teeth, she’s jarred out of place.
Logan’s long gone. There’s a fresh grave for the Professor in the backyard, the Mansion is a gaping wound – and Logan’s left on a one-man mission for answers. Different answers to a far more relevant question, but it’s still about guilt and revenge and what someone else has done to him, so, really, it’s the same damn thing.
He never questions what he’s done to her.
A maudlin part of Rogue would like nothing more than to curl up in exactly the place where the twisted remains of the Professor’s chair sat empty just days ago, smoke rising off the hot metal in swirling patterns that burned her eyes.
Had anyone else felt the smoke like she had? Storm had her head down, her entire body enveloped in Logan’s arms. Hank and Scott were somewhere behind, one comforting the children who clung to him like a great blue plush toy, the other calling helplessly for Jean in a furious, broken voice. Rogue must have been the only one thinking about the sting and the smoke, and wondering if, somehow, Professor Xavier – always more mind than body – was the smoke. If she was breathing him in, coughing him out.
Somewhere in the years between Mississippi and New York, Rogue had lost the ability to grieve normally. It would be comforting to sob messily on Kurt’s shoulder like Kitty sobbed on Bobby’s. Better still to become a useful part of Logan’s pattern of action-reaction. Or at the very least she could have sad, wise eyes like Storm. She could monologue voraciously like Hank or make awkward but well-meant gestures like Piotr. Be a devastated, tragic wreck like Scott. Any of that would be understandable.
Being fine – terse, shrugging, lock-jawed – was not understandable. Among friends, Rogue was reminded again and again, she should be open about her feelings. Storm wanted her to participate in the process of healing. Cry, talk, listen, or hug. Those were the options for normal grieving. Standing off in the corner, default Rogue behavior, would not be accepted. Except, of course, by Logan.
His hands on her shoulders – always heedless of the fact that she doesn’t like to be touched, one of many but-it’s-Logan exceptions Rogue used to make – blue meets green straight on. For a moment, she felt like an equal. Then he said, “You’re hangin’ in there, kid.” She nodded, chin down. He gave her a squeeze and took his seat around the lab table, his focus on Hank’s preliminary analysis.
Rogue stands up, brushing dirt off her backside. If she crawled into the crater, he wouldn’t find her, and she doesn’t need that kind of attention anyway. So she turns her back to the road Logan took and on the memory of all the times she’s watched his bike kick up dust. He comes and goes, and she always stands still. That’s not who she used to be. He did that to her, he made her stationary. He made her wait.
One uniform, taken from the lockers underground. One coat, a gift salvaged from the wreckage. Not enough to start a new life, but she’s gotten by on less.
Sadness, pity, anger – stir in some self-righteousness and a dash of swagger, and Rogue will throw it back and drink it down like Logan does a bottle of bourbon, no chaser. It’s the last time she’ll ever let him walk away from her, and the first time she doesn’t want him back.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Story Notes:
This is really short, but I kind of wanted to be the first person to post a Rogan story in the WXTM category. Which totally goes along with the "First" theme of the challenge.