I have been exposed for the coward that I really am. I cannot name the culprit, but something made me cry on the Professor’s couch today. It was humiliating to be so weak and callow, but as valiantly as I tried, my tremendous gush of emotion would not go away. He said nothing, and he did nothing, and I am thankful. He gave me copious freedom to let everything spill out of my bruised heart. I even told him about my love woes. I thought it was a good idea to focus on someone to make me happy, but nobody can. I’m too broken and weary to put my best aspects forward. I feel instinctively drawn to Logan, but I think that’s because I have so much of him in my head, still. Not because I’ve ever felt more for him than a starry-eyed infatuation. I kept the part about Logan to myself, but everything else came pouring out like a bad hangover.
The Professor thinks it would be a good idea for me to start interacting more with the team. He said that the Danger Room would be good therapy for me. I can let out all of my bottled up pain, and I’ll be forced to integrate Carol’s powers with my own. And, because of that, I can ultimately assimilate her personality and block out her memories. I’m happy that I’ve got a get-out-of-psychic-block-building-class-free card, but I feel the invasive anxiety as I wander the steel halls of the lower levels. The last time I was down here, training for combat, it was the beginning of the end of my first real romance.
The red light is on, which means the room is in use, so I head into the power bay. I have a habit of counting steps. I’ve done it for as long as I remember. Thirteen. My shoes squeak on the slick floor, and Scott…Professor Summers…whatever…is startled by the noise.
“Hey, Rogue.” Not again. Do I have a crush on everybody? I just noticed his dimples. “Pleasant surprise.”
“Who’s in there?” I nod toward the colossal, metal-plated walls just outside the protective glass.
“Beauty and the Beast.”
I step closer to crack his interesting code, and I am graced with the image of Remy and Logan locked in a struggle. Wow. They are really going at it, and Scott’s just watching in amusement. “How rough do things have to get before you, uh, turn the simulation off?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He folds his arms across his chest. “Well, Gambit’s slightly more adept at hand-to-hand combat than Logan, but Logan has an adamantium skeleton and healing powers. So, basically…when someone gets blown up or bleeds to death.” He chuckles at the horrified expression on my face. “Just kidding, Rogue! It’s timed for thirty minutes.”
“Why’d they have to go in the Danger Room to beat the crap out of each other? Why not the basketball court or the garden?” I mean, isn’t the DR supposed to be for, like, real danger? Not a platform for two guys who don’t get along.
“Too risky.” He adjusts his visor. “LeBeau could demolish the school and the other one,” I assume he’s referring to Wolverine, “would shred Storm’s lilies. Then she would fry him. Then Logan would be holed up in the lab for a few days and come out crankier than usual, which we would have to deal with. Thus, it is better for all of us to just let Logan wrestle off his pent-up aggression. Incidentally, you know why he’s so angry, don’t you?” He turns to look at me and continues with a matter-of-fact tinge. “Because he’s got such a bad haircut.”
I cock my head and smirk. “Wow, you really don’t like him, do you?” He never fails to have an insult for him.
Scott tweaks some settings on the control panel and laser blasts begin whizzing from sconces on the walls. “I hate him.”
“Hate is a strong word, Professor Summers.” Everyone kind of sees their bickering as a fight to be Alpha male.
He turns and gives me a half-smile. “Call me Scott. And I take it back. I loathe him.”
“Why?” I suddenly feel embarrassed. “Because of…”
“Jean?” Her name catches in his throat. He composes himself and shakes his head. “No. People can think what they want, but Jean has nothing to do with it.” He sits in the desk chair and slides across the room to another set of switches. “Well, actually, I lied.”
I can tell he is uncomfortable being so open with me, and I honestly couldn’t tell you why we are even having this conversation. I feel a sense of duty, though, to urge him to talk. Who knows? Maybe he will do the same for me. “Let me put it this way, Rogue. Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you fall in love with someone, and you give that person every part of you. For the first time in your life, you really know what it feels like to be completely, indisputably happy. Then, someone else comes along, someone impulsive and out of the ordinary…”
“And you know that she loves you, but you still feel like you have to prove something to her in order to keep her?” Whoa, where did that come from?
“Yes,” he concedes, looking at me in awe. “Then, something terrible happens to her and you grieve because you want her back so badly. But, something gets in the way. And you are robbed of precious time with her…”
I lay an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “You’re not angry that she’s…she’s dead.” The words sound so ugly spilling from my mouth.
“What keeps me awake at night is that I couldn’t save her. She took her last breath in his arms. I can’t live with that.” Brusquely, he presses a button and the Danger Room is engulfed by darkness.
I watch the red sparks of light nervously, wondering if Remy and Logan can handle it. A glowing, sizzling Ace of diamonds lodges itself into the large, formidable observation glass. There's my answer. I turn back to Scott. “That's not your fault! You were badly wounded, hitchhiking your way back to the mansion. And that woman… it wasn’t Jean. I think…” I know because Logan knows. “I think the Jean Grey you loved truly died the moment she thought you were gone.”
His eyes are hidden by a bulky visor, but his face is a heart-breaking jumble of anguish, misery, relief, and puzzlement. This is going to get awkward soon. He stands—gosh, he’s tall—and runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is clenched, and I recognize it as armor. “I…excuse me.”
I feel terrible. Why did I have to go all Dr. Phil on him? “No, Prof-…Scott! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have brought any of this up. I’ll go.”
“No, it’s alright, Rogue. Thank you, really. I just need to take a walk.”
He disappears down the stairs before I can protest anymore. Great. I’ve made yet another person run away. I’m real good at that. The lights are back on in the Danger Room. Time must be up. I think I’ll just hide out in here until I’m sure that Logan’s far away, upstairs. I’ll give it fifteen minutes.
I hear the clunk of boots. That’s definitely not Scott coming back to let me apologize even more profusely. Logan materializes in the doorframe, shirtless, puffed up and loaded with adrenaline. There is a nasty gleam in his eyes, and I know he is looking for Scott. “He’s not here.”
“I can see that,” he snaps. “But you are.” Oh no. He’s moving toward me. I back away, but there is no sign of escape. He lodges me against a filing cabinet, and one of the protruding handles digs into my spine. Why is he being so rough? I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. “I’m onto your little game.”
“Wh-what?” I want to kick him and tell him to get the fuck away from me, but I can’t. I know that, now, I’m physically stronger than him, but he has rendered me powerless.
“Cut the act, kid. I’ve seen those looks you give him. The way you hang on his words and lick your lips.” He grabs hold of my hair, close to the scalp, and tugs brutally. I will not cry. I won’t. As badly as it stings, I won’t. “You think that Cajun’d ever touch you like this?” He forces our hips together and kisses me with so much viciousness that I begin to feel lightheaded. He’s kissing me, bruising my lips, and I can do nothing to stop the torrent of my mutation. He rips himself from the connection, panting with fatigue. I have never felt so hollow. I do not know the man standing in front of me, and I feel constriction in my chest as his perverse thoughts seep into my blood. “If there’s something you want, you come get it from me. Don’t use her as an excuse.”
He lets me go and saunters, in his arrogant and vulgar way, out of sight. I hate myself for not fighting back. How could he do this to me? Logan is supposed to know, to sense what I’m going through. He thinks that I’m pretending, like a scared little girl ripe for attention. I feel deceived and alone and frightened. I want to run. It’s what I always do when life gets difficult. But I know that I can’t, because that will give him more reason to think he has me all figured out. My hope leaks out of my body like grain from a sieve. I’m being strangled by the swelling in my lungs and throat. I can’t see a damn thing as I make my way to the elevator. My vision is hampered by a watery haze. I don’t think I can make it to my bed before I cave in.
I have to keep my head down. I don’t want anyone to see. I don’t want sympathy or comfort or a pep talk. Only a few more feet. Finally, the sanctuary of my room. It seems dramatic and cliché to crumble to the floor and sob, but I do it anyway. I want to go home. I don’t even know where that is, but I want that kind of security. I want this hole inside of me to go away. I don’t want to feel anything, right now. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be alive, and I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to think or reflect or speak or breathe. I don’t want to be in this skin. I want to give in to Carol so I don’t have to be Marie.
Something just hit the back of my head. The door. Okay, I need a moment to collect myself. I’m on the floor, which has probably left a grid in my cheek. My eyelids are sticky with dried tears. There’s a kink in my neck, and I can barely turn to see who is standing over me.
“Hey…what’re you doing down there?” Bobby stoops to lend me a hand. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice sounds horrible. I must look terrible, too. “What time is it?”
“Pizza time.” Bobby grins and wiggles his eyebrows. Saturday nights at the school are pizza nights. Every possible combination of toppings is sprawled out over about thirty rounds of crispy dough. Everyone eats in the cafeteria, including the teachers and staff. The younger students usually bring board games, and the rest of us play poker or charades.
I struggle to get myself up, using Bobby and the door handle. I mend my tangled ponytail and wipe self-consciously at my features. We may not be anything more than friends, but Bobby still knows how to read my temper. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Do I have anything…?” I signal toward my eye make-up.
“No, you look good. Hey, Rogue?”
“Yeah?” I make one last attempt to erase the sleep from my face.
“I know we’re not really that close anymore… and I’m sorry. But you can still talk to me, if you need to.” I smile at him and poke his rib playfully.
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“Race you downstairs?” He never was one for awkward heart-to-hearts.
“You’re on!”
The cafeteria is already crowded with hungry students. I sit at one of the tables with Bobby, Kitty, Jubilee, Pete, Warren, Alison… you get the picture. The “Mutant Brat Pack”, as Jubilee calls it. Storm gives three of the pizzas to us, a small gesture of favoritism. I’m not really hungry, but I guess I’ll have a slice of plain cheese. Anybody who doesn’t live inside this mansion would look at this scene and be utterly traumatized. Warren’s harassing Pete with his wings; Bobby keeps freezing the Parmesan whenever Jubilee reaches for it; boys and girls of every color, shape, size, and skill chat energetically. To me, this is as normal as you can get.
The affection in my thoughts is smashed to smithereens. Logan just showed up. I don’t want to look at him, but it will take time to break the habit of watching his every move. I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel. Most of all, I hate him for tricking me into giving him all of my faith. The day that I met him, he scared me to death. But I knew he was just like me, and I took a chance. In return, he took a chance on me. He promised to take care of me, and I foolishly handed him my heart on a platter. I didn’t even make him work for it.
Today, I witnessed the ugly beast inside of him rear its head. The monster that surfaces when need and hunger and possession plague his sanity. The part of me that is still so green wants to forgive him, blame it on a big misunderstanding. Blame it on stress. I won’t lie to myself, though. I knew this day would come. Yes, Logan has fully acknowledged me as a flourishing woman, and at any other point in my life, I would have considered his behavior toward me the sexy kind of domineering. But I’m not dim-witted. I’ve been through too goddamn much to neglect that he violated me. He mentally and emotionally and physically pillaged me. The compassion that I knew he harbored, covertly, for me is gone. Maybe it was never there.
He’s observing me in a blatant and revolting way. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I need some water, but I can’t get it because he’s guarding the ice chest and soda fountain.
“Hey, Rogue, you okay?” No, I’m not okay, Katherine. “You’ve been chewing the same bite for…a while…”
I don’t mean to give her a death glare, but I do, and I feel remorseful right away. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Great, now I’ve caught the attention of everybody else at the table.
“Hey, Roger,”—Pete’s nickname for me—“did you ask the Professor about training the students?”
Oh, right. “No, sorry, I kind of forgot.” I really don’t want to have to explain myself, but I know how zealous my friends are about the subject. “Things were kind of…hectic today.”
“It’s cool,” Jubilee shrugs.
“Maybe Rogue should just ask Wolvie,” Bobby shoots a smug glance at Jubilee, and she sticks out her tongue.
I throw my slice onto the plate just a little too harshly, and I hear myself snap. “Why does everybody think I’m so close to Logan?! Why don’t one of you ask him? He’s your teacher, too!” Before anybody can call me out on my serious overreaction, I swing my legs over the bench seat and flee.
The only way to get out of the cafeteria is to walk directly past him, and I am acutely reconsidering my decision. I guess I caused more of a stir than I thought, because a hundred pairs of eyes are following my walk of shame. Storm, could you please strike me with lightning? Scott, maybe you could beam me up. Somebody finish this mess that I started. Logan is blocking my escape route. He's getting good at this. He could easily move out of my way, but he’s a pain in my ass. Does he enjoy humiliating me? Ugh, apparently he does. He’s walking backwards, standing right in front of me.
“Move.” There is no inkling of request in my voice. It’s a direct order.
“You shouldn’t skip dinner.”
“MOVE.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and that is the final strike.
I swear I just heard his jaw crack. How hard did I hit him? Oh my god, I just punched a teacher. I executed a right hook on Wolverine, and it hurt him! Not me. My hand should be broken right now, but it’s not. I don’t feel anything. No pain or numbness; just the regular feeling of bones, veins, and sinew. It is really quiet in here. Oh my god, I just walloped a professor right in front of the entire student body, not to mention the headmaster. That’s it. I’m expelled. I’m done for. I’m going to be kicked out onto the curb. All the sympathy and leniency was contingent upon the fact that I wasn’t going to turn violent, but oops.
My legs feel so heavy. I’m running with no real destination. My only goal is to get as far away as possible and hide.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: The X-men and their likenesses belong to Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox, not me.
Whoa, I don't know what happened to the format on this one. It should be fixed, though.
Whoa, I don't know what happened to the format on this one. It should be fixed, though.