Rogue almost winced at the fear-scent that suddenly permeated the air when she and Logan entered the hangar. Even Hank, moving to seal off the door corridor, had done a bit of a double-take at the sight of them.
Logan was the more visibly tattered, his shirt shredded to the point of falling off, from bullet-fire and the occasional knife-gouge; however, Rogue was covered in more bloodstains, her hands and arms most notably coated in red smears, and her grey tank top and jeans peppered with bullet-holes edged in her own blood, as well as one or two evidences of arterial spray that had definitely not been from her––even the white streak in her hair had a reddish smear along a section of it from when a bullet had grazed her scalp.
They looked like they had both just been through Hell, and like they had given out their fair share of it, too. Idly, Logan wondered which idea scared the others more. Then it occurred to him that most of them hadn’t met Rogue.
“My God! Logan, Rogue, are you two alright?” Jean asked, obviously concerned.
“As always, Jeannie,” Logan replied.
Rogue shrugged. “I’ve been worse. I just need a shower.”
Jean took the opportunity to introduce Rogue to the students who had volunteered to stay behind: Remy, Jubilee, Siryn, Kitty, Pete, Bobby, and St. John.
“We just call him Johnny,” Jubilee corrected.
“And we just call her annoying,” Johnny countered.
Jubilee elbowed him.
Johnny poked her side, making her emit an undignified squeak. Bobby pushed them apart and sat between them before a fight broke out. He looked resigned, and Rogue guessed quite rightly that this was a very normal occurrence.
“I see what you mean,” she murmured to Logan, who gave an amused smirk.
“What’s your mutation, petite?” Remy called.
“Killer skin that drains the life, mind, and mutation of people through skin-to-skin contact. I keep it all permanently if I accidentally kill somebody, which is how this happened.” She raised one bloody hand and extended her claws from all five fingertips.
“Holy shit. You’re Wolverine 2.0!”
At that, she visibly winced. “That was the goal of the guy who did it anyway. He just made the mistake of sending her after me without doubling-up the dosage of the mind control drug she was under. If ya don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about it.” She re-sheathed her claws with a loud metallic snap, her face showing faint traces of irritation.
The room was uncomfortably quiet for a moment, as Rogue put her hands in her pockets again, her expression once more becoming a mask.
“Is that who was here? Did he come for you?” Bobby asked.
Rogue and Logan exchanged glances, and when she looked at Bobby again, Rogue said simply, “He was after everyone in the building, and something hidden down here below it.”
That unnerved them, but they asked no more questions.
Jean moved to lay a comforting hand on Rogue’s back, but Rogue side-stepped it, keeping her distance. Jean looked put-out, but said, “The showers are over here, and we have some clean clothes if you’d like. They aren’t very fashionable, I’m afraid, but...” She shrugged, trying for a playful smile and not succeeding very well.
Rogue only asked, “Do ya have any gloves that don’t smell like latex or something equally medical?”
“Possibly, as part of some of the older X-men uniforms. Is leather okay?”
“Leather’s fine.”
Logan watched the two of them vanish into the womens’ locker rooms: Jean standing tall with an open and welcoming grace as she tried to offer comfort, and Rogue with her spine straight but her arms tucked against her sides as she kept herself distant and closed. He didn’t like the unease in Jean’s scent when she was around Rogue, or the almost pitying look in those pretty green eyes––like she could get over her nervousness if she could feel sorry for the untouchable girl. It was the first time Jean had ever managed to annoy him without Scooter somehow being directly involved.
Logan could hear the low voices of the older students as he headed off to the shower; at least none of them were marked by the tones of pity or nervousness––only curiosity, suspicion, and a small-but-healthy dose of fear.
Rogue felt more clear-headed with the smell of gore scrubbed off her skin and cleaned out from under her nails. She even reluctantly rinsed her mouth out to get rid of the lingering traces of blood there. The smell and taste of blood, however thrilling they could be at times, awoke instincts in her that tended to make civility more difficult, and civility, for now, was paramount.
She put on a clean sports bra, borrowed from the laundry because it happened to be her size, although its actual owner was unknown. The underwear and the white t-shirt that she put on were from a cabinet reserved for new arrivals––usually students rescued from less than ideal situations who had been forced to leave items at home. The navy blue pants and light jacket with the stylized X’s on them were from a selection of training uniforms. Jean had also found her a pair of leather gloves that fit tolerably.
Rogue thanked her sincerely, but kept her face masked. The woman meant well, but her nervousness and attempts to compensate were both irritating.
Cots were being set up by the time Rogue emerged from the locker room. The boys on one side of the room, and girls on the other, with teachers sleeping between them. Logan stood next to his own cot, which was apart from the others and near one of the walls where he could listen for any intruders getting into the lower levels. Rogue set herself up similarly against an adjacent wall, but did not lay down to rest as the others did, even when the lights went out.
It was almost pitch black, and even with night senses it was challenging to see in much detail. Rogue sat on her cot, leaning against the wall as she listened in the dark, her keen ears able to make out the faintest sounds of movement from far overhead. She could not hear enough to tell what part of the mansion the sounds came from, or what Stryker and his men might be doing, but she listened anyway, and for over an hour it was the only sound, other than the quiet breathing and uneasy sleep-sounds of the X-men and students.
Then someone stirred, standing up and quietly skulking away from the others, and down a corridor just past the locker rooms. Barefoot and silent as a shadow, Rogue followed.
St. John sat on a crate in the supply room, situating himself directly below the outgoing-air vent in the ceiling. This was, he knew, the only place he could smoke without setting off alarms. He knew, because he’d overheard Scott and Logan arguing about it. His lighter flicked open with a click. The flame felt comforting, and he let it curl into a little ball of light in his hand. Closing his lighter, he lit his cigarette with the little fireball.
“Can I bum a smoke off of ya?” asked a low, feminine voice that was not quite a whisper.
St. John was startled faintly, but the voice sounded sincere rather than accusing. He made the ball of flame in his hand grow brighter, so he could see who it was. The first thing he saw was the shape of her pale face, framed by dark hair with a white streak. He half-gasped, his eyes going very wide even as they stung and began to water as he almost choked on a gulp of smoke. The ball of fire almost went out.
“Take it easy, John. I’m not here to kill you.” She sounded amused, which made her words something less than reassuring, all things considered. “But seriously, can I bum one?”
Johnny could see a gloved hand outstretched, and he held out a cigarette. She took it gently, her gloved fingers not brushing his.
“And a light?”
He held up the small ball of flame at arm’s length, and got a clear look at Rogue’s face as she tucked her hair behind her ears, leaning forward with the cigarette between her lips, and touching the tip of it to the flame, inhaling a little to get it going. She was quite pretty, her cheekbones and dark eyes flatteringly lit up by the firelight. Then she stood up straighter and John took a pull of his own cigarette to keep his hands from shaking as he brought his handful of fire closer to him again.
“Thank you.” She surprised him by sitting just a couple of feet away, on the same crate. She reached next to her and picked up something. “I found this on the way in. Thought you might like it for while you’re sittin’ here.” She reached over and set it on the slightly taller crate in front of him. It was an old-fashioned lantern, the kind that used a real flame.
Johnny turned on the gas, lit it with his handful of flame, and adjusted it without touching any knobs. The fire in his hand went out and in the dim lantern light he looked at Rogue. She was smirking very faintly, looking at the lantern, but when she met his gaze he wondered if it had been a trick of the light, because now he couldn’t read her expression at all.
“I have nightmares about being cut open and having molten metal poured over my skeleton. What’s keeping you awake?” Rogue asked lightly, sounding idle and almost joking, for all that her dark eyes looked inherently serious.
St. John focused on the lantern flame, making it hotter, making strange shapes dance in it. “Not being allowed to fight the bastards,” he muttered bitterly. “Hiding down here like a bunch of trapped rats when we could just as easily wipe ‘em out.” The way he said it implied the idea of ‘teaching those bastards a lesson.’
Rogue knew all about that kind of mentality. She’d faced its milder variations as Marie, but Yuriko had seen it fully-fledged and horrible, and Rogue was the product of its madness. “You’re afraid of all of them, aren’t you?”
“I’m not! I’m just pissed off.”
The look on Rogue’s face gave the distinct impression that she could see right through him. “You’re angry because they’ve made you afraid, and you think the anger makes you strong enough that you won’t ever be a scared little kid again, and they won’t hurt you like before.”
“Fuck you, is this some kind of psychoanalysis bullshit?”
“No. I speak from experience. I just got over it, eventually, and grew up,” Rogue replied.
John glared at her now. “So it wasn’t anger that got you covered in blood before you came down to join the rest of us down here? How many guys did you kill, huh?”
“A lot, Johnny. I counted about twenty that are definitely dead, perhaps several probably survived.” She shrugged. “And yes, there was anger, there, but it wasn’t at them. They were just in the way, so I took them down quickly and efficiently. I didn’t get a kick out of their pain, and I didn’t care to ‘teach them a lesson’ or anything like that. I didn’t have the time to consider teaching them what they needed to learn.”
John was unsettled. Her voice was cold and he felt afraid instinctively. She was looking into his eyes and seeing how much he wanted to hurt people. Not even the house psychics had seemed to see it, but Rogue did. He bit back defensively, “So, what, you were being merciful and just or something?”
“No, Johnny. I’m a monster. I was being a monster. I’ve been one for a while now, and I’ve quite gotten the hang of it. I’m just what you think you want to be: not afraid of them anymore. Of course, I’m not afraid because I’ve been through worse than they could ever do to me, and trust me, you don’t want to have to go through that. And in any case, I want you to know that hurting people, even anti-mutant assholes or soldiers following orders trying to kill you, isn’t nearly as satisfying as it might sound; of the men I killed tonight, some of them have families. A man whose face brushed my skin tonight has a sister with a minor mutant ability that he still wrote letters to, and twin girls at home who are barely five, and he brushed my skin because my claws were buried in his throat and he fell forward until his skin made contact.”
John reflected distantly that he was increasingly sure that liked Xavier’s morality speeches better than Rogue’s; even if they made him bored and irritated, Xavier’s speeches never made him fear for his life or want to crawl away and hide.
Rogue shook her head at some thought of her own and stared into the lantern-flame, but she did not look very remorseful, or even guilty, which was disturbing. John hadn’t been able to hear the tones in her voice that had belied her anger and pain, but Logan had. He’d followed her, after she had followed John. He stood outside the circle of light, out of sight and just listening. He could tell that Rogue knew he was there, even though she did not so much as glance his way.
“What’s satisfying is hurting other monsters, either by thwarting them or torturing them outright if they’ve earned it.” She held John’s gaze again. “Be careful that you don’t turn into a monster, Johnny. You don’t want to fight like we fight, and you don’t want to see the world like we see it. You’re pretty good at makin’ light in the dark, and that’s far more honorable than what I do in it.”
John put out his cigarette and sighed. “What else can I really do? I light fires. Fire burns, and there are few worse ways to die.”
“There are a lot of worse ways to die, actually––most of which I’m capable of inflicting on people, but that’s another matter.” She inhaled a lungful of smoke and let it out slowly. “You strike me as the type who hates extended metaphors, but humor me on this: natural wildfire burns up the excess, the dead and stagnant material, and in burning that away, makes the place fertile and allows life to grow anew. And no, I’m not suggesting that you become a fertility god, no matter how much fun it might sound like to you.”
John gaped at her in a manner that was both amused and unnerved. He couldn’t believe that she’d just made a sex joke, and not only that, but one that he might have made had he been less terrified of her.
Rogue continued, “Now, you wise-crack a lot, don’t you? You point out when people are being stupid, when they’re being overly idealistic. You’re the cynic. You make people see the stupid and the useless things about their own ideas, and about themselves. Sometimes they won’t like it––in fact, you probably annoy the Hell out of a lotta people––but they usually can’t argue, and they’re forced to make something better out of themselves for it, of only to prove you wrong or to otherwise rob you of a particular target. Consider yourself, and I think you’ll like this, a necessary asshole.” Rogue put out her own stub of a cigarette.
John smirked a little despite himself. Maybe this morality speech was better than one of Xavier’s; it wasn’t corny, she didn’t treat him like a kid, and she’d almost made him laugh. He shook his head, but smirked a little more, albeit bitterly. “Alright. Fine, monster-lady. You’ve got a point, and not on the end of a claw this time.” He sighed heavily. “I’m going back to bed. Should I leave the lantern on for you?”
“Sure.”
John left, unaware that he passed within six inches of Logan in the dark. Once his footsteps faded into silence down the corridor, Logan stepped into the dim circle of light as Rogue adjusted the lantern flame, which was far less stable without St. John’s influence. He sat perhaps a foot away from her, noting that she’d taken off her gloves in order to do the adjusting.
Her hands were pale, long-fingered and deceptively delicate-looking. “Did you enjoy the show?” Rogue asked quietly.
“You did a damn sight better than the more do-gooder types.”
Rogue smirked. “Does he look like the type a’ kid who takes do-good feel-good stuff seriously? I could see his scars a mile away.”
Logan nodded, watching her put her gloves back on. “You should sleep.”
“So should you,” she countered, finally meeting his gaze.
“I was asleep until he got up.”
Rogue gave a low hum of understanding.
“You were already awake, though.”
“Yeah. But I got around four solid hours...before the attack.” She shrugged. “I’m still a bit hyped up. Restless.”
“How many did you touch up there?”
She flinched just slightly. “Only three. I didn’t get much. But the energy I got from ‘em...it leaves me kinda wired. It’s like a hit of amphetamine: instant insomnia and extra antisocial tendencies.” She snorted. “Like I need the help.”
Logan chuckled at that. “No argument there.”
“Gee, thanks,” Rogue replied with mock-offense.
Logan shook his head at her. “You’re insane.”
“Truly, you could be the next Sherlock Holmes, good sir! Seriously, how long did that one take you?”
He smirked at her. “I figured it out as soon as I realized my damned trailer had a stow-away. ‘Whoever that is,’ I thought to myself, ‘they are out of their goddamned mind.’”
Rogue snickered. “Ain’t it the truth. Of course, you did let me in your truck, so I’ve gotta wonder if maybe you’re not exactly a paragon of sanity yourself.”
“Fine, ya caught me, but I still say you’re crazier.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
They sat in silence for a while, both amused and oddly at ease.
“You think Hank’s barricades and cloaking programs will work?” Rogue asked.
“Hank can make machines do damned near anything, so far as I can tell.”
An odd look crossed Rogue’s face again, and Logan recognized it all too easily: she had almost let herself feel hope, and had forced herself to stop short.
“If anyone can help ya with your skin, it’s probably him,” he said quietly.
“Mm. Ah’ve lived with it for a little over three years now,” she muttered dismissively. “I barely miss...” Rogue shook her head. “Hell. I was fine until I had to––until Yuriko––because now I actually remember what it’s like. In vivid detail.” Her voice was bitter with ire and she pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger in a gesture of exasperation.
Logan was quiet for a moment. “Same thing happened to me when the X-men first picked me up. It brought back...I wouldn’t say memories, but I suddenly knew what I’d been missing for the fifteen years I’d been on my own with nothing but a name and instinctive knowledge about things like driving, reading, languages, people-reading, and fighting. I suddenly had a sense of honor and duty again, but nothing else.”
Rogue listened, staring at the lantern flame until he finished, and then looking up at his face, reading him. “What was the part you couldn’t have?”
Logan scowled, but finally “Jeannie. And everything she stood for.” He was uncomfortable, realizing that he really was starting to think of that in terms of past tense.
Rogue blinked a few times, and then nodded. “Ah. So she wasn’t...nervous around you like she is with me.”
Logan shook his head. “Never was.”
“Probably because she gets a little turned on when you step close enough,” Rogue mused.
Another scowl. “Yeah that’s never really helped things.” Then he looked more sobered and added, “And admittedly her pity-thing is annoying. Never noticed it before.”
“I have that effect on people, especially if they make the mistaken assumptions that I’m as young as they think I am, that I’m secretly a wounded animal somewhere deep down, and that feeling sorry for me is worth anything,” Rogue murmured.
Logan looked at her, and thought about how Jean had made all of those mistaken assumptions. He wondered, with acute unease, what assumptions Jean might have made about himself. Looking at Rogue he could easily see how she might be mistaken at a glance for young and fragile, but the austerity of her expression and the coolness of her demeanor easily belied that. And she did not look wounded––bitter and slightly sad perhaps, but she seemed obviously, at least to Logan, tough enough to consider pity an insult. “I’ve gotta wonder if that goes beyond assumption and into delusion,” he said finally.
Rogue smirked. “We’ll see. If it persists for too long, we’ll call it delusion, but aside from maybe Hank and X, I’d hazard a guess that they aren’t too quick on the uptake around here, when it comes to seeing something other than the good and the redeemable. Otherwise I wouldn’t’ve had to have that talk with John.”
Logan nodded. “Yeah. It can be annoying.” Then his brow furrowed. “Do you really think you’re a monster?”
“Yeah. But I’m at peace with it, really. I...” She hesitated. “Do you think I might––be able to join the X-men?”
“Yeah. Hell, they let me in the first day I got here. And I’m as much a monster as you are.”
“I didn’t mean it quite like...not like an insult, really-”
“Nietzsche, right?”
Rogue sighed and adjusted her position so that she sat cross-legged, her bare feet tucked under her. “Yeah. Just that we’ve done that ‘staring into an abyss’ too long thing, and the ‘fighting monsters’ thing, both a lot more than is healthy.”
“Yeah. And I try to keep the people in this house from doin’ the same.”
“I think I’d like to do that, too.”
Logan looked at her, and felt that unfamiliar connection again. He wondered if there was a way to put it into words. The result he came up with was: “I already trust you in a fight more than I do any of the pansies here.”
She smiled at that, more brightly than he’d seen before, as she met his gaze. It was a sight to be seen, and Logan found that he wanted to see more of it from her, again and again. “Thanks, Sugar,” she said sincerely, again with just a hint of that southern drawl.
He only nodded, and they sat in the quiet for a while longer, waiting for the others to wake. Outside the hangar and above the ground, dawn was approaching, and bodies were being taken from the mansion. Already, news crews had begun to arrive.
Waiting for them was a woman named Betsy, who was a friend both of Charles Xavier and Emma Frost, who now sheltered the Professor, his X-men, and his students. Emma usually referred to Betsy affectionately as her “dangerous psychic publicity ninja” and she was there to make sure that reporters got their story straight, whether they wanted to or not, and probably without realizing what they were doing.
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Chapter End Notes:
This story seems to consist of long periods of time wherein I go "What the Hell do I write now?" followed by several hours of non-stop typing. Then I post the chapter and spend the rest of the day going "WTF now?" again, and thus the cycle continues.