To Run In Circles: Chapter Five
The carpet had just been vacuumed. By one of the students, presumably, working to earn his or her place in the school before they were old enough to do so in blood. Half of the housekeepers had resigned, fearful (rightfully, and belatedly) of being targeted for consorting with mutants. The rest, save two, had been gently (over-gently, with monetary and telepathic encouragement to hold their tongues regarding the mansion) let go.
Rogue's footsteps left prints in the carpet like snow, freshly fallen. It was these Logan secured his gaze to, a horse tethered to the back of a moving wagon, these he studied, though their owner walked only a few feet ahead. His eyes traced their shapes, their ghostly depth, like the tracks of some wounded prey, admiring the special design of a limp. He did so tiredly, almost absently, as if viewing another's craftsmanship--he could not quite decide if the hunter's role belonged to him in the analogy. These shadows did not lead to Rogue's room, the stairs, or even the kitchen, but down a hall that lost its familiarity in the strangeness of her choosing it.
"Where are you going?"
"Leave me alone."
"You're hurt."
"Fuck off."
"Don't always have to be such a bitch, darlin." His voice was not unkind.
Rogue did not reply, but continued on her weaving path to a door free of any markings, save for the scent of chalk, of furniture oil, of hopelessly aging flesh. "I think you need to lay down."
"Bite me," she said.
"Wasn't talking about that kind of lay-down, Kid, but if that's what you're in the mood for..."
She made a sound of irritation, a verbal roll of her eyes, or perhaps a sob, and wrenched at the door to Xavier's office. It swung open with great force, though not enough to allow his own passage. Her head turned, for just a breath of a moment, but she caught herself in time. Perhaps if she hadn't, perhaps if Logan had seen the look on her face, he would not have allowed that panel of oak to swing shut. But he didn't, and it did. An expanse of over-polished wood took her place, like parchment when a crucial paragraph has been erased.
A heartbeat's worth of voices in the office, and then a quiet that filled his ears like sun warmed wax. There was no such thing as silence for a man, for a mutant, like Logan. And though later this fact stung like a fresh burn, his interest was overpowered by a deluge of frustration, like a river giving sudden way to an ocean and he found himself turning, turning away. The thought that none of this was natural or voluntary did not occur to him, and perhaps this was intentional as well.
And he was Logan again, with too little time allotted between the mission and the expected resumption of mansion life. The animal had retreated to the same place it did when, after a frenzy of fighting and fucking and refilling his dring as quickly as he could swallow the last, Logan would accidentally find himself alone with his thoughts.
And he couldn't remember how many men he'd killed tonight.
And Rogue had closed her eyes on the jet as if grateful at the idea that they may never open.
And her footprints had been visible because of the freshly vacuumed carpet. His were visible because of the blood.
And why did he care?
Why did he care?
Why did he care?
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After the mission, after the visit with Xavier, Rogue stayed in her room for four days. She did not appear for food, for team meetings, for laundry or those morning runs around the mansion. Four days is not much, except when one is waiting without distraction or a prescribed endpoint. And there was only so many excuses that could be made to himself or others as to why he needed to ascend the stairs to Ororo's old, to Rogue's new, attic room.
He passed by--though "passed by" is not a phrase that can really be used with the sole chamber on the top floor--her door several times a day, payed tribute to it like the most devout to an icon of faith. As some cross themselves, burn incense and sacrifices, kneel and dance to the morning and setting sun, so Logan listened outside with all the force his senses afforded. She was there, inside, and she was alive; he could hear her heartbeat, could smell every puff of fragrance her body offered when it shifted. No movement, save for natural and involuntary ones, and the soft noises of those who are sleeping.
Jean said she was fine, perfectly stop worrying--did they throw a fit when he chose to avoid their company for a few days, or weeks, or months? She said no, of course not. Yes, she was sure. Quit obsessing. Since when did he become so nosy? Since when was he so interested in the doings of others? Stop it. Leave it alone, Logan. And leave me alone--I have classes to teach.
On the fifth evening, in one of the thin times between the visits to her door, Logan found Rogue in the kitchen. A coffee filter filled with grapes rested on the marble island; she was cutting thick slices of pot roast from its congealed place in the Tupperware bowl. With zest, though not so intense a hunger as one might expect from someone who hadn't eaten in half a week. Two boiled potatoes, speared and deposited with her fork, topped the meat on her plate like bulging eyes. She pushed this into the microwave, tapped a few buttons with familiar ease, slid the remaining leftovers back into the fridge. Both machines humming, grumbling, as they went about their job, issuing faint and artificial cold, faint and artificial heat.
He stood in the doorway, watching the soft bones play beneath the softer skin of her face, watching brown eyes that took in so much more than their subdued movements suggested, watching hands that should never be hidden move without gloves, and if there had been something he'd wanted to say to her, Logan's lips could not remember it. Rogue looked up at him, a slow and almost lazy sweep of her vision, down, away, and back again. And the expression she donned in the action was much calmer than anything he'd seen her wear. There was something different about her, something younger and peaceful--the absence, perhaps of the tired shadows beneath her eyes which healthier skin had cheerfully taken the place of.
The microwave sounded a series of beeps, a child's cries for attention on a task completed. She turned away, gathered her meal. Walked past him silently, with only one more glance that said something that cannot be recorded, because it does have a voice. Something that had the ring of thank you and the breath of curiosity. And how could he say just how that look, that look, served to deepen his interest, like a spear sinking further into its warm-blooded target.
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Rogue was someone else, for a week after that evening. Someone quiet, someone breaking the surface of the depths that separated the world inside her from the world that surrounded. (And why, why? What was spoken, what was done, in the space that the unforthcoming walls of Xavier's office shielded? What was it that made her moods shift like the golden pendulum of a grandfather clock?) She ate with the team in the busy cafeteria, offered to halve and share whatever dessert or favored provision she'd managed to snag the last of. She'd accept advice, if the weather wasn't too poor for running, a bottle of water if it wasn't. She would abandon her work-out in the Danger Room when Logan and whatever students he'd been coerced into training came in, but sometimes stay, sit against the wall, and watch. Rogue would look at him when Logan asked her a question and sometimes, sometimes, she would answer.
But then, like the sudden thrashing of a candle's flame, her sleeping patterns became erratic, wholly and sharply incalculable. She'd be up, consuming days in a gulp of wakefulness, then retreating to her room for a few minutes or hours worth of a nap at a time, then for thirty minutes every other hour. She would take her lunch at three in the morning, at midnight, at nine. Impossible to predict, impossible to hold her company.
Like you, Jean said.
And her eyes turned cold and shuttered, blockaded like a fort under heavy fire. She looked at him like an unwanted visitor who'd overstayed his forced welcome, like any moment, any word, any action, would spark a fury whose only language was screams. Every sentence that passed her teeth was clipped, irritated, barbed. Why?
Why?
But sometimes, oh, sometimes, Rogue would come and sit beside him, watch a movie, a game, a newsreel. Silent and passive, without the tension or inexplicable anger that so often corded the muscles in her shoulders.
As if there were nothing wrong.
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Like all decent bars, this one was dark, with a tint of maroon that painted the air, rather than any similarly toned furnishings. A jukebox manufactured to look older than it was, for the sake of popular nostalgia against the far wall, crooning a neutral love song that nobody seemed to like or have the energy to change. A bar-top in the shape of an L, creating a long hall that permitted a few extra tables and a set of bathrooms at it's tip. There wasn't a cage, which might explain why this was the least favorite of Logan's few options, but if he wanted a fight the hunt for one was never too prolonged.
There were women, a good selection. Few with a disease he could sell--contagion did not concern Logan, though the odor and sensation of certain infected areas did. One or two--no, three--with necklines so low and skirts so high they have been undressed already. Good if he wanted something fast, wanted to bypass that time-consuming chore of removing clothes.
Logan nearly left when he first spotted her. He could have done so without being seen himself, though it was a small and not overpopulated room. He might even have been able to pick up one of the more attractive patrons on his way out, without speaking enough to draw her attention. He was in a poor mood, a restless mood, and not so inclined to spend time in the company of any but a stranger's.
Why, then, were his feet bringing him not to the door but the oak counter, to her, at once as out of place as a child in her mother's clothing and frighteningly comfortable in this atmosphere where misery pervaded even the most comfortable of scenes.
Her shoulders were slumped as if the weight of the thin jacket was too much to bear or escape. She sipped at her drink--was the tall glass her request, or did the bartender see something in her face, and deem it and her too delicate for a bottle?--as if trying to make it last the rest of her days. And when he dropped himself onto the stool beside her, she made a sound incredulous and aghast, like one who has been saved from drowning only to find a the rescue boat has sprung a leak, like discovering the character of a book she didn't like in one she did.
"How's it going, Kid?"
"Did you follow me?"
"Why would I follow you?"
"Because it's what your always doing."
Logan was silent. Mock contemplation, and then a grunt. "Not always."
The bartender came without being signaled, with a nod at Logan's preferred beer that was familiar enough to be worrisome. Beside him, Rogue took a deeper swallow of her drink and flinched as if it were something stronger. The shadows of exhaustion on her cheeks looked like bruises, like half-dried paint.
"What are you doing here, Kid?"
"I'm allowed to leave," she said, a high edge to her voice. Upset, defensive. Her chin jerked, stopping short before actually looking at him. For half the span of a breath she seemed close to tears, and her ire continued even after this had passed. There was nothing to say to this, nothing that wouldn't be harsher or weaker than Logan was willing to be with her.
He watched her sit, watched her drink, watched her wish for his absence, hate him for the stress relief that doing so provided. The amber liquid at the bottom of her glass took root in her throat faster than he had imagined it would, and she requested another in the whispery way of the inexperienced. (But had she not seemed perfectly at ease with the beer he'd given her that night in the kitchen?) The bartender--the sort who would have asked for her ID the moment she came in, inspected it under the strongest glasses and light he owned--refilled her glass from a spout in a long row of brothers, whose head wore a glossy Pabst label. She was grimacing even before it was pressed to her lips.
"Might be the shittiest beer you could have ordered, Kid."
"Not my fault." Defensive, again, and he wondered what she could have meant, even as a quick jerk of his throat muscles stole the last of his own brew. Rogue didn't want him here, but that this might be for reasons other than her usual, obscure ones did not immediately occur to him. Logan studied her profile, the smooth incline of her nose that ended in a bump and underscored her youth more that anything else, the dip where her lower lip stopped and her chin began, the eyelashes that curved upward like an impertinent bird in flight. These small characteristics filled his attention, a pitcher left to overrun.
But then he saw her eyes, how they were not studying the middle distance simply to avoid stumbling into his. Rather, they were fixed on a point, a table, a man sitting against the left wall, that hall the L-shaped counter made. A scraggly Italian with an overbite, a special green tint under olive skin. He was unmistakeably her target--when the man's arm would lift to ferry his scotch to its destination, when his head would turn this way or that, her gaze shifted to accommodate the gesture.
Beneath the counter-top, inscribed with years of spilt drinks and the weight of depressed elbows, her leg vibrated with impatient restraint. Logan understood, then, that his presence was the only factor holding Rogue from going over there.
His jaw tightened with the strength of the adamantium it carried--if the room had been even slightly quieter, the other patrons might have heard it. For no particular or understood reason, violent images began to fight for priority in his mind's eye. Logan thought of telling her that she could do better, that he could smell the immune boosters swimming in the streams of the Italian's blood, fighting the current of HIV.
So focused. Almost pathetically intent, was the expression on her face. He could tell her that it was too desperate, that it would turn men off. But why bother? Why should her stare make him uncomfortable? Anger, like greasy heat sank into his muscles. For the first time, in a setting that bore more familiarity than any other in his abbreviated memory, Logan felt out of place. He ordered another Molson, and then something triple its strength, and managed to make both disappear without tasting them. He considered leaving, but a stubbornness and a curiosity made him prefer her unwilling company to any other.
And so, he looked at her, looking at the man across the room, and they both were paying close attention when her subject was approached by another woman. She had unwashed hair that humidity and split ends had loaned a crown of frizz, a t-shirt that revealed her belly button and a ring that had turned the surrounding skin red with infection. Needle-thin arms that never stilled as she sidled up to him, as one who cannot determine if a dog's bark means play or danger.
The two spoke briefly--him, with disinterested derision, the woman with twitchy need--in half-code and muted gestures. The Italian gave her a nod, a flick of his gaze that sent his fidgety inquirer scurrying for--with, perhaps, less than the desired subtlety--the maple His/Her signs that denoted the bathrooms. She chose the Men's. In a score of moments, neither hurried or protracted, the Italian shook himself out of his chair and retraced her path. Utterly casual, utterly unobserved by any save Logan, Rogue, and perhaps the bartender--in whose financial interest it may have been to turn a blind eye.
He returned far too quickly, with far too unsatisfied an expression for the encounter to have been sexual, and Logan understood. "What's your fix, Kid?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," she said, too quickly, which was as good as a confirmation. Her voice was a stack of unweighted pages in a sudden wind, a flag being whipped mercilessly and unpatriotically in a storm. And it was easier, suddenly, to sit beside her in the thick silence, knowing what she would refrain from doing to avoid the shame of him paying witness to it.
Shortly after, Rogue set her glass down on the counter--carefully, as if there was some designated and important niche. Logan asked if she was going to finish it--more than half the weak brew remained, laying as if ashamed at its own taste.
Softer than he expected, she said no, "I'm tired", and looked him in the eye for the first time. Logan had never been stricken by a statement more true.
"Want a ride, Kid?"
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm not entirely sure how to begin this note, though I've sat here trying to for a good fifteen minutes. Isn't that a crazy thing to get writer's block with? I want to ask for forgiveness. This update is horribly, grossly late, and I'm sure that a few of you are rather inclined to hit me--which I probably deserve.
There has been a great number of personal, familial, and friend-regarding crises on this side of the screen that has seen fit to steal my time and energy. Coupled with those, perhaps caused by them, a depressing lack of inspiration that only worsened the longer I went without posting (translated: "without reviews", my embarrassingly vital drug) I am very, very sorry, and hope your interest in this fic has not been spoiled in the meantime.
This is for Sarah, who deserves so much more than she's getting right now. And for Litlen, who remains faithful and kind despite fact that I've not exactly kept to my promise.
I hope you enjoy.
.
There has been a great number of personal, familial, and friend-regarding crises on this side of the screen that has seen fit to steal my time and energy. Coupled with those, perhaps caused by them, a depressing lack of inspiration that only worsened the longer I went without posting (translated: "without reviews", my embarrassingly vital drug) I am very, very sorry, and hope your interest in this fic has not been spoiled in the meantime.
This is for Sarah, who deserves so much more than she's getting right now. And for Litlen, who remains faithful and kind despite fact that I've not exactly kept to my promise.
I hope you enjoy.
.
Chapter End Notes:
Well? Is it rude, to say "well"? Forgive me, if so. I dearly, dearly hope that you have found this chapter to your liking, that it was understandable--and free of too many mistakes, as my Beta was rehearing, as I should be, for a concert. I spent most of today typing this up, and the rest attempting to fix what was typed, but lord knows there's probably much I have missed.
If this has not caused you to grit your teeth and seek out that bottle of Tylenol, I would be happier than any words can describe if you would leave a response in that beautiful review box down below. This would be me, down on my figurative knees.
Please, Thank You, and Goodnight.
If this has not caused you to grit your teeth and seek out that bottle of Tylenol, I would be happier than any words can describe if you would leave a response in that beautiful review box down below. This would be me, down on my figurative knees.
Please, Thank You, and Goodnight.