Before going to Washington D.C. to confront the President, the X-Men stopped at the mansion to pick up Kitty Pryde, Xavier's spare wheelchair and a pair of uniforms for Rogue and Bobby. The Professor didn't want Storm to be the only female representing mutant-kind, and Bobby had insisted that if Rogue was going so was he. It had been so inappropriate a demand in Rogue's mind that she had ignored her quasi-boyfriend for the whole flight to the mansion.
Rogue was shaking so badly from shock and sorrow at the loss of Jean Grey that Storm had to help her zip up the uniform. She didn't know how the older woman managed to remain so calm. Remembering that Storm and Jean had been friends for years, Rogue put a comforting hand on Storm's arm. She opened her mouth to try to tell Storm how sorry she was, but nothing would come out.
But Storm, too, seemed unable to put her feelings into words. With a small, sad smile on her face and a faraway look in her dark eyes, she patted Rogue's gloved hand. Together, the two women left the women's changing room, studiously avoiding looking at the locker with Jean's name on it.
Bobby was standing in the hall, preening in the reflective glass that usually held the X-Men's uniforms on mannequins. Rogue set her jaw, disgusted with how proud the boy was. And that's what he was, Rogue realized; still a boy. She herself had wanted to wear a uniform too, but she had wanted it to be because of earning her way onto the team, not being thrust into the role because of the demise of someone else. A demise that was at least partially her fault.
If Rogue had not tried to fly the Blackbird, it never would have gotten stuck in the mud. And then Jean would not have needed to use her powers to get it unstuck in order to save the rest of them. If it had not been for Jean, Rogue would have been responsible for the deaths of all of the X-Men, Nightcrawler, the Professor and the kids. How could she ever make up for something like that? The answer was that she couldn't even hope to begin to make up for it, but for the rest of her life she would have to try.
For the rest of her life she would have to live with the guilt. But for now, she would go to the White House and show her support for the people who had loved Jean; Scott, Professor Xavier, Storm... and Logan.
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Two weeks later, Rogue was sitting in a dark corner of the library. She couldn't stand being in the more populated areas of the mansion. All that... life; all it did was serve to remind her that because of her there was one less. One that was missed terribly by all the lives Jean had touched. Storm had left the mansion for a visit home to Africa. Scott and Logan were both brooding more deeply than ever, though they had somehow managed to patch up some of their differences. Rogue was glad for that small thing, but the price had still been much too high. But it was Xavier and the students that Rogue truly couldn't stand being near.
Some of the kids went about their lives laughing and messing around, as if nothing had happened. It was hard not to try to join in their fun, but the one time she had, guilt had tied her into knots within seconds.
Others mourned Jean in various ways; she had been a popular teacher for a lot of the students. Rogue had seen some of them whisper behind their hands and look at her. She knew they were talking about her mistake. The mistake that had made Jean's sacrifice necessary.
Rogue could not understand the way that Xavier was acting at all. There were times when he seemed very sad. But then every once in awhile she would catch him with a faraway look in his eyes and a content smile on his face. Like he knew something the rest of them didn't. Rogue was too afraid to approach him about it, though. She knew if she stayed alone in his company for any length of time he would sense her guilt and depression. And she couldn't stand to hear empty assurances from him that it wasn't her fault. She knew it was.
Two of the teenage students interrupted Rogue's sanctuary, probably looking for a hidden location to make out. If things had turned out differently, she might have been like them. But she'd had to grow up quickly, and Bobby had been the first thing of her adolescence that she had let go of. She somehow hadn't been surprised when breaking up with him had been more of a relief than anything else.
Rogue got up and left in search of another lonely spot.
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Rogue checked her reflection in the rear view mirror of the car she had `borrowed' from the mansion's garage. The keys to the school's cars, the ones that belonged to the Professor and not to one of the teachers or students, were kept on a rack by the garage door, the inhabitants of the school on the honor system. But what was the guilt of temporarily stealing when you already carried the burden of another person's death on your conscious?
Her make-up was dark and heavy, making her look goth with her pale skin and dark clothes. Her white streaks hung down to frame her face, while her dark auburn hair had been pulled up into a sassy ponytail. Rogue was hoping the combination of white hair and heavy make-up coupled with the `seen it all' look in her eyes would get her into the bar. Drowning her sorrows was one of the few ways she had yet to try to get out from under the guilt for at least a little while.
She knew Logan often went out drinking, and she had a suspicion Scott did so behind closed doors in the bedroom, but she knew better than to ask either one of them to let her join them. To them, she was still a young girl, someone to protect at all costs, even from her own choices. But she had the memories of three teenage boys and two men who had lived very full lives. It was hard to think of herself as young. Rogue knew this bar was safe from possible run-ins with Logan, she had driven out of her way to a bar in New York City that catered to young adults just to be on the safe side. Logan wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this.
Sighing, Rogue climbed out of the car and pushed the keys deep into her pocket. Her pants, actually an old pair of Jubilee's in black leather, were snug enough that if she got drunk there was no way she'd be coordinated enough to get the keys back out of the pocket. She had taken a four-door so she could sleep it off in the backseat if she had to. The last thing she wanted was to get in a car accident and hurt someone else.
The bar was dark and not quite crowded. There were enough people to get lost in, but not so many that Rogue didn't feel safe in her long sleeve shirt and gloves. She made her way to the bar and ordered a Midori Sour. She knew enough from Magneto and Logan's memories to know that girly drinks were the best way to go for her first time drinking. The bartender wasn't likely to give her another drink if she choked on Scotch or something just as strong. And she couldn't stand the smell of beer, so how could she possibly lift one to her mouth to even taste?
Rogue stared at the neon green liquid for a minute before taking a sip. It was strong, but not strong enough that she couldn't hide her reaction to the taste of alcohol. She smiled slightly at the bartender, and he moved to serve someone else. The drink actually tasted quite a bit like a sour apple Jolly Rancher. Rogue had just taken a second, bigger sip when she heard a familiar sound behind her.
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
"John?"
She spun on her stool, and sure enough, there was St. John Allerdyce, flipping his lighter open and shut and staring at her.
"Pyro," he reminded her firmly.
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
"Right," she said. "Sorry."
"What are you doing here, Rogue? Did you run away from the perfect Dr. Grey and stick-up-his-ass Summers?"
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
Rogue flinched and paled. She was surprised when John, or Pyro as he preferred, stopped playing with his lighter and took a step closer, a concerned look on his face.
"Don't look at me like that, Rogue; we were friends. You and me and Bobby. Is there something you need to talk about?"
"Jean's dead," Rogue said bluntly. "And it was my fault."
Pyro's eyebrows scrunched together in a frown. He glanced around the room and motioned for her to follow when he headed for a corner. Rogue grabbed her drink and trailed after him, wondering if Magneto or Mystique had put him through some kind of sensitivity training. They sat down at a small table. Pyro resumed fiddling with his lighter. It was so familiar and such a reminder of days past that Rogue felt herself relaxing slightly.
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
"You would never purposely hurt anyone," Pyro said. "How could the good Doctor's death possibly be your fault?"
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
Rogue thought it was a strange way for Pyro to refer to Jean, but she also wanted to be able to talk to someone about what had happened. Someone who wouldn't immediately go to pieces over the mention of Jean's death like the Professor and Scott and Logan.
Flick. Snap. Flick. Snap.
Rogue slowly but thoroughly explained everything that had happened after he had left she and Bobby in the Blackbird. Pyro listened silently through her explanation, the flick-snap rhythm of his lighter occasionally slowing. When she got to the part where the jet got stuck in the mud and Jean sacrificed herself to save the others, Pyro sat up straighter, slipping the lighter into the pocket of his leather jacket.
"When you landed the jet, were the others waiting on a hill?"
Rogue nodded.
"It wasn't your fault, Rogue. If anything, it was Magneto's."
Rogue frowned. "What do you mean?"
Pyro sighed. "There was a helicopter on that hill; it was Stryker's. Magneto, Mystique and I took it to get away. The others wouldn't have known that and the helicopter would have been much faster to get to than the jet."
Rogue stared at Pyro blankly.
"Rogue," Pyro said a bit sharply. When Rogue blinked and looked at him, he continued, "If you hadn't moved the jet, they all would have died."
Rogue's mouth opened and shut before she timidly asked, "You swear you're telling me the truth?"
"On my life," Pyro answered firmly.
A half-sob lodged in Rogue's throat and she leaned forward to hug the young man who had once been nothing more than the annoying friend of her quasi-boyfriend.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You have no idea how much you've freed me."
Not wanting the young man to have the chance to ruin what he had accomplished, Rogue got up and quickly left.
As Rogue disappeared, the figure still sitting at the table smiled, saying softly, "After everything I put you through, it was the very least I could do, my daughter."
The young ‘man' who had been flicking ‘his' lighter as ‘he' had followed the girl with two white streaks from a mansion in Westchester County to this bar in New York City stood and left out the back, clothes disappearing to reveal blue, scaly skin. The shapeshifter made a mental note to thank Magneto's newest recruit for the background information on himself and Rogue, and for the use of the lighter.
The End.
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