You can't stand the way that she gets under your skin. From the very first moment, she did, and it's only seemed to get worse as time has gone on. You actually care about her—a disquieting notion which you try to ignore, because such attachments are messy. You'd like to think that you could pick up and leave the academy whenever it suits you, and that you'd feel no regrets in doing so. A thought which has always been of such great comfort in the past, is a far cry from settling your mind now.
The thought of lingering in one place for so long makes you feel positively… domestic. Sure, you've got quite the long leash; you can leave, go far away.
But she always expects you home, and you know it. And you'd hate to disappoint. For fuck's sake, when she looks at you with those wide, sad eyes, you think, in that moment, that you'd murder someone for her if she asked. Thankfully, she doesn't ask.
Sometimes you could swear that she knows it, too, which makes it all the worse.
And she's not the only one who knows it. You feel the professor sometimes, lurking in the recesses of your mind and he knows, although you think the man hardly has to be a mind reader to see through you. He passes no judgment, but you think his silence says enough. He sees that it's not… it's not lust, that you feel—though sometimes, God, sometimes you wish it was, so that maybe you could fuck her and then move on.
(You always hate yourself immediately after thinking things like that.)
It's not quite love though, either. Nothing like what you think love is. Granted, it's hardly your place to determine what love feels like, since God knows the last time you felt it. It's just that you… you look at Rogue, and you're willing to sit still for her. You want to sit still, as sickening as the thought might be.
And of course she knows it. When she catches you sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night, bag slung over your shoulder—her gloves on even now, even to bed, the poor girl—she gives you a hesitant smile, whispers, "When will you be back?"
Who knows, you want to say. When I damn well feel like it, you want to say. Instead, "Soon." Because you can't bear to be gone for long.
Rogue knows. "Okay." She reaches up a hand, presses it gently to your cheek. The leather is cold on your skin. "Will you miss me?"
"Not really," you lie.
Her smile grows. "I'll miss you."
Oh yes. She'll miss you, you know she will. That, you think, that is where the problem lies. Because if she's back at the school, waiting for you to come back… well. You really can't bear the idea of her, waiting.