Title: The Cycle
Rating: T
Summary:Takes place sometime after the end of the show. The X-Men have been captured by a mutant hate group (doesn't matter which one). These are the POVs of the three most important men in Rogue's life as she is tortured. Romy-ish
Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone, If I did own it, Romy would have been together from the first episode.
He stood with his back to the thick, shatter proof glass separating them. He couldn't bare to look, but couldn't help but listen. Listening for the whistling that came as a warning, before the sound of leather meeting skin (bare skin for once in her life) assaulted his ears. No whimper or scream followed, at least not from the other side of the glass but he knew. He knew that she was in agony. And for that split second after the sound of leather meeting bare skin (the sick irony not lost on anyone) he hated them all, every single last human born without an X gene. From the smallest and most innocent of babies, to the oldest and kindest of elderly, and all of them in between. He understood his mother's rage at the human race, and he embraced it. He wished death and suffering upon them all, and an instant later felt a shame run so deep through him that it shook him to his very soul. And so he would pray. Not for himself and his own tainted soul, but for those souls that sought to make people born differently suffer. He prayed that God would show them the mercy that they refused to show others. And he prayed for her, for his sister.
On and on, the cycle went. Hatred, shame, prayer. And each time, the hatred lingered just a little bit longer and the shame ran just a little bit deeper.
He stood stock still, hands clinched into painful fists at his sides. He watched the whip sail through the air, the slight whistle accompaning the image before the tip slashed across her back for the 12th time that day. He watched her green eyes (dimmed with pain) close painfully but no sound rose from her throat. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of her screams, no matter how painful the torture was. The part of him that took her under his wing as an apprentice of sorts felt an odd sense of pride at watching her fight back, even in the smallest of ways. Another part of him that took her into his heart as a daughter felt a white hot rage like nothing he's ever experienced before shot through his blood and adamantium laced bones. He thought about letting his claws shot out and straight through the glass, tearing through everyone and everything that got in his way just to free her. But he knew, without his mutation he wouldn't get much further than the glass before bleeding to death in front of her. And then who would save her when the time was right? No, he would be patient. He would wait, letting it build, and then tear the whole fucking place apart. For her, for his daughter.
On and on, the cycle went. Pride, rage, patience. And each time, the rage burned a just little bit hotter and his patients ran a just little bit thinner.
He stood with his back to the rest of the room, his profile facing the glass. He tried watching her head on like the man she considered her father was but he couldn't stomach it. He tried turning away like her brother but he felt like he was abandoning her that way. So he stood facing the side, his perifial vision catching the swing of the whip and his ears catching the sound of brutal leather slashing across her bare back. He felt the helplessness run like ice water through his veins. He was useless, helpless to help her in any way. As he watched her from the corner of his eye, noting that she refused to scream out in pain, the helplessness was replaced by a grief so overwhelming his legs nearly buckled and he thought he might collapse on the spot. Instead, he forced himself to stay upright in case she could see them and she looked for him among the faces of her family and friends. And as he forced his legs to support the rest of his (useless, helpless) body, he turned his head just a fraction to get a better look at her. As he watched the silent, painful tears streak down her face he felt his love for her grow stronger in a way he didn't think was possible. Her inner strength inspiring him to force a fake strength into his heart and body. Just for her, for his wife.
On and on, the cycle went. Helplessness, grief, love. And each time, the grief ran just a little bit colder and his love grew just a little bit stronger.
AN: I hope you enjoyed (that seems like a weird word considering the subject matter, but oh well) reading this story. This is my first story that I've actually posted, and I welcome constructive criticism.