Disclaimer: Marvel owns all. I own nothing.
Author's Note: First part of several.
The man stood on the edge of a great cliff. Water thundered on his right, a forest teemed with life at his back. He took no notice of either, choosing instead to gaze out at the rising sun. It was pale now, the moon still dominant over the wan amber sky, but it would gather strength and grow hot, allowing this miserable little planet to subsist on its rays for another day.
*We write romantic poetry about the moon, and yet it does nothing for us*, he thought scornfully. *The sun is the master of life, and we resent it for shining too brightly or too dimly. It can be cruel, it can be unyielding, but it is our sustenance. Ancient civilizations worshipping the sun had the right idea.*
He felt a different, harsher light press at the back of his skull. If anyone had been watching, he would have seemed strong and noble despite his age. Now his stance became feeble as he bent over, hands pressed to his head.
"Come back inside, Erik," said a voice from behind. It was feminine, dark and vaguely reptilian. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to be led back to the small stone house.
Glancing back one more time at the advancing light, he sent a silent, warning message to a man not so very far away. *You may be the moon, Charles, soft and admired, but never forget that I am your sun. And the day is about to break, old friend.*
In Westchester, a mere thirty miles away from the stone house in the woods, Charles Xavier woke in a cold sweat.
~~~~~~~~
There were warning signs, but they went unnoticed.
In March she had to leave class early, complaining of headaches. Jean offered to examine her, but she smiled and said she would be all right with some rest, it was probably just her period. The headaches stayed through April and May, but not too frequently, and she could ease them with aspirin.
June brought more of the same, with some escalation.
"I can't believe we're really graduating!" Jubilee squealed, one eye perfectly made up and the other bare. It eventually came out perfectly, but no one had a stranger beauty routine than Jubilation Lee.
Kitty sniffled. "It feels like just yesterday when I came to the mansion . . ."
Rogue tugged on the tank top she was wearing under her gown. "Don't start again, Kitty, you're gonna set the rest of us off!"
Sure enough, Jubilee's grin had taken a trip south. She reached out one arm to either of her friends. "We'll be going off to college," she said, tears forming in her eyes but not daring to spill over and ruin her handiwork, "and things'll . . . never . . . be the same!" She ended in a howl and Kitty's tears flowed freely. Rogue felt a familiar pricking in her own eyes. She didn't have as much history in this place as the other two, but she would miss it just as much.
"We still have this summer's trip through Europe," she reminded them, her voice thickening.
Jubilee chuckled. "Maybe poor old Remy will finally get some."
Rogue poked her in the arm. "Shut up, you."
The three girls gave each other one last squeeze before separating, each tucking hair back into place and smoothing the dark crimson gowns. Jubilee bent over the mirror to finish her right eye and Kitty continued her thank-you letter to the Professor. It had spilled onto two pages and sported tearstains in more than one corner.
Smiling, Rogue reflected that if she'd been cursed with a mutation at birth, at least she'd been blessed with some terrific friends. Not just Jubes, Kit-Kat and the boys, but the adults of the mansion as well. She could tell pretty much anything to Ororo and Jean, Scott was the big brother she'd always wanted, Hank was great for philosophical and homework help conversations, and the Professor was a father figure to them all.
Her thoughts trailed off the one she knew least, and best. The one she was most distant from, and yet so close to. Rogue sighed. Logan was a walking, talking paradox. Violent and noble, caring and standoffish, cool and warm, safe and dangerous. A rock and the wind that slowly ground it into nothing.
Tears threatened again. She hadn't seen him in over a year, but she couldn't bring herself to bear him a grudge. After all, she knew the demons haunting his past better than anyone else did. And he was always with her, inside her head. Mostly quiet now, but he was a comfort anyway. The real Logan could fit her life in new and vastly more satisfying ways, but that would take time. Right now she was content with occasional phone call or postcard.
Jubilee looked up from where she was lining Kitty's lips and said, "Come on, Roguey, your turn."
Rogue nodded and promptly vomited into her graduation cap.
"What the f --"
"Rogue, are you okay?"
Trembling, she regarded the mess and realized that another headache was sneaking up. And had the room gotten chilly all of a sudden?
She looked up at the mirror, studying her reflection. A tad pale, and maybe her eyes were slightly reddened, but she'd just been crying. And the circles underneath, so slight that no one had noticed them, must be from staying out late last night.
"I'm fine," she decided, just a bit tremulous. She tried again. "I'm fine." The words echoed in the small bathroom.
Kitty and Jubilee were staring. "Hon, you're not . . . you couldn't be . . ."
She saw Jubilee's eyes drift to her waist and snapped, "Of course I'm not pregnant. That's fuckin' ridiculous."
They blinked in response.
Rogue closed her eyes. "You know as well as I do that Remy hasn't gotten any, and neither has anyone else."
"You must be sick then," Kitty said, frowning.
"A stomach bug, probably." Like hell she was going to miss her graduation. She'd worked hard to catch up from those months spent on the road, and she was not about to waste this moment on a 24-hour virus.
Tossing the cap in the trashcan, she went to the sink to wash the awful taste out of her mouth. Jubilee handed her a toothbrush.
"I'll say I lost the cap," she said between scrubs, "and they'll give me a new one."
Kitty twirled hers around on her finger. "Dorky looking things, anyway."
The trash was emptied before they finished, and Rogue got a replacement cap. She forgot all about the incident as she climbed the stage to accept her diploma. She whistled and cheered and clapped for all the students she had grown to love, and also those she hadn't. The X-Men stood around beaming proudly while younger students looked on. Some of them wished for the day they'd be able to go out into the world; others dreaded it, but they were all quiet for those few hours in the bright spring morning.
After the ceremony, Rogue, Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, Remy, and St. John gathered themselves into a proud grinning knot while Scott fiddled with the camera. Rogue felt her face ache, stretched into what seemed an unnatural expression for so long. She wanted most to grimace at the pangs in her head.
Finally Scott yelled, "Say cheese!" The giggling died, the smiles froze in place, and as the shutter clicked Rogue passed out.
~~~~~~~~
Voices. Voices turning the dark puddles in her head into interesting shapes, twisting and distorting them. It reminded her of a Disney movie she'd loved as a child, what was it called? "Fantasia," yes, that was it. The little line that stood in the middle of the screen and moved when someone plucked a harp or blew on a horn. It had been cute then, but now it had taken up residence in her head and it annoyed her.
She tried to open her eyes, but they weren't cooperating. Felt like someone was sitting on them. The voices belonged to Jean and Hank, so maybe they were sitting on her eyelids? She tried to ask them to get off, but her mouth wasn't working either.
"Dammit, Hank, I've never seen a case like this."
"Nor have I. We know it's not the flu."
"No, we ruled that out. It just struck so fast . . . she had that migraine a few months ago, but that didn't seem serious."
"She's probably been having them ever since and not telling anybody. You don't think this could be a brain tumor, do you?"
"God, I hope not. We need to run some more tests."
If the voices would just *stop* . . .
And they did. She felt a sting in her arm, then a wonderful coolness ran up her veins to her head. Much better, even if Jean and Hank were still sitting on her eyelids. The woman's voice made one more twang on the strings before Rogue lost consciousness.
"I'm going to call Logan."
~~~~~~~~
"Closing up now, fella. You're gonna have to get home now."
The one piss-drunk man left at the bar grumbled into his beer, but stood up reluctantly. No one wanted to disobey *this* bartender.
Logan stuck the dirty glass in the sink. "Want me to call you a cab?" He made a face as the patron's breath drifted into his sensitive nose.
"Nuh. I'll be . . . finnn." And he fell off his barstool.
Sighing, Logan reached for the phone. Job was easy and it paid well enough, but putting up with shit like this made him want to pack up and go . . . back. Home? He guessed it was the closest he'd ever come to home. Mostly because of a pretty girl with a soft voice and dangerous skin. Marie was the reason he would be going back to Westchester, and she was also the reason he was staying again. She wasn't ready yet; hell, she was only eighteen. He could wait.
The phone rang before he could a number.
"'Lo."
"Logan?"
"Hey, Jeannie, what's up?"
She paused, and he felt his skin grow tight. He gripped the beer glass until his knuckles whitened. His claws slid out of the pale flesh.
"It's Rogue --"
"What about Rogue? Is she hurt? What happened?" His voice thundered into Jean's ear, making her wince at the tone and the panic causing it.
"She's sick, Logan, very sick, and I think --"
"I'm coming home."
The phone swung from his fingers and hit the wall. Jean heard the shattering of glass, the slam of a door, and someone mumbling drunkenly. She hung up and returned to her patient.
~~~~~~~~
*The light. Turn the light off, Momma, I'm tryin' to sleep.*
"Mmmphmm."
"She's waking up." The light came closer. "Rogue? Can you hear me?"
She opened one eye and shut it immediately. "Light," she whispered, sounding on the verge of tears.
"Of course," Hank said. "Sorry." The room faded into a more tolerable half-light, and she opened both eyes.
Both doctors leaned over her. Jean stroked her cheek with a gloved hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Ungh." She tried to lift her head, but it seemed to be weighed down. Hospital gown. God, how she hated wearing those things. She'd had her tonsils taken out at twelve and the worst part had been the hospital gowns. If there was going to be a nice convenient medical lab in the basement, at least they could give her something decent to wear.
She managed to lift an arm, staring at the bruises on her flesh. "What happened?"
"Those happened while you were being carried down here. Among other things, your illness interferes with your red blood cells and causes you to bruise very easily." Hank could always be counted on for a soothing voice, no matter what the message. She grabbed his thumb frantically.
"What's making me sick?"
They exchanged looks. That was never, ever good. "We don't exactly know," Jean explained. "It's some kind of virus, but not one either of us has seen. You're showing symptoms for many different diseases, but according to the tests, you don't have a single one of them. According to the tests, there's no reason you shouldn't be perfectly healthy."
Rogue stared at the ceiling above their heads. Mystery virus. Great. It gave her headaches and bruised her and made her throw up. Feeling a familiar, awful sensation rise in her throat, she choked out, "I'm gonna be sick." Hank held up a bucket and she emptied the nothing coating her stomach into it. How could she throw up when there was nothing in there?
Jean wiped her mouth without saying a word.
She realized for the first time how dry her lips were. And how hot it was. She was burning, oh god, she was on fire, she could see the flames licking at her feet --
"Rogue! Calm down! There's no fire!" She understood vaguely that the high-pitched screams were her own, and the hands holding her down were Jean's, and the hands injecting a sedative were blue and therefore Hank's.
Erik had been tortured by fire.
"Charles," she whispered, her struggles subsiding. Her head turned to one side, and a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye.
"The professor. You want to see him?"
She shook her head mutely. No, she wasn't Magneto, she was Rogue. She was *Marie*.
The heat within her turned to ice, sweat cooling on her body, making her shiver.
"Logan. I want Logan." Her voice was wheedling, pleading.
"He's on his way," Jean replied gently.
She wanted to cry, but she was afraid her tears would turn into icicles on her cheeks. *Hey Bobby*, she thought tiredly as she drifted off again, *is this what your life is like?*
~~~~~~~~
Logan's mind was blank for the first hour of the madcap ride. Then he allowed himself to think about the situation. Sick. If Jean had called him, it must be really bad. All this time living in that dangerous place, with fucking superheroes for company, he'd figured she might get injured. But she was sick.
Trying hard not to picture a pale and feverish Marie calling for him, he gunned the bike's engine in the pitch-black night. He would heal her. He would heal her as soon as he got there, didn't care what kind of coma it threw him into.
He just had to *get* there.
Author's Note: First part of several.
The man stood on the edge of a great cliff. Water thundered on his right, a forest teemed with life at his back. He took no notice of either, choosing instead to gaze out at the rising sun. It was pale now, the moon still dominant over the wan amber sky, but it would gather strength and grow hot, allowing this miserable little planet to subsist on its rays for another day.
*We write romantic poetry about the moon, and yet it does nothing for us*, he thought scornfully. *The sun is the master of life, and we resent it for shining too brightly or too dimly. It can be cruel, it can be unyielding, but it is our sustenance. Ancient civilizations worshipping the sun had the right idea.*
He felt a different, harsher light press at the back of his skull. If anyone had been watching, he would have seemed strong and noble despite his age. Now his stance became feeble as he bent over, hands pressed to his head.
"Come back inside, Erik," said a voice from behind. It was feminine, dark and vaguely reptilian. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to be led back to the small stone house.
Glancing back one more time at the advancing light, he sent a silent, warning message to a man not so very far away. *You may be the moon, Charles, soft and admired, but never forget that I am your sun. And the day is about to break, old friend.*
In Westchester, a mere thirty miles away from the stone house in the woods, Charles Xavier woke in a cold sweat.
~~~~~~~~
There were warning signs, but they went unnoticed.
In March she had to leave class early, complaining of headaches. Jean offered to examine her, but she smiled and said she would be all right with some rest, it was probably just her period. The headaches stayed through April and May, but not too frequently, and she could ease them with aspirin.
June brought more of the same, with some escalation.
"I can't believe we're really graduating!" Jubilee squealed, one eye perfectly made up and the other bare. It eventually came out perfectly, but no one had a stranger beauty routine than Jubilation Lee.
Kitty sniffled. "It feels like just yesterday when I came to the mansion . . ."
Rogue tugged on the tank top she was wearing under her gown. "Don't start again, Kitty, you're gonna set the rest of us off!"
Sure enough, Jubilee's grin had taken a trip south. She reached out one arm to either of her friends. "We'll be going off to college," she said, tears forming in her eyes but not daring to spill over and ruin her handiwork, "and things'll . . . never . . . be the same!" She ended in a howl and Kitty's tears flowed freely. Rogue felt a familiar pricking in her own eyes. She didn't have as much history in this place as the other two, but she would miss it just as much.
"We still have this summer's trip through Europe," she reminded them, her voice thickening.
Jubilee chuckled. "Maybe poor old Remy will finally get some."
Rogue poked her in the arm. "Shut up, you."
The three girls gave each other one last squeeze before separating, each tucking hair back into place and smoothing the dark crimson gowns. Jubilee bent over the mirror to finish her right eye and Kitty continued her thank-you letter to the Professor. It had spilled onto two pages and sported tearstains in more than one corner.
Smiling, Rogue reflected that if she'd been cursed with a mutation at birth, at least she'd been blessed with some terrific friends. Not just Jubes, Kit-Kat and the boys, but the adults of the mansion as well. She could tell pretty much anything to Ororo and Jean, Scott was the big brother she'd always wanted, Hank was great for philosophical and homework help conversations, and the Professor was a father figure to them all.
Her thoughts trailed off the one she knew least, and best. The one she was most distant from, and yet so close to. Rogue sighed. Logan was a walking, talking paradox. Violent and noble, caring and standoffish, cool and warm, safe and dangerous. A rock and the wind that slowly ground it into nothing.
Tears threatened again. She hadn't seen him in over a year, but she couldn't bring herself to bear him a grudge. After all, she knew the demons haunting his past better than anyone else did. And he was always with her, inside her head. Mostly quiet now, but he was a comfort anyway. The real Logan could fit her life in new and vastly more satisfying ways, but that would take time. Right now she was content with occasional phone call or postcard.
Jubilee looked up from where she was lining Kitty's lips and said, "Come on, Roguey, your turn."
Rogue nodded and promptly vomited into her graduation cap.
"What the f --"
"Rogue, are you okay?"
Trembling, she regarded the mess and realized that another headache was sneaking up. And had the room gotten chilly all of a sudden?
She looked up at the mirror, studying her reflection. A tad pale, and maybe her eyes were slightly reddened, but she'd just been crying. And the circles underneath, so slight that no one had noticed them, must be from staying out late last night.
"I'm fine," she decided, just a bit tremulous. She tried again. "I'm fine." The words echoed in the small bathroom.
Kitty and Jubilee were staring. "Hon, you're not . . . you couldn't be . . ."
She saw Jubilee's eyes drift to her waist and snapped, "Of course I'm not pregnant. That's fuckin' ridiculous."
They blinked in response.
Rogue closed her eyes. "You know as well as I do that Remy hasn't gotten any, and neither has anyone else."
"You must be sick then," Kitty said, frowning.
"A stomach bug, probably." Like hell she was going to miss her graduation. She'd worked hard to catch up from those months spent on the road, and she was not about to waste this moment on a 24-hour virus.
Tossing the cap in the trashcan, she went to the sink to wash the awful taste out of her mouth. Jubilee handed her a toothbrush.
"I'll say I lost the cap," she said between scrubs, "and they'll give me a new one."
Kitty twirled hers around on her finger. "Dorky looking things, anyway."
The trash was emptied before they finished, and Rogue got a replacement cap. She forgot all about the incident as she climbed the stage to accept her diploma. She whistled and cheered and clapped for all the students she had grown to love, and also those she hadn't. The X-Men stood around beaming proudly while younger students looked on. Some of them wished for the day they'd be able to go out into the world; others dreaded it, but they were all quiet for those few hours in the bright spring morning.
After the ceremony, Rogue, Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, Remy, and St. John gathered themselves into a proud grinning knot while Scott fiddled with the camera. Rogue felt her face ache, stretched into what seemed an unnatural expression for so long. She wanted most to grimace at the pangs in her head.
Finally Scott yelled, "Say cheese!" The giggling died, the smiles froze in place, and as the shutter clicked Rogue passed out.
~~~~~~~~
Voices. Voices turning the dark puddles in her head into interesting shapes, twisting and distorting them. It reminded her of a Disney movie she'd loved as a child, what was it called? "Fantasia," yes, that was it. The little line that stood in the middle of the screen and moved when someone plucked a harp or blew on a horn. It had been cute then, but now it had taken up residence in her head and it annoyed her.
She tried to open her eyes, but they weren't cooperating. Felt like someone was sitting on them. The voices belonged to Jean and Hank, so maybe they were sitting on her eyelids? She tried to ask them to get off, but her mouth wasn't working either.
"Dammit, Hank, I've never seen a case like this."
"Nor have I. We know it's not the flu."
"No, we ruled that out. It just struck so fast . . . she had that migraine a few months ago, but that didn't seem serious."
"She's probably been having them ever since and not telling anybody. You don't think this could be a brain tumor, do you?"
"God, I hope not. We need to run some more tests."
If the voices would just *stop* . . .
And they did. She felt a sting in her arm, then a wonderful coolness ran up her veins to her head. Much better, even if Jean and Hank were still sitting on her eyelids. The woman's voice made one more twang on the strings before Rogue lost consciousness.
"I'm going to call Logan."
~~~~~~~~
"Closing up now, fella. You're gonna have to get home now."
The one piss-drunk man left at the bar grumbled into his beer, but stood up reluctantly. No one wanted to disobey *this* bartender.
Logan stuck the dirty glass in the sink. "Want me to call you a cab?" He made a face as the patron's breath drifted into his sensitive nose.
"Nuh. I'll be . . . finnn." And he fell off his barstool.
Sighing, Logan reached for the phone. Job was easy and it paid well enough, but putting up with shit like this made him want to pack up and go . . . back. Home? He guessed it was the closest he'd ever come to home. Mostly because of a pretty girl with a soft voice and dangerous skin. Marie was the reason he would be going back to Westchester, and she was also the reason he was staying again. She wasn't ready yet; hell, she was only eighteen. He could wait.
The phone rang before he could a number.
"'Lo."
"Logan?"
"Hey, Jeannie, what's up?"
She paused, and he felt his skin grow tight. He gripped the beer glass until his knuckles whitened. His claws slid out of the pale flesh.
"It's Rogue --"
"What about Rogue? Is she hurt? What happened?" His voice thundered into Jean's ear, making her wince at the tone and the panic causing it.
"She's sick, Logan, very sick, and I think --"
"I'm coming home."
The phone swung from his fingers and hit the wall. Jean heard the shattering of glass, the slam of a door, and someone mumbling drunkenly. She hung up and returned to her patient.
~~~~~~~~
*The light. Turn the light off, Momma, I'm tryin' to sleep.*
"Mmmphmm."
"She's waking up." The light came closer. "Rogue? Can you hear me?"
She opened one eye and shut it immediately. "Light," she whispered, sounding on the verge of tears.
"Of course," Hank said. "Sorry." The room faded into a more tolerable half-light, and she opened both eyes.
Both doctors leaned over her. Jean stroked her cheek with a gloved hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Ungh." She tried to lift her head, but it seemed to be weighed down. Hospital gown. God, how she hated wearing those things. She'd had her tonsils taken out at twelve and the worst part had been the hospital gowns. If there was going to be a nice convenient medical lab in the basement, at least they could give her something decent to wear.
She managed to lift an arm, staring at the bruises on her flesh. "What happened?"
"Those happened while you were being carried down here. Among other things, your illness interferes with your red blood cells and causes you to bruise very easily." Hank could always be counted on for a soothing voice, no matter what the message. She grabbed his thumb frantically.
"What's making me sick?"
They exchanged looks. That was never, ever good. "We don't exactly know," Jean explained. "It's some kind of virus, but not one either of us has seen. You're showing symptoms for many different diseases, but according to the tests, you don't have a single one of them. According to the tests, there's no reason you shouldn't be perfectly healthy."
Rogue stared at the ceiling above their heads. Mystery virus. Great. It gave her headaches and bruised her and made her throw up. Feeling a familiar, awful sensation rise in her throat, she choked out, "I'm gonna be sick." Hank held up a bucket and she emptied the nothing coating her stomach into it. How could she throw up when there was nothing in there?
Jean wiped her mouth without saying a word.
She realized for the first time how dry her lips were. And how hot it was. She was burning, oh god, she was on fire, she could see the flames licking at her feet --
"Rogue! Calm down! There's no fire!" She understood vaguely that the high-pitched screams were her own, and the hands holding her down were Jean's, and the hands injecting a sedative were blue and therefore Hank's.
Erik had been tortured by fire.
"Charles," she whispered, her struggles subsiding. Her head turned to one side, and a single tear escaped from the corner of her eye.
"The professor. You want to see him?"
She shook her head mutely. No, she wasn't Magneto, she was Rogue. She was *Marie*.
The heat within her turned to ice, sweat cooling on her body, making her shiver.
"Logan. I want Logan." Her voice was wheedling, pleading.
"He's on his way," Jean replied gently.
She wanted to cry, but she was afraid her tears would turn into icicles on her cheeks. *Hey Bobby*, she thought tiredly as she drifted off again, *is this what your life is like?*
~~~~~~~~
Logan's mind was blank for the first hour of the madcap ride. Then he allowed himself to think about the situation. Sick. If Jean had called him, it must be really bad. All this time living in that dangerous place, with fucking superheroes for company, he'd figured she might get injured. But she was sick.
Trying hard not to picture a pale and feverish Marie calling for him, he gunned the bike's engine in the pitch-black night. He would heal her. He would heal her as soon as he got there, didn't care what kind of coma it threw him into.
He just had to *get* there.