From Memory

It had hurt.

Her whole body was sore, the muscles tightened and knotted beyond her control. The pain in her arm, the bruise where that giant needle met her vein and pumped it full of some poor boy's DNA. She laughed to herself, thinking she looked like a junkie. Yeah, her trackmarks. Her addiction.

She sobered.

In a way she was a junkie. Before...before everything happened, she touched everyone, everything. Her fingers were so sensitive, so responsive. She could draw anything she touched from memory. She memorized with her fingers. Her friends would play a game with her, blindfolding her and having her memorize an object or a person, and then she'd draw it simply from the memory of its touch. After...after David, she craved touch. The withdrawal drove her crazy, she'd cry and cry, but there was nothing she could do. Her mother came to her one day as she cried, tried to hug her. Marie had pushed her away, yelled, but her mother's fingers grazed her shoulder, her bare skin. She'd gasped and fallen, her eyes wide open, and then closed. Marie was flooded by her memories, of her birth, her conception, her parents marriage, her sins, her joys.

Her father had screamed at her, beat her with a broom handle, made her leave. Marie was on her own.

She needed touch. She didn't care if she had friendship or love, she just needed physical contact, something to show her that she was real, something tangible, something she could wrap her head around. She knew that Logan was real, and Bobby, John, Magneto, Jean, horrible men on the road, her mother and David. They were real.

She remembered the feel of their skin. David's lips were chapped, moist as he licked them when he was nervous. Her mother's fingers were soft, wrinkled from washing dishes. Those men on the road...they were dirty, their fingers were rough and dry, calloused in all the wrong ways. Jean had been a brief touch, but it was enough. Her skin was soft, no callouses, no sign of a rough life, no sign of stress, just of love and luxury. Magneto was wrinkled but strong, his grip was strong, everything about him was strong. His palms had clamped over her head, his rough lines hurting her soft face, his lifeline hurting her most of all. John's ankle had been hairy, and dry, too parched for a boy of that age. Bobby's lips and face were so smooth, so cool and refreshing. There was no passion, just young eagerness, his face barely shaved.

And Logan. She remembers Logan most of all. The first time she'd touched him, his face had been damp with sweat, his skin weathered but full of life. She can still feel his cheekbone against her fingers, the hair at his temple. The second time, she'd felt so much of him. His whole face, his neck, his hands. Everything was so strong, but not strong like Magneto's. It wasn't bitterness and ambition, it was his whole being pouring into her. He was determined, desperate, his emotions fueled him so much, despite his resolve to never get attached. It was feral in that moment. He needed to guarantee her survival, even if that meant sacrificing himself. No human would have done that for her. There was strength in his inhumanity.

At the airport, she was nervous surrounded by so many people. She still wore her scarf and gloves habitually. She wrung at her hands, so sore and sensitive. She didn't know if she could do this. She'd gone so long without touch, she didn't know if she could handle it.

Oh she wanted it. She wanted to feel Bobby's barely-shaved face as she told him that they needed to be friends. She needed to feel Jubilee's arm as she thanked her for being dear. She had to feel Logan's face again, and his hands and his neck and everything.

She hadn't done this for some boy. She did it for herself. She was addicted, and a junkie needed its fix. She wanted, needed, had to do this.

She peeled off the gloves and the scarf and tucked them into her bag. That part of her life was over.

Stepping out of the cab at the mansion, she first encountered Jubilee. Her friend looked at her sadly as she told her what she'd done, but felt a warmth when she held Rogue's hand that she'd never felt through the gloves.

She found Bobby in his dorm room.

"This isn't what I wanted," He said, his eyes probing hers, asking 'Why Rogue? Why did you do this to yourself?'

"No, this is what I wanted."

She held out a hand to his barely-shaved cheek, feeling its warmth, and its youth. "I saw you with Kitty. I think she needs you more than me."

"But didn't you do this for-"

She interrupted him, "No, I told you. I did this for me. Not some boy. You'll never understand. That's why you're better with Kitty. You've already touched her, when I needed you to touch me. Don't look at me like that, I'm not mad. We will be good friends." She smiled at him and slipped her hand into his. "Is Logan-?"

"At the graves."

Bobby pulled his hand from hers.

"He didn't take it well?"

"Talk to him yourself."

She found him on the bench in front of the graves, surrounded by the flowers of spring, the sun shining on his skin. It reflected off his face, two thin shiny lines down his cheeks.

"Sugar, you're crying."

He looked up, startled. "I didn't hear you come."

"I stepped lightly."

She slid next to him on the bench and wiped his tears away. He looked at her in surprise, but relaxed when he remembered what she'd left for in the first place. "You went through with it."

"Yeah," She answered simply, trying to read his eyes.

"You didn't do it for some boy."

"No."

"It was killin' you."

"How you could tell?"

"The look on your face when you stood in the corner of a crowded room. Your smell."

She tried to hide a smile, "My smell?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It was lonely."

She nodded. "I wished I'd gotten to say goodbye to the professor. I loved him."

"It's my fault-"

"No, it's not. You can't keep thinking that. There was nothing you can do, it was his fate. That's right, cry it out, you'll feel better."

"It's my allergies."

She cracked a smile. "You don't got any allergies."

The skin on his mouth twitched a little. The beginning of a smile. It didn't progress past that, but that was enough. "I do now."

"It's OK to cry. I cried."

"You always cried."

"Not true!"

"I never cry. I don't think I cried once in the past seventeen years. When did you turn into such a fatalist?"

She studied his face for a minute before shaking her head and continuing, "There are other emotions beside anger that you're allowed to show, you know. There's nothing wrong with being sad."

He shook his head. "You don't understand."

"I think I'd understand. I've got you in my head, remember?"

"Still?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, it's weird. I guess I just retained the memories and voices I'd absorbed before. But you're still there, strong as you were before. And I know how it's hard for you. Heck, I don't like crying. But I still do it. It relieves so much more tension. More than even beating the shit out of someone when you're mad."

He moved to say something. She held a finger to his lips, shushing him. "I know you're angry. I know you want to punch a wall, or some poor guy's skull. It's grief. Let yourself grieve." Her eyes started to well up. Slightly frustrated, she brushed the tears away. "See, now you've got me crying again."

"I don't like to see you cry kid.."

"Logan, will you touch me?"

He didn't respond. His mouth twitched again as he reached his weathered strong hands up to wipe the tears from her face. He cupped her jaw, stroking the skin of her cheeks, running his hands down her neck, behind her ears, at the nape of her neck, across her tense, sore shoulders. "Christ darlin', you've got a knot here as big as your head."

"Yeah," her mouth went a little dry with his touch. "It hurt."

He pulled her gently against him, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her shoulders. She could feel a warm wetness against her neck and knew that he was still crying. "That's right, let it out sugar."

"Why did you do it?"

"For this."

"You went through that whole thing so you could watch me make an ass of myself? Try again kid."

She shook her head and kissed the top of his head. "No, this contact. There is so much emotion in real human contact. Don't you feel it? Or did you take it for granted?"

"I guess I just got used to it."

"I'll never get used to it. I'll never ever take it for granted."

He pulled away slowly. He'd composed himself. "You shouldn't."

There was an awkward silence. She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one.

"When did you start that?"

"After Liberty Island. Needed something to do with my hands. You'd have known if you'd been here."

He pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and took a drag. "These things will kill you."

"It was partly due to you. I got your cigar craving. Cigarettes are more ladylike."

He shook his head at her wicked grin. "I prefer cigars. Cigarettes are for pussies." He dropped it in the grass and ground it in with his foot. "Still, you're too young kid."

"I'm eighteen. I can legally buy them, y'know."

He sighed and reached for her hand. "Look kid, I'm sorry I haven't always been around."

"It's OK, you don't need to apologize."

"Yes I do. I told you I'd take care of you, and instead you're pickin' up my bad habits and gettin' more lonely."

"I liked your bad habits. They reminded me of you."

"Christ kid, what else do you do now?"

"I can down half a bottle of Jack Daniels in under a minute. I don't sleep much at night. I curse like a sailor."

"Why don't you sleep?"

"Nightmares."

"Mine?"

She nodded. "But it's OK. Don't feel guilty about that. You can feel guilty about the cigarettes, but the nightmares you couldn't help."

He shook his head, rising to his feet. "You shouldn't have to deal with them."

"But they're a part of you."

"Look kid, I know you have me in your head and all, but it ain't right that you have to deal with them. Just because somethin' reminds you of me doesn't make it good. It probably makes it pretty bad."

"Nothing about you is bad."

"Marie, you've been inside my head, you should know best of all!"

She smiled sweetly, her fingers reaching for his hand. "Say it again."

"What?"

"My name."

"Marie, you drive me crazy sometimes."

"I know."

"C'mon, let's go inside." He pulled her up slowly and kissed her forehead. Marie reached up and began to trace his features with her fingers, running them over every inch of his face. "What are you doin'?"

"Memorizing your face."

He caught her fingers with his and kissed them gently. They smelled like peaches and vanilla. "Now why are you doin' that?"

"Because I can now."