Rogue was curled up in an alcove, thinking, when he came in. She looked over sharply, ready to swing herself onto the stairs and dart to her room. But no need. It was a boy, her age, wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater, despite the 90-degree weather. She cocked her head in that endearingly curious way she had. Why was he dressed so heavily? The Professor wheeled in behind him, followed by Storm, Jean, and Cyclops. Cyclops was carrying a small duffel bag, and the boy himself had a small, limp backpack. Storm's hand came just a little too near his and he jerked away. Rogue straightened up, and intuitively she knew.
This boy is like me.
She jumped out of her alcove, seeming to appear from nowhere, and walked right up to the boy. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand up. He pulled it away quickly, not allowing her skin to touch his.
"No! You can't touch my skin," he said, startled. "I'll hurt you," he said more softly. He knew nothing about this beautiful creature before him, but he knew that he would never do anything to contort these delicate and perfect features with pain.
"Then we'll hurt each other," Rogue said softly, dragging his wrist back. Rogue had an idea that she knew was absolutely crazy, but just maybe crazy enough to work. She pushed his sleeve away from his hand and touched his palm with her own. Everyone watching took in a breath. Six seconds, Rogue thought. No one's ever lasted more than six seconds before they had to pull away or pass out.
One...
Two...
Three...
Four...
Five...
Six...
Seven...
Seven. Now eight, and nine, and ten, and eleven. She looked up and searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none. And he searched hers for the same. None.
Rogue dropped his hand and started to run. She was going to cry. Three years, three years since she had been seventeen-going-on-ten, kissing David Marcincko on her bed and sending him into a coma, and that had been the last physical human contact she had had that lasted more than six seconds. But he caught her arm, her bare arm, and wouldn't let go.
"What's your name?"
"Rogue."
"Thorn."
Rogue smiled faintly. "Welcome to Mutant U." And he let go of her arm, leaving her to flee.
This boy is like me.
She jumped out of her alcove, seeming to appear from nowhere, and walked right up to the boy. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand up. He pulled it away quickly, not allowing her skin to touch his.
"No! You can't touch my skin," he said, startled. "I'll hurt you," he said more softly. He knew nothing about this beautiful creature before him, but he knew that he would never do anything to contort these delicate and perfect features with pain.
"Then we'll hurt each other," Rogue said softly, dragging his wrist back. Rogue had an idea that she knew was absolutely crazy, but just maybe crazy enough to work. She pushed his sleeve away from his hand and touched his palm with her own. Everyone watching took in a breath. Six seconds, Rogue thought. No one's ever lasted more than six seconds before they had to pull away or pass out.
One...
Two...
Three...
Four...
Five...
Six...
Seven...
Seven. Now eight, and nine, and ten, and eleven. She looked up and searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none. And he searched hers for the same. None.
Rogue dropped his hand and started to run. She was going to cry. Three years, three years since she had been seventeen-going-on-ten, kissing David Marcincko on her bed and sending him into a coma, and that had been the last physical human contact she had had that lasted more than six seconds. But he caught her arm, her bare arm, and wouldn't let go.
"What's your name?"
"Rogue."
"Thorn."
Rogue smiled faintly. "Welcome to Mutant U." And he let go of her arm, leaving her to flee.
