Author's Notes: This takes place behind the scenes of Inhumans v. X-Men #4. This is arguably the worst X-Men publication since Avengers v. X-Men… The X-Men are directionless and dispersed. They aren't friends; they aren't family; they're barely a team and uncoordinated as shit. Frankly, if Rogue knows everything "the X-Men" are doing, she wouldn't stand for it… Unless the plot calls for it and it totally does, so there she is. Also, I can't believe so many people are willing to look the other way as Emma slowly descends down the rabbit hole. Unless the plot calls for it and it totally does. A lot of frustration on my part. So despite my trepidation about writing Emma, I decided to honor her long-forgotten friendship with Rogue in a one-shot about confronting grief. Please let me know what you think.
Hour Before the Dawn
In the War Room, we stand in a loose circle like the Knights of King Arthur's Court. We are anything but equal. With the pecking order long established, lesser X-Men like time-displaced Beast and Iceman know not to voice ideas. Storm pretends to be our new leader, and I'm happy to let her fill the role. Magneto also stands at a safe distance. We don't yet know what the Inhumans are capable of, and in chess, pawns move first. Storm wants to lead the first wave? By all means. After she sacrifices herself to expose the Inhuman's weakness, Magnus and I will be ready to deliver the death blow to our would-be- overlords.
"Ah dunno…" Rogue says, literally biting her knuckle. "Is it too late for diplomacy?"
I could smack her! This pale, withering wallflower of a Titan doesn't even have the courage to voice her opinion!? Why should she? We all know she'd be on the other side if they'd have her but they won't. They left her dying on our doorstep, and now she's the weak link we don't need.
"Are we supposed to trust you? You worked with the Inhumans on that infantile Unity Squad!" I land-blast her and wait for her to fight back.
But she doesn't.
Magneto acts squirrelly and we realize he's been compromised by an Inhuman wanna-be telepath. The spy makes off with young Scott Summers instead. Apparently, he was our weakest link – not Rogue.
Idiots, weaklings, and traitors!
Furious, I storm out. We might as well have rehearsed Three-Stooge's routines! Not only did we accomplish nothing, now the enemy knows how lost we are!
"Emma, wait!" Rogue calls.
I do not.
She catches up and asks, "Are you calling the Stepford Cuckoos? 'Cause we really need-"
I place a hand to her chest, physically halting her. "Unless you have a useful message to deliver – which I highly doubt – save us both this worthless conversation. You have nothing to contribute and I will no longer entertain the notion that you are a worthy member of our cause. You are a foot soldier. And I do not waste my time on cannon fodder."
She knocks my hand away. "Look, Ah know you're pissed and all, but Scott ain't the only reason to destroy that cloud!"
"Wax philosophical on someone who wants it," I say, walking away.
She yanks my cape and I instinctively swing around. My fist doesn't connect but she carelessly pops her hip and crosses her arms.
"Think you can take me?" she smirks. "Come on. Ah'll let you break a sweat before I hit back."
"I told you to leave nicely. Now I'm warning you." I touch my temple to make sure she understands the threat.
She shrugs. "Ah see that storm cloud brewing in your eyes. You need a hard screw or a hard scrap and as much as Ah love you, you ain't my type. So let's go."
As if I'd be rash enough to physically attack her! My words can cut her to shreds and they do. She tries to maintain an impervious mask of indifference, but she's a colleague and a client. I know every button to push, and before long, her brow is furrowed and her mouth is down-turned. Unconsciously, of course. Tears spring to her eyes and I enjoy the thrill of victory.
By the time I'm done, she doesn't even have the strength to walk away.
I never even broke a sweat.
…
"Forgive me," I say, thrusting a bottle of 2003 Merlot in her arms. I'd meant to sound contrite, but the statement arrives cold and demanding. Like me, right? "I shouldn't have said… those things." An apology doesn't make my earlier proclamations less true.
I expect Rogue to marvel at a bottle of wine with a cork and not twist-off cap. Instead, she smiles knowingly and says, "Ah ain't worth all this."
She invites me in. A muted TV flashes over take-out for one. Somehow, I knew she'd be alone, but what if she hadn't been?
"I should've called first," I realize. "My head lately…"
She gives a sympathetic smile that makes me want to rip off her face, but I throttle the urge and manage a painful smile.
"Ah should've listened when you said you needed space. Ah pushed you and Ah'm sorry."
"Rogue…" She's my friend and deserves honesty. Even if it hurts. "I feel like I'm barely holding on. Every day that fucking cloud isn't gone feels like he died for nothing. I want to kill them with my bare hands. Every last Inhuman! Especially that lying-!"
I realize I'm ranting and stop.
Rogue's been affected, too, although to a lesser degree. An ugly rash, the occasional cough – but nothing brutal and sudden and infinite. The Terrigen Cloud is less upsetting to her than my outburst. Suddenly, all my rage turns on her because it's not Medusa's fault mutants are dying. It's because of people like Rogue who don't care. Hell, she's been directly hurt and doesn't care! If anyone should go kamikaze on that fucking palace, it's her! Is she sub-human? In denial? Did the Mists compromise her mental capabilities?
Would she be more proactive if it had been Gambit or Johnny Storm or whoever is her flame of the week? If they'd been hurt instead, would she be charging into battle with me? Never. Those piss-alls couldn't inspire a disco beat! They're no Scott Summers. There will never be another Scott Summers.
"He's gone."
"Ah know."
"He's. Gone."
"Emma, Ah love you and Ah'm sorry you're grievin'-" Christ, not one of those speeches! "But you've gotta get past this. Anger ain't strength. You've been holdin' on to it because it makes you feel safe and powerful."
I want to lash out, but…
"Scott wasn't driven by rage," she continues. "Fear, sometimes. Duty, mostly. Even Magnus realized you can't drive anger. It drives you." She hands me a piece of toilet paper because she doesn't have tissue, and I'm embarrassed to realize I'm crying. My mascara..? Oh well, it's only Rogue.
"It's just a phase," I say quietly. "Is that it?"
"Ah'm not trivializin' what you're goin' through."
"I can't imagine I'll ever not feel this way." But my fury's already weakening and in its place I feel sorrow and fear, which I suspect are even darker and more powerful than my rage. I love her with all my broken heart and yet I want to rip her limb from limb.
In silence, she awkwardly takes my hand. "Ah wish Ah knew what to tell you. Kurt always knows what to say in moments like these… Jean was pretty good, too, but Ah don't think y'all got along."
"If that was supposed to be a joke, it's a poor one."
"Jokes are Bobby's thing. Only thing Ah'm good for is endurance. Give me a lickin', Ah keep on tickin'. You want someone to beat up? Give me your best shot, sugah, Ah'm a bad habit you can't shake."
Thank goodness for sweet, strong, stupid Rogue to support her ruthless, brittle, Machiavellian friend. But I don't want a punching bag. I want a sparring partner. Someone who draws a line and dares me to cross it but never lets me. I want Scott.
I clear my throat. "Shall I let the wine breathe while you prepare something edible? Perhaps saltines with toothpicks or canned cheese on tiny bagels?"
She smiles, genuinely, and says, "Bitch, this ain't a restaurant."
…
The End.