Title: A Stranger's Touch: Allied Strangers
Rating: PG
Summary: A bond between two people can take many years to develop. Or a few weeks. [First part in what will hopefully be a series]
Type of fic: Story
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters and places are not mine. They belong to Marvel and/or Marvel Studios, WB, Film Roman (I think), and whoever else claims rights to them.
Distribution: FF.net and Random Thoughts. All else, please just ask.
Author's notes: Sorry there's quite a bit, and with more to probably follow!
#01 - / denotes psychic thoughts /
#02 - This is pretty much - and very much - an AU story, however a lot of the stuff that's happened in Seasons One and Two WILL be included. Not all, but some.
#03 - My accent-writing ability extends only to "Ah" and "mah". I suck at it majorly.
#04 - This story is under the assumption that the Brotherhood members do NOT know that Mystique and Ms Darkholme are the same person, and that it was Mystique who recruited all the members. Remember - AU.

***

Allied Strangers

Chapter One

She was scared. It was what he noticed first. Beneath the scowl and the defensive stance, she was scared. Of what, exactly, he couldn't be sure. There could be several reasons but he didn't dwell on it. Maybe later, but not yet.

Not too surprisingly, he noticed her clothing. Or what he could see of it. Black boots, black gloves, black scarf, large black floor-length coat, buttoned. Even her lips had been painted black, the colour contrasting sharply with the almost too-pale make up. Two white streaks framed her face, not unattractively so.

'Rogue, this is Lance Alvers,' Mystique introduced imperiously. 'Lance, our newest member, Rogue.'

'Ah ain't agreed to anythin' yet,' the girl said in a flat tone, allowing only the briefest glance at him.

'Get acquainted,' Mystique said as if she hadn't heard the girl, turning and walking straight back out the front door.

'From the South, huh?' was the only thing that he could think of, and could have almost kicked himself for the absurdity of his first words to her.

'Where's mah room?' Her voice had softened. She sounded resigned.

'It's upstairs.' Nonexistent gentlemanly manners hurried him forward, grabbing the handle of the suitcase for her as she bent to pick it up. 'Here, I can take that.'

Her hand jerked away from his as they brushed against each other. She took several steps backwards, away from him.

He straightened, looking at her in surprise.

She was breathing fast, arms clutched tightly around herself, eyes suddenly wide and wild as she stared at him. 'Don't do that again!' she yelled at him.

He was confused. 'I didn't do anything.'

Fear. It was written all over her face. 'Don't touch me!'

Completely mystified at her unexpected reaction, he could do nothing but just stand there and gape at the hunched figure before him. 'I barely touched you.'

'You have no idea…' It was a whisper, barely audible and reverberating with pain. And an all too familiar fear. Her eyes travelled from his face to his hands, looking intently at it as if it held desperately sought after answers.

He was suddenly irritated, and he placed his hands on his hips, resisting the urge to hide them behind his back and away from her gaze. 'Look, I don't know what Mystique told you, but I'm a mutant. That doesn't mean I'm going to kill you. If you-'

'Ah'm not afraid of you,' she interrupted grimly.

Lance narrowed his eyes, a little bothered by her words despite what he had just said to her. 'You're damned well afraid of something.'

Her hands visibly tightened their grips on her upper arms, almost like she was trying to crush herself. 'Ah'm afraid of me.'

*

She had no idea how long the two of them stood in utter silence and as still as statues. Her arms ached from hugging herself tightly for so long, but she refused to loosen her hold. She had lived most of her young life with the lie of a terrible skin condition that prevented her from the simple sensation of touch, but she had adjusted, secretly hoping that a cure would eventually be found.

But the truth…

The truth of her 'condition' was beyond what her fifteen-almost-sixteen-year-old mind could comprehend much less accept. The ability to kill, the power to end someone's life with mere contact of the skin. It was soul wrenching.

Her 'condition' had dictated the kind of life she had led - the clothes, the heavy make-up, the crushing loneliness and isolation. Yet it was the continued faith in modern medicine that kept her from giving up entirely. Her adolescence may have been a barrier to understanding her mutation, but it was more than submissive to all matters related to the heart. A lost fifteen-year-old girl is still a fifteen-year-old girl. And fifteen-year-old girls had wants, needs. Fifteen-year-old girls developed crushes.

Flattering as it may be, fifteen-year-old girls were not supposed to render a boy unconscious with the first kiss.

No touch. No kiss. No love.

Despite herself, her eyes travelled back up towards the boy's - Lance's - face. He stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face.

No life.

She looked away again.

'You're room is this way.' His voice was toneless, subdued. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him bend once again to pick up her luggage. He lifted it with ease then turned and started up the stairs.

Rogue followed, still refusing to let her poison-covered hands wander too far away from her body.

*

He dreamed. Of her. Rogue. Of what had happened that day. Of what could have been. Of what should have been. He dreamed of her floating in the air, head thrown back, hair whipping around a pale face, and arms extended on either side. He dreamed of her riding the clouds like the god Zeus, her face contorted in both fury and fear, hurling lightning after lightning down on the X-Men on the ground far below her.

He dreamed of her crying out, 'What do you want with me?'

He dreamed of himself replying earnestly, 'To help! That's all! We want to help! I want to help!'

He dreamed of her asking, 'Why? Why do you want to help me?'

He dreamed of himself saying, 'Because you're Rogue, and we want to. I want to.'

He dreamed of Professor Xavier insisting in his head, 'We must get her, Scott! She is important. We must,' in the same urgent tone he had used when Cerebro had first detected her. In a tone he had never heard the Professor use before with any other mutant.

He dreamed of Rogue once again asking, 'Why? Why? Why are you doing this to me?'

He dreamed of himself walking towards her, now also on a cloud, saying, 'We're the good guys. I'm the good guy. We think you're important. I think you're important. Will you come with us? With me?'

He dreamed of her smiling at him, placing her hand in his outstretched one. However, at his touch she started to crumble, starting from the point of contact, the dust swirling away in the sudden wind. He dreamed of her smile fading as she looked from her vanishing limb to his face, accusation in her eyes. He dreamed of her stating matter of factly, 'You lied to me, Scott. You lied.'

He dreamed of himself reaching out and vainly attempting to keep her from disappearing, his hands clutching at nothing but air as he cried out in panic, 'No! No, I didn't lie! I didn't!'

He woke suddenly, his vision blurring momentarily before adjusting to the pre-dawn light streaming into his room. He stared at the ceiling, knowing it was white but seeing red. He thought about his dream, about her. He thought about the colours in his dream, all so vivid and bright they almost hurt his eyes. Black, white, green, blue, hints of purple, grey, silver, yellow, flecks of gold. Try as he might, he couldn't remember having seen a shade of red.

He did remember thinking how potent she looked after she had absorbed Storm's powers, how compellingly and hauntingly beautiful.

Scott found himself unwilling to wait to be able to see her again.

end part one.