"Touch"
Chapter One: "The Colors of Grey"
The mutants of the Xavier Institute often used the dining area by turning it into a chaotic mess of hands and mouths. Jamie had developed the habit of multiplying by at least six to get to the food quicker, which often invoked the wrath of others. Jubilee and Tabitha often looked for opportunities to shower people with their own food, which was why liquids were mostly absent nowadays. Noises of glee emanated from the area, mixed with Scott and Jean's calls to order, which, for the most part, went unheeded.
Rogue didn't like joining the others during meals. Too cramped a space, too crowded. Made her nervous. People tended to slip up more easily, especially if they were eating, and she couldn't keep as good a watch as she wanted to on the movements of others. She often lingered by the doorstep, unable to bring herself to go in, but really trying to. Failing every time, she had since then taken to roaming the mansion until everyone had had their fill and the dishes were being done. She had a few set routes she followed, one taking her through the main hall and into the dormitories, ending its first run across with the professor's room.
She often lingered by the closed door, wondering what the professor was doing in there, wondering if he could sense her presence. Wondering if he knew of her distress, if he understood.
That evening, however, she had a chance to see what the professor was up to, as the door was standing ajar. Not wanting to peek, she simply put her back to the wall and listened in; that inherently childish wrongness of eavesdropping evident.
"I'm telling you, Hank," the professor was saying, "It's nothing. It's just a headache."
"Just a head..." Rogue heard Hank McCoy start, but he stopped himself, "Okay, Charles. Fine. If you don't want to consider..."
"What? That it might be more than a headache? People get these all the time, the X-gene is no shelter from it."
"When was the last time you had a nightmare, Charles?"
Silence. Rogue's curiosity was piqued. What was this about?
"About two weeks ago." The professor said, "Why?"
"You do remember what happened when you had that nightmare, don't you? Every single person in this mansion, at least those who could actually control their powers, had them get out of control. Kitty almost phased right through the mansion and into the soil, for God's sake!"
"I know, I know... but that was a nightmare. This is a simple headache. A doggedly persistent and quite painful headache, but still..."
"Say what you will, your humility is infuriating sometimes. You are, to our knowledge, the world's most powerful telepath. In your case, simple things such as headaches are true causes for concern, and you know that."
Rogue was so lost in trying to figure out what was happening that she didn't hear him approach. His voice, fierce and calm at the same time, gave her a start.
"Not nice eavesdroppin on people, Stripe."
The scent of that cigar and the familiar, looming figure of Logan beside her.
"Ah was just..."
"Don't sweat it, kid, I've been doin' that myself. The prof's been on edge lately." A brief pause. "Always a pleasure to see that I ain't the only one who's not crazy for the dinner hoo-rah."
Rogue could only stare on, apologetic, unsure if she could speak. Wolverine had a presence that commanded the utmost respect just by standing there and smoking.
The sting of the smoke in her lungs. She coughed.
"Sorry 'bout that." He said, and moved the cigar as far away from her as possible, "Now, whaddya say we leave them to it and go eat? The locusts shoulda passed on by now."
Rogue nodded.
"Lead the way." Logan instructed. She complied.
The familiar clanging of dishes in the background, Jean scolding Scott for breaking her concentration with the noise and Scott protesting, not everybody is telekinetic. Some of us have to do it manually.
Rogue and Logan ate silently, Rogue taking half-hearted bites while Logan devoured the meal whole. She had never seen him eat like that before and felt somewhat like a little girl watching him. He noticed.
She averted her gaze and decided to focus on her dinner instead.
Quiet in the dining area. Jean had gone, on account of Scott telling her to go, he'd do the dishes. Liked the idiotic, redundant work. Made him feel more focused. Besides, who wouldn't want to clean dark red stains from light red plates with red hands and a red rag with red washing detergent from a red bottle, in a red sink full of other red dishes?
Rogue paid attention to the comment, but didn't say anything. Couldn't. Not until Jean was out of earshot, anyway. Sensing her agitation, Logan thought it best to leave the kids at it, 'cause whatever "it" was, it was none of his business.
A few minutes of silence. Idle sounds of the dishes.
"Ah didn't mean it like that." Rogue said.
"Hm?"
"Oh c'mon, ya heard me."
"No, I really didn't."
He looked honestly clueless.
"Ah meant that Ah didn't mean ta call you a freak."
Scott sighed.
"What gave it away?"
Rogue gave him half a smile.
"The red-on-red-on-red bit. Kinda makes it obvious."
"It just came out." Scott said, "Didn't mean to put it like that, it just came out like it did."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Over coffee?"
"You makin it?"
"Yeah."
They mostly discussed music over coffee – a topic they were both comfortable with. Rogue usually resorted to that particular conversation piece (hey, did you hear that new album by that band, it's incredible) to ease herself, to create a neutral discussion zone over which she could talk without really saying anything. The topic usually stood over how Scott couldn't relate to industrial music, that he craved that human touch more; the screech of the guitar and the octave-shift in the singer's voice. Rogue protested, claiming that synthesis was preferable to organic. Artificial perfection, four-on-the-floor and screeching, alien sounds.
The entire debate seemed to shift in the general direction of genetics when coffee lubricated the conversation and brought it, after a brief discussion of DNA/RNA reproduction, to where they were trying to take it.
"Ah'm sorry." Rogue said, "Ah really didn't mean nothin by it."
Scott immediately got dead serious. Rogue knew these moments: when the regular, uptight Scott Summers just became more like a strung-up version of Cyclops. Clammed up, impenetrable and always acting like somebody had just died.
"Look, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't need to be told I'm a freak to know it. I know I'm a freak."
Rogue rose an eyebrow. What?
"It's not just the weird ruby quartz glasses and visors. It's not the fact that until somebody actually mentioned it, I didn't even know that Jean actually had red hair. I mean, what color are those stray strands of yours?"
"They're white."
"To me, they're pink. And the rest of your hair is maroon. Everyone calls Kurt blue, I think he's black. Or very, very dark red." He took a sip of coffee, "It's not just the monochrome world. It's not being afraid of opening my eyes in the morning. It's not that at all."
Another sip. He played with the cup a little, not looking her in the eye.
"It's having no control over my body, having no say in what it does. If my glasses were to slip or my visor was to get kicked off, I could... I don't know what would..."
Rogue was in shock. This was definitely one of Scott's rare moments – he usually walked around with an impenetrable shield of optimism and stick-in-the-mud commitment to duty. She suddenly became very aware that she was witnessing something few others had come across.
"I know you understand it." He continued, looking up at her, "You're like that, like me."
Rogue couldn't say anything. There was a barrier on her teeth, preventing her from speaking.
"Jean used to be like that." Scott said. Rogue's heart sank. "She came to the institute, unable to control her telepathy. Hearing the thoughts of everyone around her, constantly... I think I saw a bit of myself in her. Understood where she was."
He looked at Rogue, saw that she was hanging onto every word.
"But then... she learned to control it and... fuck, the other week professor tells me I will never be able to control my optic blast. Said it was brain damage from the crash. I'm stuck like this, and sometimes, being a freak really gets to me. Sure, I laugh it off, shrug it off like it's not anything, but it's me, this is me. My body, my eyes." He sighed, "I don't know."
He knocked the rest of his coffee back. Savored the bitter taste of the black liquid and regained some of the composure he usually had. Rogue was almost sad upon seeing this – the visible change indicated that the wall was rising again.
She thought she'd get a word in before it did.
"Listen, Ah know what it's like to be a freak – Ah was raised one, remember?"
"Rogue..." the crease on his brow, saying, I wish I could change that for you... she hoped.
"Nah, Ah really, really wasn't referrin to nobody but mahself. Ah'm a freak. None of y'all have ta be."
Scott opened his mouth to retort, but Rogue stopped him by reaching out with her bare hand. He didn't move. If he blinked, she didn't see it. There was a little less than an inch between her hand and his face.
He didn't move away. He stiffened up a little bit, but it would have gone unnoticed had she not been reading his every reaction. He stayed, almost daring her.
"See, if Ah touch you, Ah'll know more than Ah gotta. More than Ah should. Why aren't ya moving away? Aren't ya afraid?"
"No." he said, "I trust you."
"To do what, exactly?"
"To not hurt me."
Her eyes widened.
"What did you..."
"I'm safe." He said, "You're not going to hurt me. It's alright."
He moved forward, her fingers brushed against his cheek. An instant flood of memories broke through and spreading from her fingers, moved to her mind at an insane pace. Scott's thoughts, Scott's feelings – she felt what he felt. Screaming out, Rogue withdrew her hand with a jerk.
"Rogue, I'm so sorry." Scott immediately said, "I'm sorry, are you-are you okay? Rogue? Oh, shit, I'm sorry..."
"Why'd ya do that for?" she asked, "Ya know Ah don't..."
His feelings, overshadowing her own. A Gordian knot, slowly unraveling and the strands going every which way – she had to pick them up, one by one, knew that she had to. That was the coping mechanism the prof had come up with – categorize the psyches and memories and emotions she absorbed under names.
She stood up to leave. Scott was still apologizing like a speed train, making thousands of miles per second.
"No." Rogue said, stopping him short of another apology, "No need."
She turned to him and looked him straight in the eye.
"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? It takes me a while to organize what Ah get from a touch nowadays. That's what Ah'm gonna do now, Ah ain't leavin 'cause of you. Ah'm just gonna have to work this – ask the prof about it, he'll tell ya."
"I don't need him to tell me anything, I... I'm so sorry, I didn't..."
"Shh. You apologize too much." She smiled, her eyes starting to tear up, "Just... let me go this one time, alright? Ah'll make it up to ya."
He didn't say anything. She left. He stared on after her, wondering if he had hurt her more than he realized.
Strange enough, the gazebo had become the place for her to sift through her baggage. She had no idea why it was such a shrine to her, but it was. She thought it was maybe because she had finally claimed her much-coveted revenge on Mystique, had expressed a much-needed sense of aggression towards her. It was, more or less, an act of gaining freedom from her supposed "mother."
She sat down, the familiar sounds of the night surrounding her. It always took her a while to focus, and it helped to sift through what she had absorbed, to put them in separate groups.
Scott's thoughts. A garbled mess, as all human thoughts were – Rogue pitied the telepaths for having to deal with insane amounts of rapid-fire mind-impulses just to get a clear thought. It was like listening to ten albums simultaneously and trying to sing to the lyrics or name which song was on.
She did what she always did with the thoughts of others – decided it was irrelevant.
Next came Scott's emotions. Emotions were harder to deal with. Rogue hadn't met any actual empaths, but knew enough from her exercises with the prof that emotion cut much deeper than thought. Scott's emotions... she felt excitement from herself, a sense of curiosity mingling with an inherent wrongness of knowing exactly what he had felt.
There was aversion to what his body had learned to consider as a risqué move – touching her. But that was nothing compared to the sense of familiarity he felt for her presence, the sense of ease. He had felt a little excited when she was halfway to touching him: he was anticipating the contact, and it didn't bother him.
There were other feelings, buried underneath. Less clear, less on the surface. Buried under a mountain of distractions and other things, but still very much present. Underneath his conscious thoughts and feelings (worry for the X-Men, feelings for his teammates, intimate moments and desires...) there was a grey area. No, that wasn't quite it – it wasn't a monochrome blob of untouched emotion and unexplored mental pathways, it was an entire world painted with the colors of grey. Different shades and different densities, but grey all over.
Rogue stood back up, suddenly disturbed that she was taking liberties with his unknowns. In a way, wasn't she violating his privacy, or rather, him?
She decided that she was, all too quickly. Another thing the untouchable freak in her wanted – to move her away. Isolate her from others by making them feel just how deep one simple touch could cut.
She decided to head back to the mansion and sleep it off.
She knew she'd dream. And not just that he loved her, either: but that, in the colors of grey within him, he needed her as much as she needed him.