Important!! (to the author, anyway): Okay, this is irritating me-- the title of this story should be 'How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying).' However, ff dot net will not allow me to use parenthesis- or even a dash mark! - in the title. And, without something to divide the title and subtitle, it just looks stupid. So, I give up. But PLEASE continue to think of this story under the title it should have. weeps I'm really attached to it!
Now that I'm done whining--
How to Cure the Common Cold (Without Really Trying)
Chapter Two
Maybe an hour later, Rogue awoke, gasping for air and struggling madly against the force holding her down. It was lifted abruptly, and she sat up, ready for battle. Somehow she wasn't surprised when she saw her assailant.
"Oh, that's really classy, John," she snarled. "Trying to smother a sick girl with her own teddy bear."
"Yeah, well, the sick girl had it coming," he retorted, slinging the large stuffed animal back onto the bed next to her. "You know, you're lucky I even came back up here after that little bitch-fest earlier."
She snorted, murmuring a few choice words beneath her breath as she placed Bernard in his place of honor on the trunk at the foot of her bed, and then settled back against the pillows again. She just wasn't a 'cuddle with a teddy bear' sort of girl. Bobby had given her the bear, though, for one of those insignificant anniversaries that he liked to keep up with. The two week anniversary of the first time they'd held hands? Three months after their first date at the movies? At any rate, she felt guilty putting the poor little ball of fluff too far out of sight.
And just where was Bobby, anyway? She turned to John, mouth already halfway open to question him, but just couldn't bring herself to ask outright. It was exactly the sort of thing that he would hold over her head, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. John was looking at her now, leaned against the dresser that faced the bed with his arms crossed over his chest. His brow quirked impatiently as he waited for her to continue. She closed her mouth, glancing away and chewing on her bottom lip briefly before arriving at an acceptable alternate route to the information she desired.
"So," she began, keeping her voice deceptively casual. "I'm surprised that you didn't already know I was sick when you came in here earlier. I'd have thought Bobby would have said something about it."
"Is that right? Well, Bobby-boy's been a little...preoccupied lately." She was surprised at the venom in his voice, and, from the slightly contrite expression on his face, it must have showed. John exhaled roughly, turning his back to her and crossing the short distance to her bookshelf, where he began to examine her few personal knick-knacks and photos as though he were seeing them for the first time. Come to think of it, he might as well be. He hadn't been inside her room since before she and Bobby began to date, and that had been several months ago.
Back then, John had been so different. She'd actually thought he liked her—really liked her. Boy, had she ever been wrong on that count.
Rogue could still remember every single time he had come up to her room to visit. She would invariably be lying back against her pillows, just as she was now, with her heart racing. John usually ended up sitting backwards in the chair at her desk, arms rested against the back end and staring intently at her as she did her best to keep up a conversation. He seemed to make a game out of providing only one-word answers, and smirking knowingly as she attempted to maintain her cool. Finally she would exhaust herself of topics, and then just sit there—awkwardly playing with her gloves, and looking everywhere but at him. That's when he would leave, stopping briefly in the doorway to wink at her before walking out without a word.
Each time he came by, she had prayed for some small sign that he was interested in more than just teasing her...reveling in just how easily he could make her sweat. It never came, though, and she eventually got tired of sitting around, attempting to look pretty as he made a fool out of her. She had stopped inviting him up to her room, and finally given in to Bobby's advances. She supposed that was why John resented her so much. He probably couldn't find another girl to giggle and blush over him, and give him something to brag about to the other boys.
Rogue sighed, pushing back the surge of humiliation stirred by memories of her ill-fated crush on John. He was still at her bookcase, sifting through the pages of a partially completed essay that she had left sitting on the far corner. She bit back the urge to order him away from her paper. He was constantly attempting to cheat off of her. "Preoccupied? What do you mean? Because of me being sick?"
His only response was a shrug, and she observed that his jaw had tensed a bit. She couldn't help but wonder why he was even here if he was going to be so damned irritable every time she opened her mouth. Maybe he actually felt guilty for being such a bastard lately, and this visit was some sort of awkward, inept attempt at an apology. It seemed as likely an explanation as anything. John would do anything to avoid actually saying that he was sorry about something.
"But," she continued, forehead scrunching a bit, "I don't get it. If he's worried about me being sick, why doesn't he just come up and see me? The only time I even remember him coming by to visit was the day before yesterday, and that was only for ten minutes."
John said nothing, focusing all of his attention on the paper in his hands. She frowned, idly wondering if he was memorizing it for later. Then an idea occurred to her, and she let the thought go as a smile spread across her face. "You know what? I'm a moron."
He turned to face her at last, finally displaying some measure of visible interest in her words.
"I mean," she continued, still smiling delightedly. "I've been sitting here worrying about why he hasn't come by, and I just realized that I've been doing nothing but sleeping for the last three days. I was probably just sleeping too deeply to hear him knock on the door."
John looked at her for a moment, disbelief and anger coloring his expression. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them he was glaring at her. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"
She stared, shocked, before her eyes narrowed. So much for this visit being some sort of attempt at reconciliation. "John," she started, voice deceptively calm. "Would you like to tell me what the hell you're even doing here?" She exhaled deeply, running a bare hand through pillow-mussed hair and scowling even more deeply at the tangles she encountered. Her voice climbed in volume as she continued. "I mean, I don't get it. You burst in here, and burst out, and then back in again...and for what? I didn't ask for your company, you know. I don't need you coming in here, waking me up and insulting me. What you need to do is decide right now, are you my friend or aren't you? Because I'm getting sick of this back-and-forth bullshit."
His response was...nothing. He simply cocked a brow at her, expression plainly stating his disregard for her feelings. He just looked so damned above it all. And then he finally spoke, sneering as he looked at her.
"Are you done yet?"
Her water abruptly flew at his head. John saw it coming easily, and Rogue watched—entranced despite her anger—as he raised one hand, lighter igniting at a truly amazing speed. The flame burst out, meeting the liquid. Steam rose as it evaporated on impact, and the glass shattered, sending shards splintering to the floor.
Rogue could only stare, impressed—and slightly annoyed about her carpet. "Wow."
He nodded, face suffused with characteristic masculine smugness. "Yeah. Pretty impressive, huh?"
Yeah, it was. She wasn't going to tell him that, though; she refused to allow herself to bought off with a parlor trick. Instead she turned her face away from him, opening her bedside drawer and digging through it for a pair of gloves.
"I guess it's a neat enough trick," she sighed, affecting intense boredom. Then she glanced up briefly, feigning enthusiasm. "But, you know, I saw Bobby doing that exact same trick last week—with ice of course."
John nodded sarcastically. "Oh, of course."
"I'm just saying, you should have been there," she inserted a gushing tone into her voice as she bragged over her boyfriend. "Do you know what he did afterwards? He formed the ice into a little heart, and etched our names onto it. Now, that was impressive."
She was lying, of course. Still, her comment had the desired effect. He drew back as if burned—ironic, that—lips curling into a sneer. "Fucking unoriginal is what it was."
She made a show of ignoring him, still pawing through her bureau. Silk and satin were fine under normal circumstances, but right now she was cold, and sick, and just freaking miserable. She wanted her comfort gloves. The green cotton ones, with black edging. Where the hell had she put them?
Abruptly, the drawer slammed shut—just barely missing her hand. She jerked back, glaring furiously at John. "What the hell was that about?"
He crouched next to her, holding her gaze as he shoved her back against her pillow. Weak from the combined effects of the cold and the medication, she could do little more than glare at him kittenishly, and be grateful for the padding on the headboard.
You know what your problem is, Rogue?" he bit out, staring her down.
She tried to summon the energy to sit forward, but it just wasn't there. "At the moment, I think it would be you."
"Your problem," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "is that you don't even realize it when you're dealt the same bullshit, over and over again."
"Care to elaborate?" she inquired dispassionately, and his eyes narrowed as he leaned forward—face mere inches from hers.
"Oh yeah. I'd fucking love to elaborate."
Her mouth opened into a small gasp as all of the oxygen abruptly left her lungs. There was a look on John's face that she didn't like at all.
Or, maybe she did like it. And that was even more terrifying.
His eyes remained locked with hers, and his brow arched challengingly. His face seemed closer than it had before as he held her gaze. It was a standoff, of sorts—and she was suddenly aware that it had been building for quite a while.
Rogue could feel her pulse increasing as John moved closer and closer...just centimeters separating them now. She made no move to stop him.
In the end, it was her body that saved her. Her hands shot up, planting squarely on his chest as she pushed him back with all her might. He stumbled, and she leaned forward, face buried in her hands as she coughed furiously. It hurt—badly—and she brought her knees up, hugging them against her chest. She held the position for a few moments, willing her throat to stop aching and the little black dots dancing before her eyes to fade.
Through the haze, she felt John's hand settle on her back, rubbing awkwardly. She shot up instantly, eyes blazing as she slapped his hand away.
"I know that I said it before, but now I'm serious. I really, really think you should leave."
His jaw clenched, eyes hardening at her tone. "Oh, you do, do you?
Rogue threw her covers off and stood, unmindful that the force with which they flew back nearly knocked over her lamp. She faced him, hands braced on her hips as she practically snarled at him. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing, John?"
His face first reflected incredulity, followed quickly by scorn. "Oh, I get it. This is the part where you pretend that you weren't ready to jump me less than two minutes ago, right? Why am I not surprised?"
She moved forward abruptly, bare hands tangling in the folds of his jacket to give him a hard push backwards towards the door. "You're delusional if you think I had the slightest interest in kissing you. I just happened to be hopped up on cough syrup at the moment."
Her shoves were largely ineffectual. John swatted her away easily, catching her bare hands in his. For the first time, Rogue noticed that he was wearing gloves, and it gave her pause. She still struggled to free her hands, but she'd drained enough energy merely standing. At the moment, she felt about as strong as a limp dishrag. She wouldn't have stood a chance against a five year old.
John was sneering at her, maintaining his grip easily. "So, you were 'hopped up on cough medicine', huh?"
She nodded, glaring at him fiercely.
"You 'were' hopped up on cough medicine?"
"That's what I just said, isn't it?" she bit out, making one last, failed, attempt to free her hands from his steady hold.
"So, what you're saying is, you aren't anymore?"
Her eyes widened slightly, and she began to struggle once more. It was too late, though. He tightened his hold on her hands, pulling her to him roughly as his lips touched hers for the first time.
Rogue liked to think that she would have fought back, if she weren't immobilized with shock. But, considering the miniscule amount of time that it took for her to begin to respond to him—giving back as good as she got, and more—even she doubted the merit of that particular excuse. All she knew was, kissing John was even more fun than arguing with him.
His lips were silky and scorching and succulent against hers. They moved over hers with infuriating assurance—never hesitating for a moment. It was clear that he felt he had every right to kiss her like he was. Rogue would argue with him about that later, just on genuine principle. Right now, though... she really, really didn't want to interrupt him. Her head was spinning, both from the force of John's kiss and the heady feel of her mutation drawing him indolently inside of her. And the thoughts that were running though his head at the moment...well, they definitely weren't helping her to think clearly, that was for sure.
He had finally let go of her hands, and she was gripping onto the lapels of his jacket for dear life. His own had come up to entangle in her hair, alternately smoothing and tugging at the multi-toned tresses. One hand loosed its hold upon her hair, and a strong arm came around to encircle her waist. Rogue moaned softly against his mouth, pressing her body even closer to his in an effort to remain upright. It was as if her entire plane of existence began and ended upon his lips.
It was she who pulled away first—not because of her mutation, but because of a severe lack of oxygen. John staggered slightly, and she frantically backed him up until his knees hit the bed. He fell backwards, and she ended up on her knees beside him, sobered quickly by the intermingled concern and confusion racking her body.
...What had she been thinking?
John was a living force inside of her, climbing in and out of her mind and spreading throughout her consciousness. Assimilation of any sort was out of the question, though; there just wasn't time. She pushed him back mentally, panic doubing her shielding ability—and, boy, he did not seem to care for that—as she reached into the bedside drawer.
This time sparing little concern for color or fabric, Rogue grabbed the first pair of gloves she came into contact with. They were mismatched, but she didn't care. Her newly clothed fingers traced gently up and down John's cheeks, and then began to sift through his hair as she gazed at him anxiously.
He stirred after a few minutes, eyes opening as he breathed heavily. His mouth moved, but she couldn't quite make out what he was trying to say. She leaned closer, long hair brushing against his chest as she struggled to understand him.
John closed his eyes again, tongue coming out to moisten his lips. His very full, very swollen lips. When he opened them again, he was grinning at her.
"I always knew you'd taste like strawberries."
Sighs. Believe it or not, this is the first actual kissing scene I've written. That I've posted, anyway. PLEASE let me know what you think of it. I'm so self-conscious about it, you have NO idea.
So, so many thanks to those who reviewed last chapter:
Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Dama Jade, Mea-kh, Levanna, The Truth About Roses, Rosebleed, Zshp1411, Cestari, RedMagic, Coletterby, Rogue21493...
--You're fantastic, and I'm positively mad about you all!
One more chapter to go!
