Chapter Seven
- She blamed John for this.
Pausing outside of the Television Room, struggling to prevent her face from contorting in horror at the sight before her, Rogue winced at the litany of curses--some of which must have been picked up through absorption, because she had certainly never said them before--streaming through her mind.
It really was all his fault.
Almost a month had passed since John's release. Two weeks and six days, to be exact.
Not that she was counting.
Two weeks and six days since his return, and their subsequent...what? Reconciliation? That word seemed to imply a renewal of friendship, which was not entirely accurate. As it stood now, their relationship--if it could be called that--was more of a mutual ceasefire than anything else.
Rogue would be the first to admit that she had become increasingly isolated from the rest of the Mansion since John's re-entry into her life. Quite the achievement, actually, considering the already dismal state of her social existence. Close friends had always been few and far between, out of necessity if nothing else. Her mutation, along with its various other detriments, had hardly been conducive to close relationships. Now, due to the forcible suppression of said mutation, the majority of those few friends had turned their collective backs on her.
It was ironic, really.
The fact that she chose to associate with John the Traitor had effectively severed the few remaining relationships, leaving her essentially alone in a sea of mutant teens. It was that fact that had driven her to take up a sort of permanent guest-ship in John's room.
She had taken her fill of rude stares and wide berths in Mississippi. It wasn't something that she was willing to tolerate here.
Though there was rarely an hour of the day that she didn't see John, the amount of time spent actually interacting with one another was minimal. Her classes were really the only occasions that she actually ventured outside of the room, excluding the occasional meal. And even that was a rare event, due to the private kitchen on the Guest Hall. Even her nights were spent cuddled in a mound of blankets on his floor, meeting his occasional raised brow with an assurance of 'Just let me finish this book, John', or 'I'll leave after this show ends, John'.
He seemed just as content as she to ignore the fact that, come morning, she hadn't moved a muscle towards the door. For which she was eternally grateful.
Damnit, this was all his fault.
She didn't think that the silence would bother her half as much if it were from anyone but John. John, whose constantly running mouth and seeming inability to ignore any opportunity for a caustic remark had so often driven her up the wall. Now his time was spent laying on bed, flicking that stupid lighter and refusing to respond to even her most sharp baits with anything but a raised eyebrow or a mocking sneer.
In her more romantic moments, it occasionally occurred to her that John's uncharacteristic indolence may have some basis in her rejection of the kiss they had shared. However, that thought quickly abated when countered with reason. She had kissed him, after all, and beyond a general eagerness to participate he had shown no deeper feeling to her than a sarcastic sort of friendship.
Above all that, he had made no move to pull her into any such situation since. And, disconcertingly aware that this caused her just as much disappointment as relief, Rogue couldn't help but wonder if that fact alone disturbed her even more than the quiet.
He didn't even bother to argue with her anymore. It just wasn't natural.
Even now, his mouth was firmly closed. Leaving her to deal with the ridiculously horrible situation at hand. Despite the fact that he was so clearly to blame for this whole hideous thing. If he hadn't been so uncharacteristically, unnervingly quiet and dejected, she never would have attempted to draw him out of the depressing cave that was their--no, his room. If he weren't constantly complaining about the miniscule size of the television set that she had acquired for their--his--room, it never would have occurred to her to use the big screen television in the TV Room as bait. And if he hadn't chosen tonight of all nights to finally give in to her needling, she wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
Finally coming to the conclusion that John was going to give her about as much help as he usually did--absolutely none--she cleared her throat.
"Hi Kitty. Bobby."
The two nodded their greetings, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. Well, Kitty looked uncomfortable. Bobby just looked pissed. That was hardly new, though; he'd been giving her the same look for weeks.
Kitty offered her a hesitant smile. "We were just going to watch a movie...but if you--" she glanced at John, then hurriedly turned her gaze back towards Rogue. "If you were going to use the TV, we can always go back to Bobby's room and watch his."
Oh, so that was how she was going to play it. What a bitch.
It briefly occurred to her that, in all honesty, Kitty looked about as evil as a housefly. However, she set aside the thought immediately. She was a woman scorned, for God's sake. She was allowed a bit of unjustified spite.
Realizing that the silence had gone on too long, Rogue forced her lips to curl up into a gracious smile. "Don't be silly. You were here first." Which was a bald-faced lie. They had entered from opposing doors at the exact same time, movies and snacks in hand. It was like a scene from a poorly written sitcom. But if Kitty was going to act all sweet, she was damned if she would come off looking like the witch in this situation.
Off to the side, John was glaring at Kitty. "Actually, we were going to--" A sharp but subtle elbow to his side shut him up, and Rogue continued to smile beneficently at her two erstwhile friends.
Kitty hesitated before continuing. "Well, we were going to watch a horror movie. Bobby's idea, of course." She sent a fond look in the direction of the tall blond, currently engaged in an epic battle of glares with John, and Rogue's teeth began a slow grind. "But if you wanted to watch it with us, that would be great. The more the merrier, right?" she quipped weakly, cheery smile never faltering.
The suggestion was apalling. And completely impossible to refuse without Kitty coming out as the bigger person for offering. Beside her, John sneered. "Oh, sure--umph." He was silenced with a concealed pinch this time, and sent a look promising vengeance in Rogue's direction.
"We'd love to." John's protest was eliminated with a look of her own, considerably more violent than his. All. His. Fault. "Just let us run to the kitchen for some more snacks first."
She virtually dragged John behind her to the small connecting room, overhearing Bobby's fervent protests to a very flustered looking Kitty as she shut the door firmly behind them. She turned to John, decisively crossing her arms over her chest.
"You're going to do this for me."
John's expression would be comical, were it not for the homicidal look intermingled with his almost cartoon-esque bafflement. "Are you fucking insane? I'd rather swallow hydrochloric acid. Why would I--"
"I'll tell you 'why you would'," she interrupted, gloved hands reaching up to fist in his black t-shirt, yanking him close to her face. "Because I cook for you practically every night. Because I actually consume those disgusting things that you call anchovies and I call arsenic on the nights that I don't cook. Because I dug glass out of your despicable, bloody, pale-assed back after you claimed to have had sex with me in front of my boyfriend. Because right this minute, my now ex-boyfriend is out there cuddling with my ex-friend, who is likely congratulating herself for being kind enough to invite us to sit down with her after everything that's happened." She dragged John closer, taking in his alarmed expression even as she inhaled deeply, trying to make up for the longest run-on rant in history. "And, above all else, because I am the only person in this sorry place who gives enough of a damn about you to not kill you just for the fun of it. For all of those reasons, St. John, you are going to go out there, sit next to me, and keep your mouth shut. And not pick a fight with Bobby either, because, John--" she looked away, realizing that tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes and helpless to do anything to stop them. "I am just a small enough of a person to actually be bothered by the idea of those two sitting up in his room and congratulating one another for actually trying to include us in something, and then spending the rest of the night making out his bed and taking the occasional break to talk about how right Bobby was in deciding to trade in an immature coward for a...a...a Kitty, dammit." She finished on a sigh, out of breath and miserable.
Losing Bobby was still raw in her mind, mostly because she'd done everything in her power to avoid thinking about it. The fact that she was actually standing here, begging John to sit next to him for a solid two hours, only acted as testament to her obvious insanity. Sighing again, readying herself to withdraw the request, John's reply stopped her in her tracks.
"Fine."
Rogue's head snapped up. "What?"
"Fine," he grit out, running a frustrated hand through vaguely spiked hair. "Now get whatever you're going to get, and let's get this the hell over with."
She nodded mutely, mildly shocked by his assent, and he clenched his teeth. "I'll be waiting outside."
The door slammed behind him, and Rogue rushed to grab a few bag of chips and a couple of drinks, sure that he would change his mind given more than a few moments alone with Bobby.
Thirty minutes into the movie, Rogue was already cursing her stupid pride. Every time a body fell in a glorious display of modern cinematic tedium, Kitty moved another inch closer to Bobby. At the moment, she was all but in his lap.
With nothing else she cared to watch on-screen or off, Rogue found herself staring intently at John. It was a rather disconcerting habit that she'd picked up lately, finding unreasonable interest in the curves and planes of his features. His body had finally filled out from the almost skeletal state of just a few weeks ago, and she found herself engrossed in the rise and fall of his chest as he drew breath.
She'd always been vaguely fascinated by him, even in the early days at the Mansion. His intensity had drawn her in from the beginning, capturing her attention as little else did. It was the little things, really; the flare of heat in his eyes when he was angry, or the way his lips curled back in reaction to a stupid comment. He was never still; always moving--a flick of his lighter, his fingers drumming an erratic beat against whatever surface was available...enthrallingly volatile.
And, if the old John had been unpredictable, the new John was even more so. Hard edged, constantly exploding in rage at what should be a trifle. Or maintaining his calm when he should be livid. Familiar and foreign, and somehow more engrossing than ever.
Blue eyes met brown, and Rogue suddenly realized that he was staring back at her, fully aware of her rapt gaze. His eyes were shadowy and glittering in the iridescent glow of the television set. Lush bottom lip catching between her teeth, she looked hurriedly back to the screen.
The minutes passed like molasses, heavy and dull and disorienting. Every surreptitious glance up revealed Kitty and Bobby shifting closer and closer together, until, finally, company was forgotten and cuddling bled into kissing.
Rogue bit back the urge to stand up and leave. They looked ridiculous together, she told herself; they really did. Except they didn't. They looked...right. And that was what was really killing her.
Next to her, John shifted. Warm skin brushed against her wrist, above the line of her glove, before his fingers gently entwined with her own. And it was sweet, and unexpected, and completely horrible. And just enough to calm the aching spot inside of her. His hand began a soothing caress of her wrist, calloused thumb circling the bare skin above her pulse-point. Ignoring the nagging impulse to push him away, Rogue instead allowed her head to drop to his shoulder. John was her friend--her only real friend, by the looks of it. And maybe it was a not-so-good idea to have him so close to her, but, God. He was comforting, and he was comfortable, and without him close to her there was absolutely no way that she would be able to make it through the next hour.
And there was absolutely no way that she was going to analyze that random thought any further.
Rogue settled back, eyes firmly averted from the happy couple, content to watch the remainder of the film in blissful ignorance.
It was several minutes later that she realized John's hand had slipped from hers, and shifted to her leg. Lithe fingers beat out a steady little rhythm on her knee, before changing speed considerably. Just fingertips touching now, skimming lightly from knee to mid-thigh. That was all it took for her breath to catch, and a traitorous little voice in her to begin to sing.
He's touching me, he's touching me, he's touching me...
And it felt really, really good.
Hands glided up and down the rough denim covering her thigh, and she felt goose-bumps begin to sprinkle across her skin. It wasn't the touch of a lover, and yet it was enough to set her heart to racing and cause her throat to go dry. Dipping and swaying across the edge of her pocket, thumb playing lightly with the raised seam. His whole hand shifting to rest on her skin, covered only by the thin layer of worn fabric. Gentle, and so lovely and warm it made her ache inside.
She was glad that he was no longer caressing her wrist, because her pulse had increased noticeably. The speed was quite alarming really. Her belly clenched, heat pooling beneath her skin and suffusing her cheeks with a slight glow.
Setting her teeth determinedly, Rogue prepared herself to tell him to stop. But when she glanced up, he was staring right back at her. Eyes dark, and blue, and...blue. Really, really blue.
Why did they have to be so damned blue? Because now, so engrossed was she in deciphering the exact color...Azure? Cobalt?...she couldn't even remember what she was going to say.
Head fuzzy, eyes slitted in concentration, Rogue vaguely realized that her lower lip had at some point slid between her teeth. She worried it absently, trying to look away and failing miserably. He appeared to be faring much better than she, because his gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips. And, was he closer to her than before?
Yes. Yes he was. Much closer.
Her eyes had already drifted shut, face turned up in anticipation, before reality set in.
Reality was that they were sitting in the common room, some dizzy blond screaming as a murderer chased her across the screen. Reality was that an ex-friend and an ex-boyfriend were making out two feet away from them, but certainly not so involved that they wouldn't notice...what they would notice if she allowed this to continue.
But, most of all, reality was that she was a big, fat, chicken.
So, just like a good little coward, she stood and made her way into the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder the first feeble excuse that came to mind; something about an empty glass of water.
She was already through the door before realizing that the glass in her hand was full to the brim.
.
-
Author's Note:
I'm graduated! Sorry for the long lapse between updates, but it was necessary. Spanish class and me weren't getting along too long, and I kinda had to put in the extra effort to...you know...get my diploma and all;)
Sorry also for the abrupt ending. In a perfect world, this and the next chapter wouldn't have to be separated. But, if I'd followed the original outline, this sucker would have been about twenty-five pages long.
I really hope that everyone is still reading! If so, please let me know what you think. I really appreciate all of the comments for last chapter, and I promise that next chapter I will get back on track with thanking you all individually.
