A/N: It's been forever I know! But here I am, back again and ready to go. Please, be gentle. I'm out of practice. And thanks for your patience!
Chap. 11-
The next morning Rogue puts her gloves back on. Like manacles they chafe and irritate, dragging at her so that she moves slow and awkwardly. She can hardly bear to feel them against her skin. She places the last of her clothes deliberately into her duffel bag like it is actually important that each folded shirt and paired sock stay neat and wrinkle free. Rogue feels like a prisoner who has discovered that their pardon was really just a temporary reprieve.
John is waiting for her by the door. He doesn't seem impatient or eager and Rogue opens her mouth to plead with him maybe, to beg but she doesn't have any words. Her head falls and her hair covers her eyes as she settles her grip on her bag. Likewise, he won't look her in the eye. Shrugging his backpack onto his shoulders, John walks through the door without glancing back.
It turns out that Rogues' own rough homing device didn't lead her to the cabin in the most convenient way. There's a path. A journey that took her most of a day uphill can be achieved in a few hours if you follow the path. Rogue trails behind the pale expanse of skin between John's hair and the collar of his jacket, floating in front of her like the will-o-whisps from the stories her grandmother once told her. Floating through the darkness, without anchor or destination, the rest of him blends and shifts into the shadows of the woods around them until her eyes can barely pick him out. His shoulders become a low hanging branch, his foot the shadow cast by the heavy ferns. Rogue feels a panicky desire to reach out and wrap herself around him from behind, to feel his stomach take shape under her palms, to press her lips against that moonlight skin before her. But she can't even bring herself to form words. She has no right to touch him.
She has no right to touch anyone.
A couple hours into their hike, the trail opens out abruptly into a clearing. There's a shack on the far side with a rough garage door, heavily padlocked. Reaching into his pocket, John pulls out a key, unlocks the padlock and rolls the door back with a sharp gesture. Inside is an old Ford truck, as old and rickety looking as the shack it sits in. Rogue eyes it doubtfully.
"C'mon," John gestures impatiently for her to hand him her bag and she does. His fingers press against hers but the gloves are between them like a wall and it means nothing. He doesn't even pause, instead swinging the bag up into the back of the truck bed before throwing his own in after it. When he nods to the passenger side, Rogue walks around the front to tug at the stubborn passenger door. After two tries it comes free with a groan and she hauls herself up into the seat by the handle on the ceiling just over the passenger side window. What was it they used to call them in Mississippi? 'Oh shit' handles, she remembers. For the times when all you can do is hang on and say 'oh shit'.
They take the truck down an old logging trail to the base of the mountain. It is not that long of a ride but the sheer discomfort of it makes it seem long. Apparently, this particular model was never made with shocks, Rogue thinks as she clings to the aptly named handle. Without thinking, she turns to John to make the observation out loud but he is still staring straight ahead and she closes her mouth once again.
It is early afternoon when they reach town.
Pulling straight up to what Rogue recognizes as the bus station, John shuts off the ignition. There is a pause as he stares down at the steering wheel, gripped in his own white-knuckled hands. Watching him sideways, Rogue hardly dares to breathe, waiting for something she can hardly articulate to herself.
Then he gets out.
There is nothing she can do but follow, the half-formed hope disintegrating in her chest.
John pulls her bag out of the back and carries it inside rather than shoving it at her. She wonders if it is chivalry or if he is afraid that she will come back to the cabin if he doesn't personally deposit her on the bus. He steps inside, again without looking back. When she follows him, he's standing at the ticket window.
"One ticket to ( )". He says flatly to the old man behind the glass.
"One?" the man behind the counter asks, glancing at Rogue standing so close behind. She can feel her shoulders rounding and her body pulling in small, away from the world. She can only imagine how brittle she seems and wonders what she looks like to the man behind the counter. A guilty little sister? A rejected girlfriend? Certainly someone being sent home in disgrace.
John nods stiffly, "One."
"Okay." The old man answers mildly, reaching over to the printer beside him.
As John pulls out his wallet, the old man's eyes move to Rogue again and his gentle look brings a sudden lump to her throat. She swallows it roughly, brutally suppressing the sorrow in the way she has practiced so many times before. Tears and the words she couldn't think of earlier are there in her throat. Don't make me go. While John's back is still to her she rubs a quick hand across her eyes
Glancing down at the ticket in his hand, John turns back to the counter sharply, "This ticket is for four o'clock."
"Yessir." The old man agrees.
"That's not for another two hours."
He shrugs, "That's when the next bus comes. You missed the one o'clock. The four o'clock is the last bus going south for the day." He adds.
John stares at him for a long moment before turning away. Taking Rogue's bag from her slack hands he swings it over one shoulder, "C'mon." He grunts.
"Where are we going?" She manages as they hit the glass doors and emerge into the sun.
"I need supplies."
He visits the ATM first, stuffing a few hundred dollars into his wallet and Rogue wonders where the money comes from. Does the Brotherhood support his fugitive lifestyle? They must. But how? Bank robberies? Investment funds? Donation drives? Donate to the Brotherhood and get this stunning 'Mutant Supremacy' tote bag, she thinks a little hysterically. Rogue realizes that she might not be able to take another two hours of this. She moves to gnaw on a thumbnail and finds a glove in the way.
Their next stop is at an enormous box store that sells bulk foods and camping goods, obviously catering to hikers and isolated mountain types. John stalks up and down the rows, tossing things into the cart and ignoring Rogue as she trails behind him, invisible again. She ran away to find herself back where she started, wandering after some boy waiting to be touched . . .
"John," She hears her voice. When he doesn't turn, she tries again, "John-"
He pivots slowly, his face impassive as he meets her eyes for the first time since last night. He looks haggard, weary and angry because of it. The muscle in his jaw is set in stone, his eyes equally hard.
Rogue opens her mouth which is suddenly desert dry. "Why are you doing this?" She whispers, standing in front of a shelf of cereal that seems to reach to the sky.
"I'm not. You are."
Rogue opens her mouth to disagree but . . . but her heart is pounding so hard she is sure her body rocks with it and the motion seems to bring her close to him and then away again. To her horror she realizes that she just wants to wrap her arms around him and bury her face into his chest and weep into his shirt.
She has never, never wanted to cling to Bobby in this way.
Her hand starts to float up of its' own accord as he waits . . . when someone ahems from behind them. The moment snaps shut like a book closing and John pushes the cart forward so the person behind them can get through. Leaning against the shelf behind her, Rogue feels a few of the tears leak through.
He's got half the cart unloaded unto the conveyor when she catches up with him once again. "I need three 50 pound bags of mulch, too." He tells the girl behind the counter, without acknowledging Rogue. Nodding and snapping her gum loudly, the girl adds it to the tab.
"I can get that into your truck." The bag boy at the end of the conveyor offers. Without looking over, John reaches into his pocket and tosses his keys to the kid who barely catches them in time.
"I'll give you a hand." Rogue offers, pushing past John but managing not to touch him. She lets the bag boy, who is tall and skinny, lead her to a spot in front of the store where bags of mulch hide under an awning. On another day, she might have noticed the eager way he watched her, hoping for an opening to talk to her but her misery is blinding. But then again, maybe not. While they look to be about the same age, Rogue feels a thousand years older.
Swinging a bag up onto his shoulder, the boy gives her a bright smile. "Lead the way." And for the first time that day she does, wandering down the row of cars to where the rickety truck is parked. With his arms full of mulch, the boy can hardly be expected to open the tailgate, so Rogue holds her hand out for the keys. He drops them into her palm, looking quizzically at her gloved palm for a moment.
Unlocking the tailgate, she yanks on it sharply and swears under her breath when it refuses to budge. Just what she needs.
"I think-" The boy nods over to the other side of the gate where it is wired shut. The tailgate lock is as unreliable as the shocks, apparently. The boy smiles and moves to put the bag on the ground but Rogue waves him off.
"I've got it." She says wearily and moves to unwind the rusty tangle – it's clear the gate hasn't been down in a while-
"So, did you and your brother just move here or-" The bag boy's voice distracts her for a moment and Rogue glances up.
"What?" The knot slips suddenly and a sharp heavy piece of wire pops free, slicing through her glove and into the skin of her hand. "Ahhh-"
Lowering the box to the ground, the boy moves toward her, "Oh, ouch." He winces, "Here, let me take a look-"
A voice far in the background calls, "Hey, Andy-"
Rogue steps back but that puts her right up against the truck and he reaches forward grabbing her hand gently, peeling back the torn glove so that they met skin on skin. All the repressed emotion of the day, not to mention the pain and adrenaline from the cut launches out of Rogue and as desperately as she fights it, she isn't fast enough. He crumples almost immediately, still gripping her hand. Rogue follows, sliding to her knees as a wave of dizziness sweeps over her.
His name is Andy Wilkenson. He thinks she is pretty and he hopes that she has moves here. He is trying to imagine what classes they might have together and the best way to ask her out. He has one sister, younger and he loves her very much. He is afraid of spiders but he hides it well. His parents are kind-
Rogue yanks her hand back sharply and then moves to cup his head when the convulsions start. There is a voice in the background, terrified and frantic . . . Andy's eyes roll back in his head and he goes rigid before slumping into unconsciousness. Someone grabs her by the arm, pulling her back so that she falls against the asphalt. John is at her elbow instantly, lifting her up. When she has her feet underneath her, he tugs gently on her elbow, trying to get her to move. But she is staring down in horror at what she has done.
The other bag boy kneels beside his friend, frantically trying to revive him. Glancing up at Rogue, he demands, "What did you do?! Andy! Andy! Man, answer me!" A crowd is starting to gather, people drifting over, abandoning open truck doors and half unloaded carts to circle them.
"Rogue," John says insistently to her, "We need to go. Now."
She shakes her head numbly, "No. I have to- I have to help him-" Yes. She has to help him. She falls to her knees beside the two boys, "It's like a seizure." She explains, "You need to-" When she reaches out, the other boy slaps her hand away.
"Don't touch him! You did this! I saw you! You touched him-"
"No. I-"
"What are you?!"
The answer is in the air suddenly. Mutant. The crowd of people surges forward. The generally blameless and ordinary faces of regular people- neighbors and teachers and church goers and dentists twists into something ugly.
John grabs her by the arm and hauls her to her feet.
"Call the sheriff." Someone says. There is a murmur of something among the angry accusing faces. A rock clangs against the side of the truck, leaving a dent. Rogue jumps, turning, trying to find where the rock came from but all she sees are faces full of hate.
John steps forward between her and the crowd, raising one hand out of which fire blossoms like a nova. It forms a shield between them and the angry people.
"Back off." He growls.
