My Heart in Your Hands
by Princess of Monkeys
Chapter 17
Big fat authors note: Sorry you're only getting one chapter at a time.... It's really hard for me to stay up late enough to type and post a bunch of chapters all at once. The good side is, you get one chapter every day, instead of four every two weeks. So, it all works out. Please keep reviewing! I know my story is going somewhere, but if no one else thinks so, I'll tighten it up a bit. But I don't know if you don't tell me! This chapter and the next are the last transitional chapters for a bit- just get through these two, and you'll be at lots of gooey goodness. I promise! you'll just have to wait for it- the good stuff should be up by Thursday. If anyone was bothered by Rogue's flashbacks and memory problems in the last chapter, here's my reason. Psychological problems don't just happen over night. I was really upset how they portrayed it in the episode as just being something so sudden. To me, the psyches crowding her out of her own mind is something that's been going on for a while, and the only reason she lost control of it at the concert, as opposed to anywhere else, was because so many people were around her, and then a bunch of people touched her all at once. It was more than she could handle at that time. At this point in the story, Rogue is bothered by it, a little bit scared, but she thinks that if she just doesn't absorb so many people, it'll go a way on its own. She doesn't realize how serious a problem it really is.
But enough of my blabbering- on with the story!
She woke several hours later, hungry but without the skull- splitting pin. The clock said it was a little after nine- dinner had come and gone hours before, and she still needed a shower.
She went down the hall to the room she used to sleep in, and found it to be free of a certain traitorous pony tailed girl. Selecting clothing and grabbing her makeup case, she headed to the bathroom. Food could wait; she stank now.
Washing off her makeup as she waited for the water to warm up, she stared at her bare face in the mirror. She hated her makeup, hated it with a passion and a vehemence reserved for few other things. She'd always had gothic tendencies; even back in Mississippi she'd favored darker colors and worn heavier makeup than the other girls at her school. But after the disastrous night her powers had manifested, it had become an unremovable mask, a shell she was unable to shed. It used to be purely her choice to dress the way she did and wear such heavy makeup; now it was survival. Anyone could wear dark colors, but it was the heavy, almost scary makeup that really kept everyone away. And she hated the necessity of it; sometimes she even hated herself, what she'd become in these last few months, the war painted stranger whose reflection stared back at her from mirrors and asked accusingly "What have you done to me?"
In the last few weeks, since they'd been exposed and gone back to school, she'd toyed with the idea of not wearing it- but as much as she loathed it, she was scared to go without it. Without that image to project, that role to fulfill, what would she be? Everyone, even the other Institute kids, expected her to fit a certain mold. She was remote and detached and cynical; she shopped at Hot Topic and listened to angry depressing music; she had no friends and no life and spent all her free time reading vampire novels and writing bad poetry. That's all anyone saw of her- all anyone wanted to see of her. And granted, most of it was true- but shouldn't it be her choices, and not their expectations, that shaped her personality? She'd never thought about things that way before, and she decided at that moment that she was going to start living up to her name. She was the Rogue, she didn't care what anyone thought- it was time to start acting like it. Time to start being her own person. Feeling like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, she stepped into the shower.
Remy lay back on his bed, absently flipping a card between his fingers. He hadn't really been thinking straight when Rogue had asked him about the stray memory. Sure, he probably owed her an explanation for at least that memory- but to explain that one, he'd have to explain everything else too. Sighing, he fought the little voice in his head urging him to cover it up and just hide the truth from her. But finally, morality won out over expediency. _I said I'd tell her the truth, and that means she has to know everything. It's up to her to judge my actions._ He had done a lot of shameful things in his life, but he did have a few things to be proud of as well.
Rolling over on his side, he stared past the card in his hand at the bleakness of his quarters. Bare metal walls stared back at him, nothing like the sumptuous richness of his room in the Guild house back home. _Not home anymore,_ he reminded himself for the millionth time.
The Guild house had paintings in every room, and beautiful silk wallpaper in the halls. His old bedroom had been one of the finest, due to his status within the organization- it had boasted a solid oak four poster bed complete with vibrant satin sheets, deeply plush carpeting, and furniture that had probably been around since before the Civil War. He remembered when he'd first seen it as a child, he'd been intimidated- at the time, it had sumptuousness beyond his wildest imaginings. Now, he looked back on it fondly, missing its character and vitality. Everything about his life now was lifeless and stifled; the room where he slept was just the smallest tip of the iceberg on that score.
Flicking the card onto the dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the room, he watched without interest as it landed perfectly in line with the other fifty one cards at the top of the deck. With a grimace, he flung himself off the bed and rummaged around in the sparsely filled drawers for something to wear. Although other women might appreciate him showing up at midnight in nothing but undergarments, he couldn't imagine Rogue appreciating the gesture. _With how uptight that girl is about exposed skin, she really wouldn't react well at all._ Stopping thoughts of exposed skin before they could go somewhere dangerous, he dressed in dark jeans and a close fitting black tee shirt. Running his fingers through his hair, he momentarily wished for a mirror. But Piotr had broken all the mirrors in a fit of anger right after he'd arrived here, and Magneto hadn't had them replaced.
It was annoying, but it had been hilarious to watch Pietro dart around the warehouse like a hummingbird on crack, searching frantically for any reflective surface that he could use to style his hair. They'd all howled with laughter upon finding the vain teenager in the kitchen, staring at his reflection in the curved dome of a metal bowl; even Magneto, who never saw the humor in anything, had cracked a smile. It was the closest they'd ever come to bonding as a team- laughing at Magneto's idiot son. Sad, really.
He'd thought about that day a lot lately as he'd been struggling with his decision to leave. He owed a debt of loyalty to Magneto for offering him a ways out of New Orleans at a bad time; he did like Piotr and St. John, even though the former never really talked and the latter was crazier than a jaybird. But those reasons weren't enough- maybe they never had been. He might have spent his whole life as a thief, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of it as a terrorist, which is how the public labeled them. And he couldn't imagine spending the rest of his life just sitting back and letting himself be used for his mutant abilities, which was what Magneto was doing.
Even though he didn't want to admit it, he envied the X-Men for their obvious family mentality. Even the Brotherhood had some semblance of closeness. But here at the Acolyte base, it was considered a good day if no one had tried to kill you before breakfast. Magneto needed his powers, needed his skills, but all the rest was just unnecessary, dismissed. But at least he knew where he stood with the man. If- when- he left, it would be irrevocable. He only hoped that he wasn't walking right into another situation where he was only going to be used again.
Shaking his head at his pointless musings, he laced his boots, slid into his familiar trench coat, and pocketed the cards from the dresser. Giving the lifeless room one last glance, he quietly closed the door.
by Princess of Monkeys
Chapter 17
Big fat authors note: Sorry you're only getting one chapter at a time.... It's really hard for me to stay up late enough to type and post a bunch of chapters all at once. The good side is, you get one chapter every day, instead of four every two weeks. So, it all works out. Please keep reviewing! I know my story is going somewhere, but if no one else thinks so, I'll tighten it up a bit. But I don't know if you don't tell me! This chapter and the next are the last transitional chapters for a bit- just get through these two, and you'll be at lots of gooey goodness. I promise! you'll just have to wait for it- the good stuff should be up by Thursday. If anyone was bothered by Rogue's flashbacks and memory problems in the last chapter, here's my reason. Psychological problems don't just happen over night. I was really upset how they portrayed it in the episode as just being something so sudden. To me, the psyches crowding her out of her own mind is something that's been going on for a while, and the only reason she lost control of it at the concert, as opposed to anywhere else, was because so many people were around her, and then a bunch of people touched her all at once. It was more than she could handle at that time. At this point in the story, Rogue is bothered by it, a little bit scared, but she thinks that if she just doesn't absorb so many people, it'll go a way on its own. She doesn't realize how serious a problem it really is.
But enough of my blabbering- on with the story!
She woke several hours later, hungry but without the skull- splitting pin. The clock said it was a little after nine- dinner had come and gone hours before, and she still needed a shower.
She went down the hall to the room she used to sleep in, and found it to be free of a certain traitorous pony tailed girl. Selecting clothing and grabbing her makeup case, she headed to the bathroom. Food could wait; she stank now.
Washing off her makeup as she waited for the water to warm up, she stared at her bare face in the mirror. She hated her makeup, hated it with a passion and a vehemence reserved for few other things. She'd always had gothic tendencies; even back in Mississippi she'd favored darker colors and worn heavier makeup than the other girls at her school. But after the disastrous night her powers had manifested, it had become an unremovable mask, a shell she was unable to shed. It used to be purely her choice to dress the way she did and wear such heavy makeup; now it was survival. Anyone could wear dark colors, but it was the heavy, almost scary makeup that really kept everyone away. And she hated the necessity of it; sometimes she even hated herself, what she'd become in these last few months, the war painted stranger whose reflection stared back at her from mirrors and asked accusingly "What have you done to me?"
In the last few weeks, since they'd been exposed and gone back to school, she'd toyed with the idea of not wearing it- but as much as she loathed it, she was scared to go without it. Without that image to project, that role to fulfill, what would she be? Everyone, even the other Institute kids, expected her to fit a certain mold. She was remote and detached and cynical; she shopped at Hot Topic and listened to angry depressing music; she had no friends and no life and spent all her free time reading vampire novels and writing bad poetry. That's all anyone saw of her- all anyone wanted to see of her. And granted, most of it was true- but shouldn't it be her choices, and not their expectations, that shaped her personality? She'd never thought about things that way before, and she decided at that moment that she was going to start living up to her name. She was the Rogue, she didn't care what anyone thought- it was time to start acting like it. Time to start being her own person. Feeling like a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders, she stepped into the shower.
Remy lay back on his bed, absently flipping a card between his fingers. He hadn't really been thinking straight when Rogue had asked him about the stray memory. Sure, he probably owed her an explanation for at least that memory- but to explain that one, he'd have to explain everything else too. Sighing, he fought the little voice in his head urging him to cover it up and just hide the truth from her. But finally, morality won out over expediency. _I said I'd tell her the truth, and that means she has to know everything. It's up to her to judge my actions._ He had done a lot of shameful things in his life, but he did have a few things to be proud of as well.
Rolling over on his side, he stared past the card in his hand at the bleakness of his quarters. Bare metal walls stared back at him, nothing like the sumptuous richness of his room in the Guild house back home. _Not home anymore,_ he reminded himself for the millionth time.
The Guild house had paintings in every room, and beautiful silk wallpaper in the halls. His old bedroom had been one of the finest, due to his status within the organization- it had boasted a solid oak four poster bed complete with vibrant satin sheets, deeply plush carpeting, and furniture that had probably been around since before the Civil War. He remembered when he'd first seen it as a child, he'd been intimidated- at the time, it had sumptuousness beyond his wildest imaginings. Now, he looked back on it fondly, missing its character and vitality. Everything about his life now was lifeless and stifled; the room where he slept was just the smallest tip of the iceberg on that score.
Flicking the card onto the dresser, the only other piece of furniture in the room, he watched without interest as it landed perfectly in line with the other fifty one cards at the top of the deck. With a grimace, he flung himself off the bed and rummaged around in the sparsely filled drawers for something to wear. Although other women might appreciate him showing up at midnight in nothing but undergarments, he couldn't imagine Rogue appreciating the gesture. _With how uptight that girl is about exposed skin, she really wouldn't react well at all._ Stopping thoughts of exposed skin before they could go somewhere dangerous, he dressed in dark jeans and a close fitting black tee shirt. Running his fingers through his hair, he momentarily wished for a mirror. But Piotr had broken all the mirrors in a fit of anger right after he'd arrived here, and Magneto hadn't had them replaced.
It was annoying, but it had been hilarious to watch Pietro dart around the warehouse like a hummingbird on crack, searching frantically for any reflective surface that he could use to style his hair. They'd all howled with laughter upon finding the vain teenager in the kitchen, staring at his reflection in the curved dome of a metal bowl; even Magneto, who never saw the humor in anything, had cracked a smile. It was the closest they'd ever come to bonding as a team- laughing at Magneto's idiot son. Sad, really.
He'd thought about that day a lot lately as he'd been struggling with his decision to leave. He owed a debt of loyalty to Magneto for offering him a ways out of New Orleans at a bad time; he did like Piotr and St. John, even though the former never really talked and the latter was crazier than a jaybird. But those reasons weren't enough- maybe they never had been. He might have spent his whole life as a thief, but he wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of it as a terrorist, which is how the public labeled them. And he couldn't imagine spending the rest of his life just sitting back and letting himself be used for his mutant abilities, which was what Magneto was doing.
Even though he didn't want to admit it, he envied the X-Men for their obvious family mentality. Even the Brotherhood had some semblance of closeness. But here at the Acolyte base, it was considered a good day if no one had tried to kill you before breakfast. Magneto needed his powers, needed his skills, but all the rest was just unnecessary, dismissed. But at least he knew where he stood with the man. If- when- he left, it would be irrevocable. He only hoped that he wasn't walking right into another situation where he was only going to be used again.
Shaking his head at his pointless musings, he laced his boots, slid into his familiar trench coat, and pocketed the cards from the dresser. Giving the lifeless room one last glance, he quietly closed the door.