Rogue sat in the very back of the city bus, where the leather seats were ripped and graffiti decorated the walls. The brightly colored gang logos and swear words that bejeweled her surroundings made her think of a four year old's paintings on a mother's refrigerator. iI'm so proud of you. Have a gold star./i
She sunk even lower in her trench coat.
There was seat-stuffing. peeking out of a split in the seat in front of her. She eyed it, warily. She imagined that the seat held an alternate dimension, one filled to the brim with stuffing. There was no room for anymore. And it was trying to find it's way out, trying to find more room so it could breath.
She played with her gloves.
Another image was playing in her head. One of Jean, behind a red filter. Jean dancing, Jean smiling, Jean leaning in to give Scott a kiss. God, Scott- She wondered, faintly, if they had found him yet. They probably had. Jean would have alerted them. She would have woken up, and felt Scott's presence absent from her mind. They had a mental link. Rogue knew that now. After absorbing all these memories and thoughts, she knew everything.
She hadn't killed Scott. She just wasn't sure if he'd ever wake up.
She had kissed him.
And then she ran.
Because, even as she was kissing him, even as he was dying (or something like it), he didn't think of her. He didn't think of Rogue and her auburn hair or brown eyes. He didn't remember any of the times she had saved his life, or he hers.
All he could think about was Jean. All he would ever think about was Jean. All Rogue would ever hate was Jean. But she didn't want to feel hate anymore. She didn't want to feel love anymore.
She couldn't feel anything, anymore.