Lisette – I think he's blue.

Roguechere – Kudos for catching that, but I can assure you it was purely intentional...

Lucid Dreams

Bobby could not sleep; he felt as though he had not slept for days. There was a terrible trepidation in his chest; he felt his heart thumping with anxiety but could not quite remember why. He tossed restlessly in his bed, throwing off his cumbersome blankets and then reaching for them again when the cool air in the room chilled his skin. He resorted to staring at the ceiling, listening to John Allerdyce's snoring. Normally the Iceman was oblivious to his roommate's noise, but tonight it irritated him to the point he was tempted to throw a textbook at his forehead. A clock ticked in the corner of the room, ticking away the seconds and minutes until he had to be awake for school.

Something struck him as odd about his current situation, but for the life of him he didn't know what. He shook the thought away.

Sighing loudly, he pushed himself out of bed and padded over to the small washroom he and John shared. He flicked on the light, squinting as his pupils contracted painfully. He turned on the water and waited until it warmed up some, then splashed the tepid water on his face. He wetted his cheeks and rubbed down his neck, pausing to study the exhausted teenager in the mirror. Dark circles encased his blue eyes, adding years to his face.

He turned off the light, prepared to sink into his bed when John's snoring reached a new volume and vigour Bobby didn't even think was humanly possible. He shook his head. No way I'll be getting any sleep in here.

He stepped out of his room and into the grand corridor of the Xavier mansion. The hallway was dimly lit, just in case the youngest members of the school should wander at night. A grin popped on Bobby's face as he realised that he was acting just like them.

He had no real intention of going anywhere, but as he meandered mindlessly the thought struck him that his feet were leading him to a familiar room. He came to a large oak door identical to his. It wasn't locked; in fact it was slightly open. The soft light from the hallway created a sliver of light that travelled from the doorway and up onto the bed, caressing the face of his girlfriend Rogue.

He stepped into the room cautiously, pausing by Rogue's bedside to glance quickly at the other two girls Rogue shared the room with, but just like her, Jubilee and Kitty were deeply asleep.

Her cheek was warm to the touch. Bobby brushed the stray piece of stark white hair off her face, drifting his fingertips across her eyelids. Her mouth was parted slightly as she took in shallow breaths, making soft noises as she drifted further into her slumber. Bobby smiled.

He let his hand rest on the top of her head, feeling the warmth emanating from her. He combed his fingers through her straight hair, twirling the white streaks in his fingertips then letting them fall. He could not recall this amount of sureness in his life before; for so long he had dwelt in the self-conscious knowledge that he was different, a freak of nature. But with Rogue in his life he felt something knew, something protective that gave new meaning to his mutant abilities.

"I'll never let anything happen to you," he whispered into her ear as softly as he could. He leaned in and kissed her on the lips, holding his mouth over hers for fear that the moment would end too abruptly.

Which it inevitably did.

His breath left him in a violent torrent, immediately kick-starting his adrenaline and panic. He felt the unnatural rush of his energies leaving his body, creating a void filled with the coldness that was his mutation. Normally it didn't bother him, but now as his veins began to bulge he felt the penetrating touch of ice until he thought his bones would shatter from it. He couldn't back away fast enough and now as he struggled to keep the air that was swiftly leaving his lungs he knew he was suffocating in the worst type of vacuum. She was literally sucking the life from him.

Her eyes shot open.

If Bobby could have screamed he would have. Her eyes were white, no hint of colour or life. He searched her face for any recognition of what she was doing to him, how she was hurting him. She stared blankly back at him, impervious to his weak thrashings as he tried to detach himself from her kiss. He was losing the battle; he could feel his strength waning. He was going to die, Rogue was watching him die, his girlfriend was killing him! Her mouth was locked onto his lips even now as he was sinking to the floor, weakly trying to push her away. He wanted to cry out for help, with every fibre of his being he thought as hard as he could to the Professor, but no one could hear him.

Rogue was clutching his face, digging her nails into his flesh painfully. This wasn't Rogue, it couldn't be Rogue, it was a demon or a shapeshifter of some sort. Bobby's wild eyes searched the room franticly, hoping that the two other occupants would hear his plight and pry Rogue off of him, but they slept on peacefully.

The world was turning black before him; he was dying. He couldn't die, not yet, but the truth was plainly there. He was dying, killed by his own girlfriend. With one final heroic effort, he yelled the name of the one that was leaching the life from him.

He sat up in his bed yelling her name, pulse thundering in his ears. Cold perspiration soaked his scalp and shirt, and as he moved to run a hand over his sweaty face he was amazed to see the shake in his limbs. The disorientation of returning from nightmare to reality was beginning to fade. He glanced at the empty bed across from him.

John was no longer here.

Rogue was no longer here.

"Bobby?"

The door to his room was being opened tentatively. He searched for the words to turn the person away, but found that his hoarse voice was nothing more than a gasp.

The mocha face of Ororo Munroe peered around the door. Even in her half-awake state the African woman was as composed as ever. Seeing the pale face of a shaken Bobby drew her closer. She pushed the door open and stepped into the room, pulling the edges of her white silk robe together. She crossed her arms over her chest as she stood beside his bed.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Bobby stared ahead in a bewildered gaze, then found the motor skills to shake his head.

Undeterred, Storm sat at the foot his bed, studying his obviously troubled face. "I heard you yelling for Rogue."

Bobby met her compassionate gaze with his own wide-eyes. "It was nothing," he whispered. Still trembling slightly, the teenager lowered himself down and gathered the blankets over his chest. "It was nothing."

Storm nodded slowly and stood up, still watching Bobby's face. "I understand," she said quietly. She crept out of the room, shutting the door but stopping just before it latched. She purposely left it open a crack, leaving the light of the hallway to shine in his room.

***

He dove headfirst into the water, the glacial-fed lake that froze anything it touched. Diving headfirst was better than wading in; after a few feet into the lake the cold became too much and he would always turn back. Diving off a high ledge ensured that you could not back out once you were in. His head broke the surface and he gasped for the brisk mountain air; his throat constricted with the cold until he was hyperventilating. He treaded water for a few minutes while his body acclimatised itself. His breathing slowed to rapid, shallow breaths and he clenched his jaw shut to prevent his teeth from chattering.

Scott's specialised visor made seeing underwater difficult. It was definitely not made for swimming, but even had he the normal eyesight as everyone else he would not be able to see further than his outstretched hand. The water was too deep, too dense to see anything else but a dark void.

Despite this, he swam. Swimming blindly, feeling with his hands as his legs kicked and flailed, propelling him further into the middle of the lake. He was never sure what he it was that he thought he could find. In the end, he supposed whatever it was would find him. The clues were there, somewhere. If he just swam a little bit further...

When his legs felt exhausted and his lungs screamed for warm air, when his limbs trembled and he began to think incoherently, that was when he knew he must return. A small part of his mind, the desperate part, urged him to go just a little bit further. But the rational and hopeful side knew that this would mean suicide. Reluctantly, he always turned back. He would need to re-warm himself and rest a full day before he could try again. But he would not give up.

Something brushed by his leg. Startled, he stopped paddling and treaded water as he searched the depths of the lake for whatever had touched him. For some reason, he could not bring himself to dip his head under; the shivers at the back of his neck were now being caused by something other than cold.

Something clamped onto his ankle painfully, dragging him under without a moment's notice. Shock kick-started his adrenaline; he tried to wiggle his way free but alarmingly found himself going further down into the depths of the lake. His legs were tired, used beyond their capabilities but still he kicked as sheer terror took hold in his mind. Whatever had him was strong. He was running out of air and energy. He wondered ridiculously what would happen when he reached the bottom. Would his ears pop? He suddenly came up with the idea to send out an optic blast at the thing. He had never performed a blast underwater; he didn't even know if it could be done.

Knowing that either way he would probably die, he lifted a hand to his forehead and began to turn the dial to send a strong blast beneath him. And then the pressure abruptly released itself from his leg. He felt himself floating up to the surface, free of his own volition. He lifted his head up to welcome the dim rays of light that shone through the murky water. When he thought his lungs would explode from the pressure and lack of oxygen, his head broke the surface and he sucked in the crisp mountain air. He gasped and struggled to maintain his previous paddle, nervously checking the water for any signs of what had tried to take him under. He was shaking uncontrollably now; he had to get to the shore.

A soft splash alerted his fuzzy senses to something behind him. He spun around and screamed.

She was dead. The woman before him was dead. Jean was dead. Her skin was bone white. She was stock-still but somehow managed to stay above the water. She was naked. But her hair was the vibrant crimson that he had adored. Her lips were full and flesh coloured. She was not a ghost, she was not decomposing, but she was not the Jean he had remembered.

Her eyes were orange. There was nothing but an orange fire where there had once been life, questions and compassion. She stared at him and he was suddenly taken by the calmness of everything around him. All life and motion stopped for this moment. He had found her.

Or had he?

He had dreamt of this moment for months. For the moment when he would wake up and realise that he had been dreaming, a long terrible nightmare. And he would swallow her in his arms and promise her over and over that this time he would not let go. But for all the months of anticipating this exact moment, he couldn't bring himself to even touch her deathly pale skin.

"Jean," he whispered. His voice sounded weak to him; it carried no weight to it, no conviction. Only fear.

"Jean," he repeated, more forcefully this time but still underlined by a nameless fear.

Her face gave no recognition. The orange eyes stared blankly at him; her mouth set in a firm line. She blinked once, but that was as much movement as she made.

Scott swallowed, glancing quickly to the shore that beckoned him. "Jean, come with me," he prompted. He tread water with one hand while his other hand reached for her. "Come with me," he said again.

Jean tilted her head slightly, as if contemplating. Suddenly, she whipped out her hand and took hold of his collar with a surprising strength. Scott's heart pounded wildly, but he could not fight her, not again. She spoke to him, in a hollow voice that he did not recognise as hers. "You...come...with...me."

And with a speed he never could have anticipated, she dragged him down. He fought, kicking and screaming into the void of water but her path was relentless. She was taking him down, all the way down.

Down to her grave.

Scott lurched sideways in his sleeping bag, opening his eyes with a tortured cry. It was the same dream, over and over. The closer he came, the more vivid they became. Day after day he camped beside Alkali Lake, feeling haunted and restless. Everyday he walked the water's edge, retracing steps taken too long ago. The cold that came at night no longer bothered him, or maybe he was beyond feeling it now.

He searched his dreams for her essence. Could it be her that was sending him these horrifying images? Or perhaps it was his own conscience, revelling in his guilt for a past he could not change.

He lay inside his sleeping bag, knowing that he was beyond sleep but not willing to leave the comfort of the down-filled bag either. He huddled inside the bag until he was nothing more than a human ball, holding his head with both hands as though he could squeeze the dream from his mind.

How long would he remain here? How long before remorse led to madness? Would he wait until winter hit the Rocky Mountains, would he willingly let himself freeze to death to appease his own aching?

He shook his head. He would not let himself die. Jean was not dead. She was not dead. He had not failed her. Not yet. He would find her. He would not lose hope. He would find her.

He repeated it over and over like a mantra until his wearied brain drifted off into a blissful slumber, devoid of any dreams.

***

The sun had been blazing on a cloudless day, driving the temperatures up until the black pavement in the front of Rogue's house smelled of melting asphalt. The sidewalk scorched her barefeet as she ran over it and a small yelp could be heard whenever she rested on one foot too long. She jumped onto the wilting grass and ran across her front lawn, taking the white veranda steps two-by-two. She hopped over the threshold holding her sandals in her left hand, pushing her sweat-laden hair off her face with her right. She peered into the house, foolishly expecting some sort of oasis from the heat outside. Not surprisingly, the house lacked air conditioning and the result was an effective oven of trapped heat. Her yellow sundress was sticking to her skin; the tendrils of brown hair that drifted from her ponytail stuck to the back of her neck and itched her terribly. She sighed as she leaned against the doorway. She longed for a sprinkler or even a kiddie pool, but neither item was a particularly desperate want of her parents.

But in the back of her mind, Rogue knew that her parents did own a sprinkler.

The oak tree in her backyard called to her. There, sitting north of the tree was its immense shadow, a tantalising sight. Counting her good fortunes and eyeing the living room suspiciously to make sure her parents were still dozing by the electric fans, she stepped lightly through the house and snuck around to the kitchen. She stopped to pour herself a glass of iced tea, sipping it as she crept through the squeaky screen door and onto the back porch.

It was her favourite climbing tree when she was a child, and consequently many of her bumps, bruises and broken bones were suffered at its base where she fell from its high limbs. Her tire tube swung lifelessly from a strong bough; for sentimentality's sake she never had the heart to take it down. She plopped down in the shade, leaning her back against the strong base of the tree.

Rogue couldn't recall a tree in her backyard, just the one in the front.

For a long time she sat with her eyes closed, listening and reflecting on the world around her. The heat was still noticeable, but now it became bearable. She felt a light breeze tousle the loose bits of hair around her face and she smiled as they tickled her eyelids. The breeze kissed her neck with a wash of cool air, and for the first time that day Rogue felt a relief from the heat.

It wasn't until she felt a draft where she shouldn't have that she opened her eyes. Confusion immediately took her as she found herself staring at a limb full of leaves. The leaves parted, brushing against her cheeks as she passed by them. Why would she be passing them?

She gasped as she turned her head to the side; she was floating above the tree. She struggled for some control but it felt like her body was suspended on a string, drawing her further and further upwards. Finally she managed to flip her body over so she was now staring back at the earth, still slowly going up. She saw the top of her roof, where the shingles were beginning to warp and leaves had gathered in the eavestrough and the perimeter of her backyard with its overgrown grass and rickety garden shed parked by the back fence.

She didn't have a garden shed.

Fear gripped her, what if she floated too high up? Would she die when the altitude afforded her no oxygen? What if she floated into outer space? The fear was very real so she howled for help. But she was too far away now; no one could hear her cries.

Without any thought, she stopped floating upward and changed direction. To her vast relief she began to gracefully fall. The tips of her toes grazed the blades of grass and it was as though something released her; all her weight settled on her feet and she stood wavering for a moment as she readjusted herself to gravity. She looked up, fully expecting to see her mysterious string magically appear, but of course nothing of the sort happened. Now thoroughly baffled, she pinched the skin on the back of her wrist to wake herself up. Nope, still awake.

Then a strange thought came to her, an idea that perhaps it wasn't a dream or hallucination. Maybe, if she thought hard enough, she could do it again. Feeling slightly ridiculous standing in her backyard trying to wish herself wings like a child, she nevertheless squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated every ounce of her being on thinking happy thoughts. After a few minutes of reliving Christmas morning when she was five, she opened one eye and was thoroughly disappointed to find herself firmly planted on the ground.

A new tactic came to her – she envisioned herself being weightless. Weighing nothing more than a feather and free to float against the wind. The thought seemed to relax her; she felt all tension leave her body, replaced with a wonderfully dazed feeling. Slowly, she opened her eyes and once again found herself brushing by the tips of the boughs.

This time she laughed, stretching out her arms to feel the leaves brush against her fingertips as she floated by them. She willed herself to stop just above the tree and then wondered if she could control her direction too. Startling, she found she could do just that. The euphoria was overwhelming. Now she felt a freedom that she had longed for in all her thirteen years.

She was eighteen, wasn't she?

Where would she go? With a small mental push, Rogue started off in the direction of her neighbour's house.

Carol.

No, she didn't think that was her neighbour's name. Rogue mentally shrugged, perhaps she was confused by the elevation. Her neighbour was that brown-haired little girl -

Blonde.

Now she was quite sure that her neighbour had brown hair and not blonde. Or maybe it was blonde. Whatever the case, she thought she would pop over and say hello to her neighbour What's-her-name and maybe show off her new talent for airborne loop-de-loos.

She slowed down as she reached the cedar fence of her neighbour. Wouldn't it be fun to sneak up on her? Rogue giggled with the thought of how scared she would be to see a flying girl soar over her fence. So Rogue floated back down until she was a foot off the ground and peaking over the high fence of her neighbour. Stifling her giggles until just her shoulders were shaking, Rogue popped her head above the fence to spy on...that blonde girl.

Rogue gave a start. So she was blonde. She could've sworn her neighbour had brown hair. The little blonde girl – Carol? – sat on the cement porch in the backyard, with her back facing Rogue. Rogue smiled. She was about to make her thunderous appearance when she heard a sob come from the little girl.

The little girl's hair was a mess of blonde tangles; her pink dress with embroidered flowers had dirty streaks on it. She lifted a small arm and rubbed her face with the back of her hand. Her back quivered with sobs.

Rogue was struck with compassion for the little girl. She had the sudden urge to hug her, to wipe away her tears and comfort the distressed child. "Hey," she said quietly.

Carol jumped and turned around with dried tears streaking down her cheeks. Her lips were swollen and pink, turned up in a miserable frown. Her wide blue eyes stared at Rogue.

"Hey," Rogue said again, this time motioning with her hand for the little girl to come closer. "What's wrong?"

Carol glanced nervously at her house then stood on shaky legs and slowly came over to the fence where Rogue was peering over. She muffled her cries with a grubby arm as she crept over, watching Rogue suspiciously with tear-laden eyes that threatened to spill at any moment.

"Why are you so upset?" Rogue asked as gently as she could.

The tears spilled loose, but the little girl held a hand over her mouth to silence her cries. Rogue waited patiently, aching at the sight of a heart-broken child.

"I...I lost...it." The words hiccuped their way out of Carol, and more tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Lost what?"

Carol's shoulders trembled as she fought to answer. "Stolen...it got...stolen."

"What got stolen?" Rogue grasped the top of the fence so she could lean in further to her. "Who stole it?"

Carol's head snapped up and she shot an accusatory glare in Rogue's direction. "You stole it!" She screamed, pointing at Rogue. "You stole it!"

A deep warning wormed its way in the pit of Rogue's stomach. She lowered herself from the fence and to the ground, feeling the anxiety rise into her chest. The little girl was still wailing, and now Rogue could hear the parents come running from the house. Rogue began to run too, into the comfort of her own house. She had an unnatural urge to run to her mother, to bury her head in her mother's shoulder as she did when she was a child. Her parents met her in the kitchen.

"Mama!" Cried Rogue, opening her arms to her mother.

But the woman looked at Rogue with horror on her face. "Who are you?" She asked.

"It's me, it's..."

Rogue couldn't remember her own name.

"Gary, call the police," the woman instructed to the balding man next to her.

"No," Rogue said, shaking her head. Warm tears began to form, stinging her eyes. "No, it's me...it's your daughter."

"Get out of my house," the woman warned.

The little girl was still screaming in the background and now she could hear the man talking with a deep voice to someone on the phone, giving them their address. Rogue felt the weight of helplessness settle in her heart. "Why don't you recognise me?" She asked softly.

Her mother stared at her, and all the colour drained from her face. "Who are you?" She asked in a trembling voice.

Rogue looked at her but could barely see through the haze of tears. "It's me. It's me, your-"

She broke off abruptly as she noticed a picture stuck to the fridge by a magnet. The girl in it was slightly older than she was, with a bright smile and blonde hair and blue eyes -

Carol.

Rogue's eyes widened. She was not the girl in the picture. She was-

"ROGUE!"

The male voice did not come from the house. The woman did not seem to notice. Rogue shook her head, feeling a pounding in the base of her skull that nearly blinded her. She clutched her head with both hands, moaning loudly as the pain increased.

"ROGUE, STOP!"

Rogue began to scream, in a voice that shattered the vision in front of her like it was made of nothing more than glass. She felt herself falling, her legs giving way beneath her.

She hit the hard metal floor and lay in a crumple heap, trembling uncontrollably.

"Did it work?" She heard a male voice say.

"Rogue!" It was the same voice that shouted to her in the dream. She heard someone tell him to shut his mouth, followed by a volley of shouts and swears between the two. For the life of her, she could not open her eyes.

"Did it work?" The previous voice asked again, this time with more insistence.

"I...don't know." It was a female voice, familiar to Rogue.

From somewhere distant in the room she heard a deep sigh. "We'll have to try again tomorrow."

She knew that voice; that voice scared her. It made her retreat further into her ball, clutching her arms for warmth and protection.

"Put her back in her cell. We'll try again tomorrow."

Gloved hands picked her up, and dumped her unceremoniously into a dark and cold room. They walked away and she heard a loud humming in front of her. For some reason, the humming that she associated with pain now became a barrier of safety. Between her and whatever was out there.

Powerful footsteps came to rest in front of her cell. For the first time, she opened her eyes and her vision travelled slowly up into the face of Sinister. He smiled menacingly at her.

"Pleasant dreams."