When Rogue awakes the next morning, the house is still and quiet. She is also hungry, having skipped dinner the night before. As noiselessly as possible, she slips out of bed and pulls on the clothes she finds in her closet. Outside, she sees when she glances out the window, a thick fog from the sea has rolled in and covers the yard and garden.
Wearing no shoes, she leaves her room, tiptoeing past St. John's closed door and down the stairs. There is a slight panic when she is faced with two identical doors, and realizes that she's not sure which one leads to the kitchen; she doesn't want to stumble into one of the boys' bedrooms or anything, after all. After a minute or so of mental debate, she decides on door number two and is pleased to find she chose correctly. She pours herself a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran) and makes her way into the dining room.
He's sitting in there already, at this early hour. The Russian, with his bowl of cereal. At the sound of her entering, he looks up, but quickly breaks eye contact, staring down into his breakfast. She sits down at the front of the table, the farthest away she can be from him without actually leaving the room. If the Russian's offended by this, he makes no sign of it.
Eating her food, Rogue tries not to think of anything. She's trying not to think of what happened a month ago, and the betrayal of one of her best friends. She's trying not to think of the time she can barely remember, her shorn hair, the metal collar around her neck that makes her feel like an animal, Mr. McCoy alone and distant somewhere outside. She tries not to think about anything, and it's working. When her bowl is empty, Rogue continues to sit, watching listlessly into it as if all the answers will appear there is she waits long enough.
She has no idea how long she's been sitting there with the spoon gripped loosely in her hand, when she feels a touch on her shoulder, light as the wind. Involuntarily, Rogue flinches and jumps, twisting instantly around to see who it is. It is the Russian, his face serene and understanding. He scoops her bowl into his big hand and goes into the kitchen, a mute act of kindness.
Seconds pass before Rogue finds her voice. "Thanks," she whispers, but it's too late for him to hear.
***
After a while, Rogue goes back up to her room without ever having seen anyone else. But spending the day staring out of her window doesn't make the time speed by faster. She watches the fog disperse, the sun rise higher in the sky, and from time to time Mr. McCoy lurking in the yard. She counts the cracks in the ceiling and the individual floorboards, rifles through the few drawers and the closet. Sometime after noon, she sees things with a sudden clarity.
I will go out of my mind, she realizes. If I do this for even one minute longer.
Still not knowing anyone else's whereabouts, she once again opens her door, but this time does not go down the stairs. Instead, she walks straight ahead across the hall and, hesitating slightly, knocks on the door.
"Come in," St. John calls from inside.
Before she can decide to otherwise, Rogue barges into his room and asks, "What do ya guys do ta make the days go bah?"
He's stretched across his bed fully clothed, feet dangling over the side. When she speaks, he looks up from the thick book balanced in his hands and grins.
"Well, look who it is! Y'know, in your absence I've awarded ya the title of Miss Congeniality. Your crown's in the mail. But you asked a question...well, I don't know what the others do, the boys, I mean. Maybe they help Gambit pick off his body lice. But I, well, I read. And try to write from time to time."
"Try ta?"
"I'm not very successful, you see."
"But ya read?" Trying to seem as casual as possible, Rogue rocks slightly on her heels and pretends to inspect a poster of Sydney, Australia thumb-tacked to the wall.
"Sure."
"And...and, ya have books?"
St. John laughs. "Oh, so THAT'S what ya want, then? And here I was thinking you over here to admire my gorgeous late-adolescent body. Well, I'm somewhat relieved, for, eh, certain reasons."
Rogue's mouth twitches into a small, uneasy smile. "Actually, ah was figurin' that ah could do both at the same time."
He's obviously delighted. "A sense of humor, and a good one! Rogue, you've just become my best friend."
But suddenly she's reminded again of his other side, the glee in his eyes at the sight of his own flame, and she's scared, not only at the possible danger he presents, but the fact that she likes him in spite of this. Really, she shouldn't be enjoying the company of ANY if these people other than her own team mates; it would almost be like another betrayal if she did. But Mr. McCoy told her that they'd be there for a while, who knows how long, and to distance herself from everyone just isn't possible. Even a so-called "loner" like herself needs friends. She just has to trust them, though. That's the difficult part.
I can't dance around this forever, she thinks.
"St. John," she says softly. "Ah remember our, uh, our conflict...ya make fire, dontcha?"
His face suddenly becomes sober and uneasy. "Yeah."
"An' yer different with the fire."
He looks away. "Yeah."
"Tell me 'bout it."
St. John sighs heavily. "It's hard."
"Life is hard."
He turns sharply and looks at her silently for a moment before replying, "I know. Okay, jeez. Well, I...I was always one o' those kinds who played with matches, y'know? Even though yer parents told ya not to? I just liked to watch the flames - they were so beautiful, absolutely relentless and uncontrollable. My fingers were always burned, but it was okay. It felt like a fair trade to me, beauty for pain."
St. John gets off his bed and stands near his window, back to Rogue, and continues, "Then I started to burn things. First paper, later other stuff...I liked to see 'em melt. But a couple of years ago, I burned down part of our garage on accident. It really was an accident! I got sent to shrinks an' stuff, to fix up my mind an' whatever made me like fire, an' eventually I was okay. When my...abilities manifested, though, I could make fire and control it! How ironic. Or unfortunate, I can never remember which. Well, to make an already long story short, it's kinda hard to keep myself under control when I'm surrounded in flames. Y'know? But that's why they call me Pyro." He turns back to her and his eyes are red-rimmed and anxious.
"But other than fightin'," Rogue says slowly. "Yer okay? Yer not like that?"
His laugh this time sounds like a hiccup. "Rogue, I really CAN cook. I just won't let m'self near the stove."
It's her turn to sigh this time. "St. John, ever since ah woke up a couple a days ago, ah've been tellin' mahself, don't trust anyone, don't trust anyone. In mah head, ah know ah'm right."
"Oh," he replies, all of his former humor vanished. "I get it."
Now she thinks, and she wants to think. She has to. She thinks of being alone in her room for days, with only Mr. McCoy coming up from time to time with a bowl of soup. She thinks of Evan and Fred somewhere in the house, knowing she's weak and scared, but not visiting her, not supporting her, not assuring her that they're with her. She thinks of the skinny redhead across the hall who managed to ignore her sullen distant behavior with a laugh, trying his best to show her the ropes and even protect her.
"But ah'm gonna anyway," Rogue goes on. "'Cause right now, yer mah best friend too."
He stands in shocked silence, before whispering, "Thank you."
To be continued...
**Author's Note:
Randi - Jeez, I know what you mean. If I had all the X-Men or Brotherhood in this fic, my head would probably explode from the effort of writing them all. You're doing an excellent job juggling them all in Seether, though. AND WHAT WAS UP WITH THE ENDING OF THE NEW X-TREME X-MEN?? Have you seen it??
Darkfire - Rogue will end up with somebody, but not yet. At some point. And don't rule Pietro out...people who've read some of my other fics know I'm a Rietro fan. But really, he could be anyone, excluding Pyro, of course. I mentioned the possibility of them being together in the context of another fic, not this one. Here he's gonna stay gay. Hey, that rhymes...
LotusPen - I'm extremely pleased that people are liking my St. John. So hopefully you're happy with this chapter, which has a lot of Pyro (though he becomes somewhat serious) and even some Piotr, too!
I'm still working with reasonable speed...I hope I can keep up the pace. Here's a question I have of myself - why does St. John dislike Remy so much? Hmmm...I guess I'll have to keep writing and find out!**
Wearing no shoes, she leaves her room, tiptoeing past St. John's closed door and down the stairs. There is a slight panic when she is faced with two identical doors, and realizes that she's not sure which one leads to the kitchen; she doesn't want to stumble into one of the boys' bedrooms or anything, after all. After a minute or so of mental debate, she decides on door number two and is pleased to find she chose correctly. She pours herself a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran) and makes her way into the dining room.
He's sitting in there already, at this early hour. The Russian, with his bowl of cereal. At the sound of her entering, he looks up, but quickly breaks eye contact, staring down into his breakfast. She sits down at the front of the table, the farthest away she can be from him without actually leaving the room. If the Russian's offended by this, he makes no sign of it.
Eating her food, Rogue tries not to think of anything. She's trying not to think of what happened a month ago, and the betrayal of one of her best friends. She's trying not to think of the time she can barely remember, her shorn hair, the metal collar around her neck that makes her feel like an animal, Mr. McCoy alone and distant somewhere outside. She tries not to think about anything, and it's working. When her bowl is empty, Rogue continues to sit, watching listlessly into it as if all the answers will appear there is she waits long enough.
She has no idea how long she's been sitting there with the spoon gripped loosely in her hand, when she feels a touch on her shoulder, light as the wind. Involuntarily, Rogue flinches and jumps, twisting instantly around to see who it is. It is the Russian, his face serene and understanding. He scoops her bowl into his big hand and goes into the kitchen, a mute act of kindness.
Seconds pass before Rogue finds her voice. "Thanks," she whispers, but it's too late for him to hear.
***
After a while, Rogue goes back up to her room without ever having seen anyone else. But spending the day staring out of her window doesn't make the time speed by faster. She watches the fog disperse, the sun rise higher in the sky, and from time to time Mr. McCoy lurking in the yard. She counts the cracks in the ceiling and the individual floorboards, rifles through the few drawers and the closet. Sometime after noon, she sees things with a sudden clarity.
I will go out of my mind, she realizes. If I do this for even one minute longer.
Still not knowing anyone else's whereabouts, she once again opens her door, but this time does not go down the stairs. Instead, she walks straight ahead across the hall and, hesitating slightly, knocks on the door.
"Come in," St. John calls from inside.
Before she can decide to otherwise, Rogue barges into his room and asks, "What do ya guys do ta make the days go bah?"
He's stretched across his bed fully clothed, feet dangling over the side. When she speaks, he looks up from the thick book balanced in his hands and grins.
"Well, look who it is! Y'know, in your absence I've awarded ya the title of Miss Congeniality. Your crown's in the mail. But you asked a question...well, I don't know what the others do, the boys, I mean. Maybe they help Gambit pick off his body lice. But I, well, I read. And try to write from time to time."
"Try ta?"
"I'm not very successful, you see."
"But ya read?" Trying to seem as casual as possible, Rogue rocks slightly on her heels and pretends to inspect a poster of Sydney, Australia thumb-tacked to the wall.
"Sure."
"And...and, ya have books?"
St. John laughs. "Oh, so THAT'S what ya want, then? And here I was thinking you over here to admire my gorgeous late-adolescent body. Well, I'm somewhat relieved, for, eh, certain reasons."
Rogue's mouth twitches into a small, uneasy smile. "Actually, ah was figurin' that ah could do both at the same time."
He's obviously delighted. "A sense of humor, and a good one! Rogue, you've just become my best friend."
But suddenly she's reminded again of his other side, the glee in his eyes at the sight of his own flame, and she's scared, not only at the possible danger he presents, but the fact that she likes him in spite of this. Really, she shouldn't be enjoying the company of ANY if these people other than her own team mates; it would almost be like another betrayal if she did. But Mr. McCoy told her that they'd be there for a while, who knows how long, and to distance herself from everyone just isn't possible. Even a so-called "loner" like herself needs friends. She just has to trust them, though. That's the difficult part.
I can't dance around this forever, she thinks.
"St. John," she says softly. "Ah remember our, uh, our conflict...ya make fire, dontcha?"
His face suddenly becomes sober and uneasy. "Yeah."
"An' yer different with the fire."
He looks away. "Yeah."
"Tell me 'bout it."
St. John sighs heavily. "It's hard."
"Life is hard."
He turns sharply and looks at her silently for a moment before replying, "I know. Okay, jeez. Well, I...I was always one o' those kinds who played with matches, y'know? Even though yer parents told ya not to? I just liked to watch the flames - they were so beautiful, absolutely relentless and uncontrollable. My fingers were always burned, but it was okay. It felt like a fair trade to me, beauty for pain."
St. John gets off his bed and stands near his window, back to Rogue, and continues, "Then I started to burn things. First paper, later other stuff...I liked to see 'em melt. But a couple of years ago, I burned down part of our garage on accident. It really was an accident! I got sent to shrinks an' stuff, to fix up my mind an' whatever made me like fire, an' eventually I was okay. When my...abilities manifested, though, I could make fire and control it! How ironic. Or unfortunate, I can never remember which. Well, to make an already long story short, it's kinda hard to keep myself under control when I'm surrounded in flames. Y'know? But that's why they call me Pyro." He turns back to her and his eyes are red-rimmed and anxious.
"But other than fightin'," Rogue says slowly. "Yer okay? Yer not like that?"
His laugh this time sounds like a hiccup. "Rogue, I really CAN cook. I just won't let m'self near the stove."
It's her turn to sigh this time. "St. John, ever since ah woke up a couple a days ago, ah've been tellin' mahself, don't trust anyone, don't trust anyone. In mah head, ah know ah'm right."
"Oh," he replies, all of his former humor vanished. "I get it."
Now she thinks, and she wants to think. She has to. She thinks of being alone in her room for days, with only Mr. McCoy coming up from time to time with a bowl of soup. She thinks of Evan and Fred somewhere in the house, knowing she's weak and scared, but not visiting her, not supporting her, not assuring her that they're with her. She thinks of the skinny redhead across the hall who managed to ignore her sullen distant behavior with a laugh, trying his best to show her the ropes and even protect her.
"But ah'm gonna anyway," Rogue goes on. "'Cause right now, yer mah best friend too."
He stands in shocked silence, before whispering, "Thank you."
To be continued...
**Author's Note:
Randi - Jeez, I know what you mean. If I had all the X-Men or Brotherhood in this fic, my head would probably explode from the effort of writing them all. You're doing an excellent job juggling them all in Seether, though. AND WHAT WAS UP WITH THE ENDING OF THE NEW X-TREME X-MEN?? Have you seen it??
Darkfire - Rogue will end up with somebody, but not yet. At some point. And don't rule Pietro out...people who've read some of my other fics know I'm a Rietro fan. But really, he could be anyone, excluding Pyro, of course. I mentioned the possibility of them being together in the context of another fic, not this one. Here he's gonna stay gay. Hey, that rhymes...
LotusPen - I'm extremely pleased that people are liking my St. John. So hopefully you're happy with this chapter, which has a lot of Pyro (though he becomes somewhat serious) and even some Piotr, too!
I'm still working with reasonable speed...I hope I can keep up the pace. Here's a question I have of myself - why does St. John dislike Remy so much? Hmmm...I guess I'll have to keep writing and find out!**