Chapter 11

For her first training session, Rogue wasn't sure exactly what to expect.

One of the things she'd never been able to do in training was use her powers on her teammates, because of the draining effect that resulted from her doing so—not to mention, she'd have that person in her mind, something the Professor was always trying to keep from happening. The closest she ever got was placing her gloved hand on someone's bare skin and then they had to concede that she'd "gotten" them, rather like tag.

Training with Magneto's Brotherhood, however, was something completely different. This wasn't a simulated battle in the Danger Room. This was mayhem. At least, it was for her.

Within the first four minutes of her very first training practice, Mystique rushed at her, Pyro threw fire at her, and Gambit tossed something that looked like a playing card sparking with energy directly at her face. She managed to—barely—sidestep Mystique, duck Pyro's fireball, but she took Gambit's attack full on and it knocked her flat on her back.

"Stop," Magneto ordered, and they all moved away from her. Rogue lay on her back, panting, trying to get a handle on the pain before she stood up. She figured they'd all try again, and her only option was to, what? Run around until they all got tired?

Magneto reached down and hauled her unceremoniously to her feet. "This is a difficulty. You need your powers to train." He crossed his arms and glared at her, as if she had caused this problem on purpose. The cuffs unclipped from her arms, and hovered next to her in the air. "Take your gloves off."

Rogue pulled her gloves off her hands and then held them wordlessly out to him. This was not the time to try to escape, so she may as well play nice and do what she knew he expected. He took them from her and re-attached the cuffs to her wrists. "These go back on after practice, you understand?"

"Yes," she bit out, avoiding looking at the others.

Rogue flexed her fingers, felt the cold air on her skin, and assumed a fighting stance once more. She didn't know how long these sessions lasted, but she had a bad feeling it was going to seem like forever.

"Again," Magneto said firmly, and she turned her attention back to her attackers. Though the others were a bit more careful of her bare hands, it still ended up with her completely outnumbered and on her back within minutes.

As anyone would be, if the odds were three against one, she though, slightly miffed. Mesmero had yet to attack her—she figured he wasn't a very overt fighter, though he could control others and that seemed a pretty powerful advantage. Though he could probably overpower her without his mind-control—he looked quite strong. Rogue was athletic and very quick, but she'd been a few months without training, and it was painfully obvious that she had no experience in fighting with her mutant power.

Luckily, the melee portion of training ended as Magneto wanted to watch her fight with Mystique.

Like Rogue, Mystique had no long-range power and had to rely on physical skill alone in battle. "You'll see Mystique has well learned the defensive nature of her power, like Mesmero, and trained herself to the offensive as well. This is what you'll have to do, Rogue, as you're not a long-range fighter."

Really? Thanks. I hadn't noticed.

That little lesson ended with Rogue pinned to floor, arms twisted underneath her body. Mystique was a lot stronger than she looked. "Who taught you how to fight?" Mystique asked her, hardly sounding winded at all.

"Logan, mostly," Rogue answered between clenched teeth, refusing to cry out or give voice to her pain.

"Thought so. You're not bad, but I can make you faster," Mystique said, moving off of her. The blue mutant moved like water, all languid grace, and Rogue felt like an old woman next to her as she clumsily pulled herself up off the floor. "It will take a lot of practice, and you'll probably get hurt a lot."

"I figured as much when I agreed to stay here," Rogue said, and Mystique stared at her for a long time, which was unsettling.

"Drink a lot of water," was all the other woman said as she walked back to stand next to Magneto.

Rogue fought well with Pyro and Gambit during partner drills, because they could disarm someone from a distance and then she could move in to fight up close. Pyro knocked Gambit backwards, and Rogue managed to grab onto his hand—his gloves were fingerless—and use her power to bring him down.

She felt a rush of something curiously like excitement when it happened--for once, I got to use my powers in training. And they worked.

She got a fair dose of Gambit's mind—that his smarmy personality was a disguise for a rather ruthless intelligence, that he was embroiled in some sort of intrigue with his family back in New Orleans and found the Brotherhood convenient for waiting it out. He believed in Magneto's doctrines to an extent, but he had his own agenda, and was smart enough to figure Magneto knew that about him and had his own reasons for letting him stay. Gambit was more pragmatic than Rogue would have thought.

He also thought that she was cute, which sort of made it hard for her to look at him.

"That's a deadly touch you have there, cherie," Gambit said good-naturedly, standing up slowly, a small grin on his face. "I hope I'm not too much of an intrusion in that pretty head of yours."

Rogue snorted, but the slight hint of his presence in her mind made her feel a bit more daring than usual. "Gonna let me have a card, thief, and try this out?" She waggled her fingers at him.

Gambit laughed and handed her a card with a mocking little bow. "For you," he said generously, and she rolled her eyes when she saw what card he'd given her. The Queen of Hearts. Honestly, did that really work for him? She concentrated on his power, which made her feel jumpy and restless (no wonder he had so much energy, like a puppy), and after infusing the card with it tossed it back to him with a wink.

He sidestepped the explosion neatly and clapped for her.

This amusing exchange was not repeated, however, when she managed to take down Pyro. He was so angry at her, all she felt in her mind was hate. He didn't offer her the Zippo, and she didn't ask, merely suffered the burn of him in her mind in silence. It reminded her of Boston. He wouldn't look at her.

Still, she was learning, and she made sure to take mental notes about how they all fought in case she needed this information when she made her escape.

Gambit goes in fast, after he throws his cards, he's in too much of a rush and he's cocky. But he's really good with that staff, and he can charge that, too. Mesmero fights dirty by making someone else do it for him, but he looks strong even if you do manage to get next to him. Pyro without his damned Zippo is easier to fight hand-to-hand than Mystique, but it will be hard to get past him if he's got the flame out. He's gotten better control since he's been here.

She'd have to figure out Mystique's weakness, and Magneto…she supposed it would be best to somehow render him unconscious from a distance because if there was metal around, it was next to impossible to get near him. In the fortress, of course, there was metal everywhere. Which was a daunting thought, considering her plans of escape, but it was only the first day.

Besides training, she had to assume her share of duties, which wasn't really that onerous. She was fine with cleaning, didn't think she'd mind at all watching the camera on surveillance duty, but the thought of her first cooking assignment was terrifying.

Southern women were good cooks, but Rogue figured there had to be exceptions to that rule and that she was probably one of them. While her family was a few generations removed from Italy, her mom still made the best spaghetti and Rogue had helped her enough to remember the recipe. Her kitchen duties at home, however, had been mostly relegated to—"Marie, put the bread in a basket, would you?"

She could bake homemade chocolate chip cookies, but somehow, she didn't see herself doing that anytime soon. She'd made them once, at the Institute, over Christmas when most everyone had gone home.

On Wednesday, she'd showered after training (which was annoying, as she had to find Magneto for him to remove the cuffs, and then he waited outside her bedroom door for her to be finished) and downed four aspirin, then cut off some burned singes of hair and went downstairs to face the kitchen.

There were basic ingredients for spaghetti—thankfully—but she was suddenly unsure of herself. She was used to a recipe that fed three people, not six. So I should just double everything, then, right? She rummaged through the fridge, looking for garlic, beginning to panic. How was she supposed to make spaghetti if there wasn't any garlic? She found an onion and grabbed it with relief, searching through the cabinets for a cutting board.

How hard can this be? It's just spaghetti.

Magneto finally came looking for her an hour later.

"Rogue, we're all curious as to what you are doing in here."

What she had created was more a disaster than dinner. There was a pot on the stove that contained far more pasta than six people could ever possibly eat, and another with a thick red substance that was bubbling threateningly.

"Um, making dinner?" She looked up at him, realizing she must look a mess. She was sweaty and had streaks of red sauce on her gloves. And probably on her face, too.

He looked around doubtfully. "What have you done to my kitchen?" He picked up one of the cooking utensils she'd left on the counter and prodded the noodles. "You've overcooked these, Rogue, by about twenty minutes I'd say." He winced as he examined her pot of sauce. "And this appears far too thick. It looks more like paint."

"What, don't you like soppy noodles and tomato paste?" she demanded, hands on her hips, forgetting for a moment to whom she was speaking.

"Not especially." He shook his head at her. "Let us see if we can salvage this." He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up and reached for the pot of pasta.

Rogue stared at him warily, not trusting his offer of helpfulness. Catching her expression, he rolled his eyes and carried the noodley mush to the sink. "I would like to eat, too," he said simply, and overturned the pasta into the colander she'd placed in the sink and then carried it over to the trashcan.

"Um, what if I said I'd used all the spaghetti?" she said nervously, flattening herself against the fridge, convinced he was going to pummel her to death with the metal trashcan.

Without a word, he opened the pantry, reached inside, and tossed two boxes of elbow macaroni at her. "Here."

Rogue found the now-empty pot and filled it back up with water, putting it back on the stove and turning the heat to high.

"Now, add some water to that," he instructed, nodding towards her sauce. Still skittish, she filled up a cup and dumped it into the pot. "And for god's sake, turn the heat down."

She complied, watching him nervously, her entire body tense.

"Did you put anything besides tomato paste in there?"

"Some onion." She tried to move surreptitiously backwards, away from him.

"Please tell me you cut it up first?" His voice sounded strained.

"Yes," she said, stung. "I'm not an idiot."

"This does not help convince me otherwise," he informed her, gesturing towards the mess she'd made, and she forgot her fear for a moment and scowled. He didn't appear bothered by it in the least.

He opened a cabinet above the stove and took out some spices. "Garlic. Oregano…these spices are nice in sauce. Rogue, why did you try and cook spaghetti if you don't know how to make it?"

Gritting her teeth, she snatched the garlic powder and upended a fair amount of it into the pot. "I do know how. Mama always used fresh garlic and oregano, and I didn't think you'd have any spices."

"Don't judge our culinary supplies on Pyro's attempts at meals," he said blandly. He reached for the wooden spoon, which was next to her on the counter. In doing so, his hand brushed against her arm lightly, and Rogue made a small, startled sound, jumping backwards instinctively.

He turned her, looking exasperated. "Would you please stop with this nonsense? I'm not going to kill you. I just need the spoon." He picked it up. "See? Now get back here and watch me, so that we don't have to have this lesson again."

Rogue stayed where she was. "I---I'm sorry, I just can't relax around you," she said honestly, twisting her hands together.

"I see that. Could you at least stop acting like I'm going to do something nefarious every time I look at you? We're on the same side now, aren't we?" His tone was measured as he stirred the sauce, which did look much better.

No, Rogue thought vehemently, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to return to where he was standing. "I'll—I'll try. Should I add the pasta?"

"Is the water boiling?" he asked, as if speaking to a toddler. "Then I would suspect so."

Rogue resisted the urge to upend the boiling water over his head, and opened the box of pasta with a lot more force than was necessary. She added both boxes to the water then reached out to turn the heat down. That was her problem last time, apparently.

"I think I need another pair of gloves," she said, looking down at hers. She wrinkled her nose, reminded of waiting tables at the diner and how she'd thrown away more gloves in that small span of time than in the whole time she'd been at Xavier's.

"You must go through a lot of those," he said idly, looking down at her hands.

"I buy them on clearance right after winter," she said suddenly, then blushed. What was she doing?

"That makes sense. Mystique does the shopping—just let her know if need more." He walked to the sink to wash his hands.

"Okay." Rogue looked around the kitchen. "So, I guess the pasta will be ready and then everyone can have dinner." She would like to have another shower and then go to bed, and just skip dinner entirely.

"That is usually the way these things work," he said solemnly. He raised an eyebrow at her.

Rogue winced, knowing what he was expecting her to say. "Thank you for helping me," she intoned perfunctorily, with all the enthusiasm of a corpse on the way to its grave.

He laughed. "Oh, why, you're welcome. Such a gracious young lady you are," he said, and her expression darkened.

"I didn't ask--" she began hotly, but he raised his hand.

"Stop, please. The last thing I am interested in is watching you throw a tantrum. You're an adult—you should act like one," he chastised her, and she really, really wanted to hit him with something, but he was probably right.

She took a very deep breath. "Fine. Thank you for saving dinner, and I promise I'll do all the dishes."

He gazed at her thoughtfully. "It is Pyro's night to do the dishes."

She snorted. "You think I want him to have to do the dishes after this? No thank you. He hates me enough as it is," she muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She realized she was probably getting tomato sauce on the white, which was embarrassing. I can't win.

He narrowed his eyes shrewdly, but merely turned away and took up the pan of water. "Tell everyone dinner is ready."

She paused before leaving the kitchen, watching him carry the pan over to the sink. Her eyes were drawn to the bare skin of his arm, on which she saw the small blue numbers tattooed on his skin as he emptied the pasta into the colander.

Her mouth opened, but she wasn't sure what she was going to say, so she turned instead and left the kitchen, silent.