Disassociation

Day of wrath, day of anger
will dissolve the world in ashes,
as foretold by David and the Sibyl.
Great trembling there will be
when the Judge descends from heaven...---English Translation, Dies Irae.

Rogue likes London because she can blend in, fade into the crowd. She's not used to being around so many people who obviously could care less who you are. That she can walk around and take tours of the Tower of London without attracting undue attention makes her laugh.

It's winter, so no one questions the gloves, but even if it were summer she doesn't think anyone would notice. Sometimes she doesn't even hide the white streaks of her hair.

Humanity's apathy will be the cause of its own destruction.

No one connects the young woman with the soft southern accent who buys a chocolate croissant and a cup of coffee with her morning newspaper with the highly dangerous, internationally wanted mutant terrorist named Rogue. Which is a good thing, because at this point the authorities will likely shoot first and ask questions later, so it is imperative they hide and do it well.

Mystique has it the easiest when it comes to hiding. Magneto has her doing intelligence and Mesmero is with her, though Rogue isn't sure where they are. Pyro and Gambit are both in Greece, which makes her slightly jealous because she hates the cold and Pyro tells her that he's been in the ocean the last time they speak.

They don't speak often, not since they left the fortress. They are supposed to regroup in the Spring, after the groundwork for the next mission is completed. She doesn't know what it is, Magneto hasn't told her much of anything, but it must be in London since that's where he is.

Whatever it is definitely involves a lot of planning. Magneto is on the phone a lot, meets with a lot of sketchy looking characters in the back alleys of London and by the docks of the Thames. It makes Rogue feel like she's in a spy movie on the occasions she accompanies him. Sometimes she goes by herself, meeting contacts, arranging for deliveries of things to places that are just addresses on a piece of paper to her.

Sometimes she doesn't have much to do at all, and so she explores the city. She's never been to London, and while she has some of Erik's memories they are of a city vastly different (she's embarrassed when someone had tells her a place she so vividly remembers has closed nearly thirty years ago) so she buys a guidebook and takes tours on the weekends. Sometimes he goes with her, though not often.

She and Erik are living in a flat in Knightsbridge. The place is very small and has a leaky sink in the kitchen and no dishwasher. The floors are wooden and creak a lot and the place is really drafty.

Despite this they live together rather well, mainly because they are both quiet and neat and night owls. They talk a lot after dinner, which they always eat late, sitting on the floor of the small living room and ignoring the dining room table which is perpetually cluttered with papers.

Back at the fortress they shared a room and a bed but little else besides; here, by the nature of being the only two people in residence, it is more intimate somehow. She doesn't mind, but it's strange. Different, than before.

The neighbors likely thought Rogue was his daughter when they first arrived. The walls aren't very thick, so possibly they don't think that anymore. Everyone minds their own business—she doesn't even know the neighbor's names, though she knows a lot about their lives.

Erik calls her Marie most of the time to keep things simple. He's impeccably polite to their neighbors or to any human they happen to interact with. They'd never know that he tried to kill them all. It makes her shiver—not always unpleasantly—to think about that, when they're having dinner somewhere and Erik smiles at the waitress as he hands over their bill.

She realizes one day while she is taking a tour of the crypt beneath St. Paul's Cathedral why everything feels weird. It feels like she is living a normal life—a human life—in a society to which she no longer belongs. She has grown used to training and studying and she feels idle, useless.

There are times she is standing on the tube, careful to keep herself aloof even though she is mostly covered up because of the cold, and looks around at the faces of men and women and children and wonders why she feels nothing. No regret, no remorse for what she's done, for what she will do, for the Brotherhood.

Sometimes she finds other mutants. One time she sees a woman turn a corner very quickly, a tail disappearing along with her. Another time she watches as two kids taunt another little boy with the phrase "mutie" and throw stones from the street at him. She remembers then why she doesn't have any remorse.Because they don't. Only Erik's stern admonition that they stay hidden keeps her from killing those two boys. She doesn't care that they're children.

She only cares about the mutant. She follows him a ways down the street when the boys leave, to make sure he goes somewhere to get the bleeding taken care of, and when she sees him disappear into a house, she turns around and goes home.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

Erik is a good cook, but he is very busy and can't always fix them dinner. He's smart enough not to depend on Rogue's cooking abilities for their nutritional needs, so most of the time he gives her money and sends her out to get dinner.

She goes a lot of different places, but her favorite is the Thai curry "take-away" down the block from the flat. In fact she goes there so often that the cashier nods and mutters, "pad thai with tofu, panang curry, two spring rolls," and the price when she comes in. Rogue waits next to the cashier, listening to the sound of the men speaking to each other in their native language. She wonders if there are a lot of mutants in Thailand.

It is hot in the restaurant from the steam. It usually takes approximately ten minutes from the time she orders until they hand her the food wrapped up in a brown paper bag.

While she waits, Rogue takes her jacket off and looks up at the pictures of Thailand in clear plastic frames. She wonders if any of them had ever been there, if they miss it. It makes her think of Mississippi but she doesn't miss it. She misses the fortress, because that is home.

"Hey, the Dropkick Murphys. You a fan?"

The words startle her, and it takes her a moment to realize the person is speaking to her. Rogue turns around, confused, and then remembers she's wearing a t-shirt of Pyro's over a long-sleeved black shirt. The shirt has a shamrock on it and green lettering; Rogue's always liked green so she absconded with the t-shirt when they left the fortress.

"Not really," she says, shrugging. She's not as good yet as Erik as conversing with them, the people that step out of the crowd and try to interact. She's shy by nature.

"Just fancy the shirt, do you?" The boy is British but he reminds her a little of Pyro; not terribly tall but lanky with dark hair and dark eyes.

"It's not mine."

"Your boyfriend's, is it?" he asks, moving closer. "I hear girls do that, steal a bloke's shirt when they're dating."

She tries to imagine wearing one of Erik's shirts in public and can't. She tries to imagine calling Erik her boyfriend and can't "It's my brother's shirt," she says without thinking. "But he likes the band."

"You're an American," the boy observes, stopping just in front of her. He's taller than Pyro but not as tall as Erik. "You sound like—whas'er name—Scarlett O'Hara."

"I get that a lot," Rogue says amicably, then turns away as the man behind the counter holds out her order. She takes the bag, the paper crinkling in her hands.

"You need someone to walk you home, love? This can be a dangerous city."

Rogue turns and looks back at him. Her smile is sharp. The boy must see something in her expression because he looks away first, down at the dirty linoleum floor streaked with mud.

"Yeah. I've heard that." Rogue leaves and doesn't look back.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

"A boy asked to walk me home today," she says, spearing a piece of beef with the end of her chopstick. She's getting better using them but the way she does that with the meat amuses him.

"Oh? Did you lead him into an alley and kill him?"

Rogue stares at him, torn between amusement and horror. "You have a demented idea of romance, Erik."

He smirks at her. "Who said that was about romance?"

She shrugs, drinking her soda. Coke tastes funny here. Erik only ever drinks water so she's not sure if it's just her or not. "Is something the matter, Marie?" He knows her well, Erik. She's quiet but usually not like this, tense and unhappy.

Rogue debates telling him what the problem is. She doesn't want to complain. "I feel weird," she says slowly, twirling the chopstick in her gloved hand. It slides easily over the silk covering her hands. She usually takes her gloves off to eat but she's forgotten. "Going out and getting dinner. Having boys ask to walk me home. Going on tours of St. Paul's cathedral." She pushes her food away. "I feel like a human." Her tone is disgusted.

He places his carton of pad thai on the coffee table. "Come here," he orders her, and she has never been able to resist that tone of command in his voice so she obeys him immediately.

Rogue moves around the low coffee table to where he is sitting on the floor. He pulls her into his lap and moves so that his back is against the sofa. "Take your gloves off," he says sharply, his hands moving up and down her back.

Her breath catches at his touch, as usual. "Erik, this is dangerous," she reminds him, but she tugs her gloves off with her teeth. The air feels good on her skin. Her hands are very white and soft—there is something to be said for wearing gloves every day.

"I know," he murmurs, and his fingers close over her wrist. Erik is very strong and his grip tightens like a vise, pulling a gasp from her.

She struggles for a moment; old memories stir, being forced to do this is not something she wants to play at. "What are you—" she gasps as she feels the pull, a rush down her spine, a zing on her skin. It feels good, using her power, a good pain she hasn't felt in a long time.

"When they locked me up in that prison I would dream about metal." He doesn't let go of her arm, though she knows this is painful for him. "I will never do that to you."

She cries out as his mind rushes into her—powerful, cool, determined. She's never known certainty like his before. She takes in his memories of prison, of static plastic, and understands why he's doing this. Her back arches under the pull of it and she's momentarily lost to it, to him. His power within her makes her hyper-aware of everything metal in the room.

She pulls away at length, gasping. He is white-faced but composed, watching her. She feels around with his borrowed power for something to move, something to warp. She wants things to bend to her will, wants to twist iron just because she can.

It's the longest she's held on to him since Liberty Island. Even during the moments when they are careless, she never takes this much. His thoughts and hers are confused together and she loses herself, drowning.

You're not human. I will give you a world where you do not have to hide, if I have to die trying.

It's not just her. It's Pyro and Gambit, and Mystique and Mesmero. Even the rest of them, Charles' children, safe in their well-guarded mansion. Though he will kill them, too, if he has to.

And so will I.

"I will do anything for you," she promises him, pupils dilated. "Anything," she says fiercely. She can feel the press of metal all around her—she levitates a pen from the countertop and a fork in the sink just because the power wants an out.

She braces herself unsteadily with her hands on his shoulders, still sitting in his lap. They're both breathing very fast. It feels almost like sex, a little, taking his mind and his power inside of her. More intimate than sex, maybe. "Good," he says quietly. His normally chill eyes are burning-blue.

Mutant. Lover. Soldier. He's proud of her, of what she's become. She is lost under the weight of his approval for a moment; it is heady, thick like wine in her veins.

Her hands tighten on his shoulders as she stares down at him. She loves him, but she's never told him that. It doesn't matter, not really. "I will kill for you," she promises him huskily, because she knows that matters more to him anyway. He would do the same for her, in a heartbeat.

It's love, of a sort.

He doesn't say anything but she knows he's pleased. He shoves her down, hard, and the floor is solid beneath her back. She doesn't tell him to be careful, because she knows he doesn't want to hear it. She's under no illusions why he wants her; there is something thrilling about being with someone whose very touch could kill you. Triumphing over it, being more powerful than nature, these are things he is arrogant enough to find exciting.

She puts her arms around his neck and arches into him. She wants this, always. There is something precious about a lover who will ignore the fact your skin can kill, and maybe that's not the best reason for sleeping with him, but she doesn't care.

It's strange but it works. She feels better than she has in days, more alive, and she's pulling at him and tossing her head back and forth on the floor as his gloved hands slide up the flushed skin of her stomach.

Afterwards they finish eating dinner, which is still good even if it's cold, and listen to the sound of the couple that lives below them fighting. "I always expect that man to shoot her, one day," Rogue tells him, sliding bare fingers across the wood in slow, lazy patterns.

Erik smiles at her, appearing very relaxed. "She has a very shrill voice. I almost wouldn't blame him."

Rogue smiles back. "Me neither. But I guess he's not been home in four days."

"Can you blame him?" Erik rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't want to come home to that, either."

"No. She's sort of horrible." She settles back against the couch. "Oh, that's mean, what he just said about her mother. I wonder if she'll throw his stuff out on the street again?" She takes another bite of her curry. The taste is spicy-hot in her mouth and she revels in the sensation of it. Everything seems more vivid, more alive. Including me.

The sound of shouting is followed by the sound of something breaking, like glass. Sobbing ensues as the door slams, announcing the man's departure. "Probably going for a pint at the pub." Erik shakes his head. "Then he'll come home drunk and we'll hear this all over again."

"Stay tuned for next week's episode; The Aftermath," Rogue intones, and Erik laughs. The flat doesn't have a television, only a clock radio in the bedroom. Their neighbors are the only form of entertainment they have.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

"What does it feel like?"

They're walking back from dinner a few days later. Rogue had a glass of wine and is very relaxed. She barely notices the press of people as they walk. Erik has his arm around her waist, which is unusual, but nice.

"What does what feel like?" He looks down at her, leading her easily through the crowd.

"The city."

He looks surprised. She wonders if anyone has ever asked him that before. Possibly it's because she's had his power, even though it's just momentary, that she knows to ask at all.

"It's heavy. Loud." His hand flexes against her back. It makes her shiver a little. She never forgets that he's powerful, dangerous. For some absurd reason, she wants to watch him make a skyscraper collapse.

"There's a lot of metal at home," she says, leaning closer, referring to the island fortress. "Is that loud too?"

"No. It's much more quiet," he says with a shrug. "Orderly. I designed it that way. This is…" he waves his free hand. "Chaotic. Too much in one small space."

"You don't like it?"

They pause at the light, waiting to cross the street. Erik looks over to the building next to them, flanked with wrought iron lattices from a bygone age. "Some of it I like." The cars breeze by, fast and quick, shadowy dark shapes in the night. "Some of it I don't."

They walk towards the flat, quiet, and Rogue is hyper-aware of the world around her. She hears couples laughing, kids whining, people fighting. She hears music blaring loudly from the buildings they pass, she hears car horns honking and the occasional shout of an enraged driver.
By the time they are home, she feels like her nerves are frayed at the ends.

"How do you stand it?" she asks him, her eyes searching his.

"How do I stand what?"

"Being here, with all these people, as if we belong." It has to be harder for him; he's been removed from this for longer than she has.

The door to the flat swings open. He never needs a key. "We are the ones who belong, Rogue," he says quietly, using her mutant name for the first time in several weeks. Hearing it makes her frazzled nerves relax, a little.

Before she can respond, the door to their downstairs neighbor's flat opens. The woman is standing there, face tear-stained and eyes swollen. "Oh," she says, her eyes downcast, voice thick with sorrow and disappointment. "I thought you were…someone else."

"You wouldn't be the first," Erik says, and Rogue hears the sardonic amusement in his tone but doesn't think the woman would be able to understand it.

"I don't suppose you saw him? My husband?" She takes a deep breath. "I haven't seen him for a few days, and…"

"I don't believe I have…have you seen him, my dear?" He looks down at her, and Rogue can't tell if he wants her to say something specific or not.

"No," she says quietly, which is the truth. "I haven't." She watches the way the woman looks at her, standing in the hallway with Erik's arm still around her waist.

The woman steps closer to Rogue, which makes Rogue nervous. She feels Erik's arm tighten a little on her waist, but otherwise he makes no other move. There is a metal staircase that curves up to their floor; she is in no danger from this miserable human.

"He'll leave you one day," the woman says, glaring at Erik, as if he is the source of all her problems. If only she knew. "They always do. He'll leave you for someone younger…" she starts to sob, loud, racking cries that shake her entire body.

"I think that might be illegal in most countries," Rogue murmurs, and hears Erik snort.

"You think he loves you, but he's just using you!" The woman screams, her face twisted and ugly. "He'll go out and drink and come home and never remember that he used to say you were beautiful, he'll forget all of it, and then he'll scream awful things about your mum and he'll throw it all away, everything you have, and then you'll be sorry!" The woman sinks to the floor, unable to speak. "You'll be sorry when you're just like me."

The neighbors across the way come out of their flat; a young Indian couple, they speak rapidly in words Rogue cannot follow as they lean down and touch the woman on the shoulder, trying to help her stand.

Her feeling of disassociation grows worse. Erik leads her up the stairs and she doesn't look back. She can still hear the woman sobbing, can hear the young Indian couple murmur in quiet, comforting voices.

Erik turns to look at her as the door closes. He reaches out and gently pulls on the white lock of her hair. "I do think you're beautiful," he says gruffly, and she thinks it's the first time he's said that to her, but maybe it isn't. She knows he thinks she's beautiful, but maybe that's because she's had his mind in hers.

He pulls her to him, but she's still tense, still anxious, and cannot relax in his embrace. "Would you…?" Her hands come up and rest on his shoulders, curling into the fabric of his black winter coat. She presses her flushed face against the chilled wool, rubbing it a little, like a kitten.

"Of course." He leads her into the bedroom and she pulls her gloves off with relief, tossing them on the dresser. She sits on the bed, too warm despite the draft that comes in through the window.

He tosses his coat and his hat on the chair, then pulls off the leather gloves he'd been wearing and sits next to her on the bed. This time he takes her face in his bare hands, something he's not done since Liberty Island.

She's pleading with him with her eyes, just as she'd done that long-ago night, but this time it's not because she wants him to free her.

Don't let me become that woman. Don't let me be one of them.

The sharp pull of her powers is a relief. Her dark eyes fill with tears, though they are not of fear or of sorrow. She never blinks; she watches him as it breaks over her, until he finally pulls away, gasping for air.

When it is over, Rogue moves metal objects around the room while he recovers. She opens the window with a wave of her hand so she can feel the city with his metal-sense. "You're right," she says, smiling at him, uncaring of the cold. "It's loud."

The press of all the metal is heavy but not entirely unpleasant, and she can feel the newer metal in the city as it melds in jagged lines with the old. Chaotic. It hums outside the window; eventually she closes it and turns back to him. "Thank you."

He's smiling at her indulgently. "Come to bed, Marie." He holds out his hand, gloved again, which can mean only one thing. She takes it and he pulls her to him again; this time she relaxes into him, into his embrace.

Downstairs she hears a door slam, but she's too distracted to think much of it.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

Later that night she wakes up to the sound of shouting, drifting up through the floor. .

You sorry bastard, I'll cut your bollocks off if you ever dare do that again, I thought you were dead, how dare you—what are you doing, no, put that away…!

Groaning, Rogue reaches over and turns on the clock radio to the classical station. She turns it up as loud as it will go; the music is some choral piece with loud, frantic chords and a furious, powerful vocal.

"What is this?" she asks sleepily.

"Mozart's Requiem," he murmurs in response, pulling her back into his arms with his chin resting on top of her head.. "It's the Dies Irae. The Day of Wrath," he translates, and she smiles and falls asleep, safe and warm.

ooooooooOOOOoooooooo

In the morning there are police downstairs, and a silent ambulance outside the building, lights off.

The police are interviewing the young Indian couple. Rogue sees two paramedics pushing a stretcher with a body bag on top into the ambulance. She wonders which of them is dead, and sort of hopes it's the woman. At least then they might not have to hear all that shouting anymore.

No one thinks to stop her as she leaves, humming, on her way to get her croissant. She steps over the police tape on her way out.

Humanity's apathy will be the cause of its own destruction.