Disclaimer: This goes for this part, any part I have written or will write, I don't own the X-Men…but if I did I'd make sure as hell I had a restraining order against Brett Ratner.

Part 2-'even worse beginnings…'

It should have been so simple, she would take the cure, she'd be able to touch and everything would come up roses. But she should have known, all roses have their thorns. Great big ugly thorns that tore deep, leaving bitter ugly scars that bled like there was no tomorrow.

Rogue's heart had skipped a beat when they announced that there was a cure, when they'd said there was a way to mend what was broken. She could be fixed, she could be 'cured.'

And it hurt being shot down by Storm, being told there was no cure because there was nothing wrong with any of them. But what did she know; she had the luxury of feeling skin on skin, the sense and warmth one got simply from being in close proximity with another body without being afraid. Unless she took this chance she would never have that. And she wanted it, so badly, so much that it was a physical ache.

She shivered waiting in line, waiting to change, waiting to be fixed vainly trying to push back the various nagging voices in the back of her mind. She'd deliberately taken the bus to the clinic on the other side of town, knowing that when Bobby found out what she was doing he'd try to stop her.

And she wasn't doing this for Bobby, at least not just for him. It was for so many reasons; she would never allow herself to be considered to be so weak as to do this for a guy. No, there were so many other factors here, so many other things. Small things that nobody else ever had to think twice about. They all took fit for granted, the sense of touch, the world took it for granted, she'd long noticed that, ever since her mutancy had kicked into force.

One only ever really considers what an innate, what an intrinsic wonderful sense of being it is to be allowed to touch when it is taken away. What a truly wonderful thing the human sense of interaction, the sensation of simply laying a hand on another is, for to touch she found, is to live.

And Rogue wanted to live, for so long she had felt as if she was drowning, her body and her very soul seemed to be ebbing away succumbing to the darkness and the numb emptiness that is a life devoid of touch.

Being at The Academy had not helped, she could not be buried in obscurity here, differences were celebrated, mutancy was practiced without fear. But Rogue resented the fact that they could brush past each other in the hallway, that they could hold bare hands under the table, and pass plates over it with no fear. They didn't even think about, and she would watch with a growing ache and a fast beating heart as they went about it, skin on skin, wholly without consideration. Laughing, not fearing, even as she sat opposite them, with her long black gloves, being careful, always so careful.

More often than not she simply left them to it, got up and walked away, feeling cynical and tired, and so jaded. She would always be the lonely one, the one who couldn't touch, who couldn't live. So she forewent lunch in the canteen, preferring to skip a few meals if necessary. She didn't mind that her weight was dropping drastically, and the dark rings were getting more noticeable around her eyes.

But others noticed for her, someone did mind. He never said much, but he saw it all, and he felt for the kid. Logan had been used to keeping a careful eye on her, but lately it had seemed she was resenting even that. And so he had tried to leave her to it, tried to give her the independence she craved, to not think of her as a kid.

And as a result they had drifted apart, he shutting himself down after Jean's death at Alkali Lake, and she concentrating and being in turns frustrated by her relationship with Bobby.

But Jean it appeared was back, albeit batting for the other side and there was the cure. That cure, the elixir to end all evils, to end her suffering. She knew they wouldn't understand, she knew better than ask for their blessing, they wouldn't, they couldn't understand and so as usual she went alone.

She strode with a purpose down that hall, her long hair bouncing around her shoulders, the white streaks in them doing their own merry dance. She was going to sneak out, get it over and done with before anyone could think to ask her to explain herself. But he found her; she smiled faintly at the sound of his voice asking her if she needed a lift. He found her, somehow he always did.

Their conversation was mercifully short; he knew what it was to suffer, to keep memories locked in your head, to be fearful, always fearful. He had suffered, for years he had suffered as she had, struggling with his own nightmares of a past that came as an assault on the senses. That came in the dead of night, where he feared being violated in such a manner again, being stripped of an identity and being moulded, shaped into something unnatural.

She feared the same; her mutancy made her a thing unnatural, and made her afraid she'd never be touched. So he had let her go with precious little fight, and she had been thankful for his almost casual dismissal. Finally, maybe she could go back.

Back to being what she had been before, back to the name and the girl she had insisted Logan call her even as he walked away. Marie.


He watched her through the one way mirror, smiled as his brave girl did her best but ultimately failed to appear unafraid of the needle approaching her arm.

He watched and flinched along with her, his own flesh seeming to pucker in intensity and sympathy as the thin metal first touched and then broke through her skin.

He had long watched her, even before her powers had manifested, true he had been young then, but he knew, even then he knew that she had potential. And so he had kept a careful eye on her, when she had run away from her parent's house and ended up in Laughlin city. And had long been aware of the growing jealousy that grew into a pointed, forceful ache when she had seemed to have found a home with the X-Men and Xavier's academy, but he knew it wouldn't last. His Rogue was never destined to be caught up within their restrictions, their rules and their insistence on doing the right thing.

He had known it would not last, so he had waited patiently, waited and watched, always watching. And as the winds changed, he had smiled wider when he had seen her in the line. The cure would lure her as he had known it would.

No, she was meant for far greater things, a far greater destiny. His Rogue had potential all right and he was going to make damn sure she would reach it, whether she knew it or not.

He made his silent vow even as he watched the needle being driven home, and watched her flinch against the straps of the gurney. He had watched and he had waited, and he was going to wait just a little longer…