Life with the Brotherhood was mundane, mostly. Every morning there was the choice between cereal and oatmeal for breakfast, a side of nonnegotiable fruit. "You'll need the energy today." they would always say when she missed breakfast on account of oversleeping. Always the same words, everytime out of every mouth.
The Brotherhood woke up an hour before dawn, supposedly to train discipline into their members. She was adjusting to the early mornings. It would all be worth it to be able to touch.
Trainings were similarly routine. Magneto's simulator was more dangerous than she was used to. The usual failsafes just weren't there. When an energy beam was close to catching you, it didn't just disappear. It was punishing. She got gashes and bruises, but her reflexes were getting quicker. And John- Pyro… He was always there, fighting by her side and nursing her wounds afterward. It took all she had to remind herself what he'd become, the traitor he was. It was a hard thing to remember, to hate him, when he was asking her if the cold compressor he held against her gingerly was too hot, too cold, or just right.
A wet rag packed with a few melting cubes of ice- most days that would be the only thing between her skin and his. Most days. On Wednesdays and Sundays, they touched. "You can't learn control without practice." Same words out of every mouth everytime.
It started innocently enough. Sparring without gloves, so that every punch she landed had an extra kick. Then they started touching hands.
Just for a few seconds. Then a few more. Again and again until one of them called chicken. They took turns. Sometimes his psyche disturbed her. Sometimes he'd feel too fatigued, too vulnerable. At first they tried to make small talk, but too many topics were touchy: all their shared memories, the X-Men, Bobby, the broken friendship that lay between them like weight tied on both their ankles, the fact that he worshipped the man who once tried to kill her, the failed Cure. So here they sat, silently, palm held still against palm, memorizing each other's eyes.
She saw him getting pale and tried to withdraw her hand. He interlaced their fingers. Hers stayed stiff in the air for a while. She looked into his determined eyes, dark with depth. Her mouth parted for a strong inhale. As she rested her fingers against his skin, bracing against the heat of him as she fought against the rush of his psyche. She became aware of her heartbeat. She became aware of his. His veins were getting thin, his exhales hard. He was starting to feel restless. She could feel it in her blood.
"Are you doing okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." Her voice was cutting.
His body shook. "Are you sure? We can stop." He was bracing himself against her palm, his strength wavering.
She smiled a little. Her mind was getting foggy with his psyche. "We should." she said, softening to him.
He smiled back. "We should." He loosened his grip, ran his thumb up and down the side of her palm.
She gripped his hand tighter with her knuckles, and then slid her hand out. She slumped into the ground throwing herself away from him.. He leaned forward. Their breathing was fast and synchronized.
She hated him. She hated him. She hated him. She couldn't forget that. But it was hard to hold a grudge against his betrayal when she could hear his forgiveness of hers.
"John-" she started.
"Pyro." he corrected her. She'd forgotten for a second. He'd left his past behind him. Most mutants here did the same. She was still on the fence. At least part of this was about getting back to being Marie.
"Pyro. Sorry. Pyro."
"It's okay." he said, reaching over to lay beside her.
If she was being honest, she loved his face like this, a little too pale, his under eyes a little too sunken, his veins visible and blue, and his lips… The first minutes as his veins receded and the blood rushed back into his face, his lips would get flushed.
"We've never held on for that long." she said, her skin glowing as her body adjusted to the heat of his power.
"You can't learn control without practice."
She laughed, weak and breathy. "Of course you'd say that."
His smile slipped for a moment. "We say it because it's true."
"This feels like a game of chicken."
He always recovered faster than she did. His body returned to stasis, while she had to carry a piece of him in her mind. "Are you okay?" he asked again.
Her mind swam. "Yeah." she said, but his eyes narrowed with concern and suspicion.
He touched her again. His hand wrapped around her bicep. "You're not cold." Of course, to him everyone felt cold to the touch.
She lifted her palm up, and he flicked his lighter. He watched her make a rose out of the flames. It reminded him of Bobby. He wondered if it was intentional. Wasn't that off limits? He took the flame from her hand and formed a bird. He had a sharp long beat and soft edges as its wings flapped. He had he fly a few circles over her as she smiled, delighted, and then let it dissipate into smoke.
"Why don't I ever practice with anyone else?" she turned her head, and they laid tired with bared eyes.
He suspected that Magneto and Mystique hoped he'd seduce her. She would need incentive to stay with them once she had control, and the bribe wouldn't quite earn loyalty for the time being either. He knew she was suspecting it now because he did. "What is it like having part of me in your mind?"
She considered answering plainly. It was usually a vague sense of anger and arrogance. He had a repository of rage inside of him that was the first thing she'd feel when she touched him, and it could be overwhelming. But this time, she had taken more. She got full conscious thoughts, and some memories. She learned that he meditated twice a day, after trainings and before bed. She learned he had a mantra that helped curve his more destructive instinct. She also learned he'd liked her when they met, that he thought it below her that she chose Bobby, that he assumed she'd come to him eventually.
He looked like himself again. His skin was full with olive undertones, and a little tanned from the sun. She looked at his lips, less pink and more a tamed terracotta now. Her eyes lingered. She knew he was watching her face as much as she was his. She knew he'd noticed.
"It's crowded." she said, turning her head to face the ceiling with an exhale.
"Rogue- You're beautiful like this, bare and free, your skin running hot like mine." He lifted himself up a little, onto his elbow, to look her in the eyes again.
She smiled, wide but toothless. He loved when her eyes crinkled. "Narcissist." she made fun.
He smiled back. "I want you to know that it wouldn't be for them."
He started to lower his mouth to hers, but she stopped him with a palm against his shirt, eyes directed on his lips. "I'm not me right now. This isn't playing fair." She lifted herself from the ground, pushing him aside to make room, a little dizzy with his thoughts receding from her mind, and his rage sticking to her soul.
She repeated his mantra, ineffective, realizing she would have to come up with her own. 'This isn't me.' And she wondered in that moment, looking at him as he moved closer to her with a calm body and concerned eyes. "This isn't me." she said aloud.
"This is how you're meant to be, Rogue."
She looked at him, the burning in her ribs getting louder. "My name is Marie."
Her voice must have been sharp, because his body tensed. He backed away, gave her a once over while she battled against his lust for destruction, and then he quietly left the room.
Her skin was still hot as his psyche pushed against her.
Her dreams were lucid. She returned to that moment and reset it over and over again. He laced their fingers and kissed her. He laced their fingers and she kissed him. He laced their fingers and she pulled away harder. He called her beautiful and she said it back. He called her beautiful, and she traced his face with her fingertips.
He called her beautiful; he said it wouldn't be for them, and she believed him. They kissed and he laced their fingers. She arched her back and raised her hips to dig herself deeper against him; she licked his lips; he parted her knees with his.
She woke up sticky with sweat and his rage still inside her, hot and demanding.
She peeled the cotton sheets from her skin, took a deep, dry breath, and adjusted her eyes to wakefulness as his presence, softer in her conscious state, throbbed inside her. She had a thirst.
She felt her way to the kitchen, hoping to wake no one this late at night. She liked the privacy this stillness offered. The Brotherhood might be evil, but they were still a family, ever present and nosy. She sat herself at the kitchen counter, illuminated only by the soft light of the range, the glass of water cool against her tongue. Then, the light turned on.
Her eyes shut and braced against the sudden flash of brightness, and she let out a little groan.
"You should be in bed." Mystique reprimanded.
"Well, shouldn't you." Rogue replied, the borrowed heat in her chest burning.
Mystique smiled both corners of her lips into a warm expression. "How is your training going?" she asked as she opened the sink to fill herself a glass.
Rogue hesitated, unsure of how honest she should be, how detailed. She settled on "Hard." Mystique leaned against the counter and took a sip. "It's hard." Rogue repeated.
"It will get easier." Mystique replied. "How is training with Pyro?" she followed up.
"Also hard. " Rogue replied reflexively.
Mystique laughed. "He has a temper when he doesn't get his way."
Rogue paused, lips tightening into a frown. "What do you mean?"
Mystique looked her hard in the eyes, and then took another sip, silent.
"John never lets his temper show." At least she had never seen it, Rogue thought.
Mystique shot malice at her with precision, took the rest of her glass in a couple of gulps, and put it by the sink. "Pyro." she corrected.
"Right, right. Pyro" Rogue repeated to herself.
Mystique pulled a stool out and sat next to her. "You've been here a few months, and you still struggle to call him by his real name. Do you wonder why that is?"
"It's not the same for us." Rogue replied, "I've known him longer, and I knew him as John."
"What did you call him in training, in battle?"
"That's not the same. Our codenames-"
Mystique cut her off. "That's what you don't understand. John was the name given to him before his powers manifested. That life betrayed him, the same way it betrayed all of us. His mutant name is his real name. It is born out of his power, and that power doesn't cease to exist because he is not in battle. That's why he is here. He shouldn't have to pretend to be human."
Rogue braced against her words. "Our powers don't erase our past either."
Mystique frowned at her. "Pyro has a temper. You're lucky you haven't seen it." she measured Rogue. "Go to bed. We only have a couple of hours left before we need to be up for breakfast."