DISCLAIMER: I own none of this although I really, really wish Pyro and Gambit were mine for obvious reasons. If you can't see the obvious reasons then why are you even reading this??
(Damnedknight, LadyMageLuna, anon goddess and Laceylou76, thank you so much for your reviews, I was so inspired I couldn't stop writing. You lot give me that extra boost to actually focus on the good things and develop them and for that I cannot thank you enough. For all those of you who are not my fantastic gorgeous reviewers but have put this fiction on Story alert or added me as Favourite Author or Scarlet Letter as Favourite Story, that is naturally very flattering and I appreciate it, but if you took the time to do any of those things, could you perhaps consider giving the author a heads up and just letting a body know why they've apparently churned out something you've deemed worthy of any of those Lists? That would be really helpful. Like I said, reviewing helps me to develop the story and play up the things that make you all want to keep reading.)
~Scarlet Letter ~
Oh, The Finality...
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And Rogue was not alone. In the dusky pink painted room down the hall, a Valley Girl with an aching heart stood in front of the mirror and asked herself why.
In a big, gloomy house downtown a Goth lay curled up in a bed that wasn't hers just so she could imagine there was someone else home.
In the kitchen downstairs a former weather goddess was stirring her own tears into a cookie batter meant to cheer people up.
And in a hotel room somewhere on the other side of Bayville a Cajun prince was thinking of thieving with a heavy heart.
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It didn't seem fair to him that after everything he had done to earn the right to be near her, things still got in the way. Hadn't he given enough already? Was it so hard to expect a little pay-off for all the shit he'd put himself through to make certain she would never have to go through anything like that again? His bourbon didn't answer for all it looked sympathetic.
Cyclops... That lily-livered piece of shit. Oh, he knew all about him. Knew about his relationship with that ridiculously snooty telepath Joan something. Knew about his tendency to overlook the fact that sometimes doing something wrong wasn't wrong at all if you did it for the right reasons. Knew about the way she looked at him. He understood that – well, not understood as in he saw how that could be likely, but he saw where she was coming from. He was normal. Safe. There'd never be an exciting moment, she'd be able to live in a vacuum of tedium for the rest of her life, an atrophied flower on the arm of a man who didn't know how to water her.
He didn't see why she should turn to him for any other reason – his own vanity didn't allow for that, down that road lay self-doubt and questioning of hard truths and once you went down that road you'd never find the game again. But the normalcy, that he understood. Any woman would want the comfort of knowing her man would come home to her – if only because he didn't have family ties worth his head on a silver platter or state files a mile long on all the things he needed to be arrested for. And the worst that could happen to that mealy-mouthed little boy scout who likely shaved twice a day was getting held up at the grocery store because the receipt didn't match the purchases.
Bastard.
But he'd thought that could be worked around. Boy-scout officially off the market, Telepath Barbie busy planning the Big Day, she'd have to accept there was nothing there for her and who should be waiting in the wings but a certain suave Cajun whose self-imposed mission in life was to ensure her every desire was fulfilled? But things didn't go to plan. Why did things never go to plan?! You spent all that time planning and preparing and taking care of anything that might get in the way and Bam – something comes out at you like it was just waiting for you to feel secure in the knowledge that it couldn't. So unfair. So unfair...
He'd been so good – he'd worked so hard – and then her stupid family had to go and interfere! Alright, her brother was sort of endearing in a strange, fuzzy, blue kind of way, and that little Kitten was easy enough to get around with a bit of charm and a wink but that – that – Logan! Since when was he her father? Unless he was stalking her too, which seemed wrong – no, we're not stalking, we're observing to ensure her continued happiness. Yes, yes, the bourbon was right. Good point. He was looking out for her. Logan didn't have to look out for people who were looking out for her, that just made no sense! He knew her mother was rotting somewhere in prison, he'd made sure of that because if there was ever someone who'd be a potential mood-spoiler it was that psychotic bitch. One less thing to worry about. Oh, it wasn't a bad prison, they wouldn't experiment on her and she'd never know who'd drugged her and handed her in, he was far too good for that, but still. Now she was out of his hair and far away from Rogue and that could only be a good thing. And then out of left field, Logan had appointed himself Rogue's father-figure/guardian/avenging angel. That was just a low blow. He couldn't hurt him because Rogue loved him, he couldn't talk to him because he'd get hurt and he damn sure wasn't going to run from it so really his only option was to sneak about and hope to any God available that they didn't get caught chatting too often. Which wasn't going so well.
At least she doesn't hate you. Yes, good point, good point. Upside, yes. Definitely not a bad thing, she didn't hate him. But she doesn't love you either. No, no, perhaps not, but she would. God damn it she would love him and that was it – there was no question of if, it was when. When she loved him, all would be well. Apples, as John would say in that weird, lovable way he had. He briefly wondered how that was going. Best not to think about it too hard. He could always call if he needed help.
No, he'd make damn sure she loved him. If only he could get close enough to do it...
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Something large and slimy hit him in the head. It wasn't pleasant and it didn't smell particularly rosy, so he assumed it had to go. With a bang. Setting fire to it however, seemed a bad idea once the illumination showed him it was in fact the littlest Brotherhoodian, Toad.
"Don't kill me, I swear I didn' mean it yo!" he squealed, and John looked at him in astonishment. It really was the most pathetic thing, the grey-skinned mutant squirming and writhing on the gravel trying to beat out the flames licking around his arms and legs, singing his hair, screeching in the most high-pitched voice John had ever heard come out of the mouth of any male since he saw those boy sopranos in church way back when with his Aunty.
"You ambushed me ya silly frog, didn' your mum ever tell you not to throw yaself at people?!" he shouted back, reducing the flames to a tiny lick in his palm which he held more for comfort than any sense of threat. He didn't need his powers to beat Toad to a bloody pulp and he reckoned the other mutant was well aware of it.
"I didn't mean to, Pietro threw me outside, yo! I jus' got back from holiday!" the amphibious stink-bomb on legs defended himself, though the bravado was severely tarnished by the obvious fact that he ws scared shitless.
"What for?"
"What do you mean what for?!"
"Why did he throw you outside if you're so innocent?" Toad went bright red under the scrutiny of the Aussie who raised an accusing eyebrow at him.
"I – uh – I accidentally had some things in my bag I wasn't s'posed to have an' Pietro got a little mad – what do you care?" the furious blush in Toad's salow cheek s and the shifty look in his eye told John all he needed to know.
"Oh hell mate... You didn' have anythin' o' Wanda's did you?" Toad blushed an even brighter shade of magenta and abruptly began talking as though he were a younger, female – or possibly just castrated – version of Pietro.
"So-what-if-I-did-it's-none-of-your-business-and-you-better-just-not-get-involved-what's-it-to-you-anyway?!" John regarded him with extreme distaste.
"It's wrong," he said simply, disgust evident in his voice and Toad puffed himself up which just added to the ridicule factor since John towered over him anyway.
"Like you wouldn't do the same thing if you had the chance, yo, don' tell me you don't think she's smokin' hot!" John curled his lip in a way that completely knocked the bluster out of the smaller youth.
"It's theft, it's invasion of privacy, and it's downrigh' disturbin' is what it is! If you really liked the Sheila you wouldn' pull that kinda crap at all no matter how bloody stunnin' she is!" he said angrily, and Toad bowed his head in shame.
"Fred says you live here now... Great..." he mumbled before hopping off dejectedly, and John set a determined course for the house.
Once inside he was met by a restless, infuriated Pietro who snapped his attention to him and demanded,
"Where is that slimy little freak?!"
"Out there somewhere. Just yelled at him for bein' a bloody pervert," John said offhandedly, jerking his thumb at the door, and Pietro nodded with a cold satisfaction on his handsome face.
"Can you believe that twisted asshole stole my sister's – " John held up his hand.
"Seriously mate – she's your sister. Leave it there." Pietro looked at him slyly as he passed to go to his room.
"She's in your bed," he said innocently, and John froze, his hand on the banister.
"Pardon?"
"Yeah – she's been in your room all day. Won't come out."
"Jesus..."
"Yeah. Well. Just tell her Toad's gone and dinner's ready," Pietro said with a suspicious note to his voice, and John rolled his eyes.
"Fine.. Sure..."
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She was frightened. One of the single most powerful mutants alive, and she was frightened. Barricading herself in John's room had been a last resort to escape the whispering of the shadows and the murmuring of someone just behind her who was never there when she turned around. To begin with she had thought it was something left over from her nightmares – scenes of freezing in the dark, restricted but unable to see why or how, unable to move or speak, flashing needles and people in white lab coats around her during the few moments where there were lights and she could see. A sort of residual paranoia because the dreams were so lifelike, but the longer it went on and the more real they became the harder it was to shake the feeling when she woke up and if she did it would creep up on her during the day, laying over her like a thick grey mantle of helpless, senseless terror that she couldn't explain or rationalise or remove.
She had escaped to John's room because it was warm – how he acomplished that in a house with no central heating and shitty insulation she didn't know – and it was clean. He had his own TV – she expected Gambit was responsible for helping him move in – and she'd been sifting through his interesting DVD collection earlier until she settled on watching Eddie Izzard which she was now wholly addicted to. She'd had no idea there was comedy out there that wasn't actually about black people vs. white people conflict and sex. Interestingly, he also had a good deal of CDs, which she'd left alone out of the understanding that someone who collects CDs instead of downloading would like them to be left alone and likely had their own system for them, like she did. She had no idea of what he'd think of her camping out in his room in reality – she hadn't given it any thought at all when she'd originally made the decision, but the knock on the door was enough to make her curl into a ball around the pillow she was clutching to her midriff and stare at the door in fear.
"Wanda? Luv, are you in here?" his voice was suprisingly gentle and he didn't seem upset. That was good.
"Y – yes, I'm here..." she called faintly, her voice not quite as brave as the rest of her, and she uncurled herself slowly.
"Would ya mind openin the door then?" She sent a trickle of blue sparks toward the door and the lock clicked open, the door swinging in of it's own accord, and he leant in the doorway and looked at her with interest.
"I – I didn't mean to crash in here, it just – " He smiled at her and came in, closing the door behind him.
"You don't have to explain, I don't mind. I don't hide the bodies in my room anyway," he joked, and she smiled shyly, suddenly very aware that she was sitting in his bed wih his pillows and his comforter piled up around her.
"Ya know when I was a kid I made forts when I was feeling down," he said casually, perching on the edge of his bed and looking at her with those unfairly sparkling blue eyes.
"I didn' have anyone else's room ta steal so I built a fort in mine instead... Pretended I was somewhere else, a whole different world... I could spend hours daydreamin' like that. Drove everyone spare!" There was a sympathy in his voice that never touched on patronising and she looked at him solemnly.
"Why did you feel down?" she asked, and she was surprised to see him flinch, just for a second.
"Aw, no reason ta tell you all my stupid kiddy problems luv, I don' even remember what I was glum about half the time!" he laughed, but the joke didn't reach his eyes and she reached out and touched his hand lightly, her fingers brushing against an oval mark that was lighter and smoother than the rest of his skin.
"You can tell me..." she said, and he shifted his hand away from her fingers.
"If you tell me why you locked yourself in my room I'll tell you all about my whiny whingy childhood," he said evenly, and her hands fled into her lap where they twisted into and around eachother, pulling and tugging at the rings she wore.
"This is so – it's so stupid, you won't even believe it – I don't even know why It was such a big deal, I just – " His gaze held her, calm and open and safe in a way she couldn't fathom how she possibly knew, but it was there. And she had to tell him.
"I have... nightmares... And they're so real, like they're happening or like memories, I don't know, and – I thought it wuld go away, but they've been getting worse and when I've had them... Sometimes when I wake up I feel like someone's watching me. I hear them, too. I can't hear what they're saying but it's – they whisper to me and I can feel them behind me but there's no one there when I look and – it scares me... I didn't know – today it was really bad, everything in my room was all wrong, faded, and I had to get out so – so I came here... I locked the door and I hid... I feel so stupid, it's just some weird idea, it's nothing, I just needed to get away... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been in here and I shouldn't have watched your DVDs or messed up your bed – " He shook his head at her words, eyes closing for the longest moment before he reached out and scooped her feverish hands out of her lap and held them still and apart.
"Wanda... First... You can do whatever the hell you wan' in my room. It's yours. Anythin' ya wan' jus' take it, I won't mind, I might not even miss it. Anytime you feel like it, jus' go ahead if that's what it takes. And the dreams... Dreams like that are never jus' something in your head, okay? They're not stupid and there's nothin' wrong with you. Nothin' that makes you feel that bad is 'nothing'. Clear?" She nodded, lips parted and eyes wide and liquid.
"Second... Don' hurt yaself, okay?" he held up her hands and she could see that in her fidgeting she'd scored deep scratches in her pale skin with her long sharp nails.
"Okay..." she breathed, and he released her hands and nodded, looking suddenly very tired.
"Did you hurt yourself?" she asked, pointing vaguely to his face, and he remembered the cut lip.
"No, just an accident. Barely feel it. Remember luv, I'm a terrorist bastard, we're used ta gettin' the shit kicked out of us – and kickin' the shit out of others too for that matter. Don' worry about me." Her face crinkled.
"But you worry about me..?" the way she said it was almost a question. It hiung in the air between them, suffocating and bigger than she perhaps realised.
"Wanda... You're a girl in a house full of total tossers who all happen ta be males between the ages of seventeen to slightly more than that with a brother who's not always there and a cross between a teenage boy and a Toad gunnin' for your affections. Course I'm bloody worried. If only because you risk dyin' o' bloody starvation like this! Do they ever eat anything that isn't pizza or cereal? I mean Jesus Christ!" She giggled at the comical change in his voice, the overdramatising of his hand movements, and he smiled at her.
"Have you even eaten today?" She shook her head.
"I've been in here watching Eddie Izzard and ignoring things that aren't there." He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed, gentle for all the energy he displayed.
"Then we're going out for something that won't give you food poisoning – or scurvy," he said, opening the door for her and leaving his room.
"John?" she turned to face him, hand on her own door-knob.
"Yes?"
"Will you find me somewhere that serves evil ducks?" His grin widened and she fairly glowed at him.
"I'll do my best luv."
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