Curiosity
Chapter 5: Pandora Complex
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters involved – Marvel does. I'm just engaging in wild flights of fancy, for fun and not for profit. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I'm going to be delving a little deeper into Rogue's head in this chapter. Which is fun to write, because she's not the only one in her head right now. I'm writing her as "she" even though Logan is . . . not in charge, but definitely right now the overwhelming vote in a weird sort of duality/democracy. Also, I'm taking the opportunity to get Remy's POV out there, and sort of set the groundwork for their interactions.
Also, note that the story is rated R (M). This chapter is one of the reasons. If you don't care to read foul language, violence, or moderately graphic depictions of ahem encounters (flashbacks, really), don't read. Although, the story involves Remy, so I think the "graphic depiction" should probably go without saying . . .
Another quick note. I've been struggling with this chapter, because I want to fit so much in, so I've decided to introduce a narrative device to sort of separate Remy's POV from Rogue's – they each have their own lead-in, but the middle section of this chapter will have Rogue's POV written in bold, and Remy's POV will be unadulterated text (as will the omniscient POV, which should in and of itself make it obvious whose POV is being adopted at any given point).
This looks to be a long one, so without further ado, I present the story.
She made her way stealthily through the darkened corridors, instinct and years of training taking over and guiding her as she avoided the security cameras. She knew this place, knew every turn and every door, but she couldn't say from where in her fragmented memories she knew it; with a final glance behind her to make sure she wasn't followed, she disabled the main alarm, the 10-digit code another tidbit she couldn't quite place.
She'd been heading unerringly toward the garage, drawn by the scent of rubber and oil and sweat – it smelled like freedom; as she slipped into the room, a stray beam of light glinted enticingly off of metal and paint. As her night vision adjusted to the almost complete lack of light, she saw it. It was standing a little apart from the rest, as though it were too good to associate itself with the mundane machinery littering the vast room, and the faint ambient light slid lovingly over its sleek curves. She threaded her way through the clutter, skirting past a slightly beat-up Skyline without a second glance, stoically ignoring the candy-colored lineup of Italian sports cars.
Too flashy. The bike, on the other hand . . . it crouched menacingly in the corner, all gleaming black paint and anodized metal. No flashy, garish chrome on this Harley; the Dark Custom was all business, from the straight-shot exhaust to the inverted fork telescopic front suspension to the v-twin engine mounted squarely at the heart of the beast. It was perfect. (1)
She smiled, a cold smile filled with promise. She was almost out, and once she was free . . .
Remy was glad of his trench coat as he leaned against the garret, using the structure to break the chill evening breeze. Indian summer meant warmth while the sun shone but now, underneath the stars, fall was announcing its arrival.
He twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers; the view from the roof of Xavier's mansion was spectacular, but it wasn't the stars set in the night sky like brilliant jewels that had him preoccupied. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing in upstate New York. Or rather, what he was still doing here. Storm was family, pure and simple – closer, even, than the family he was so eager to avoid at the present. But there was more than that. Was it guilt? It was not an emotion that would normally be ascribed to the unrepentant thief. Was it defiance? It was dangerous for him in the states. He knew that the Assassins' reach extended well beyond New Orleans, and it was a sure bet that the man-eating bitch-on-wheels leading the Guild still had a price out on him.
He should know; he'd been engaged to the bitch. His lips quirked in a bitter smile at his own expense. Belladonna Boudreaux had personally taken out the warrant; he'd seen it, or rather a copy of it. She'd scrawled a note across the bottom, in her own bold script. He could see where the pen had gouged into the paper with the force of her rage, even through the bad photocopy.
Extremely dangerous. Bounty tripled if he's alive and intact. -- BB
The Assassins weren't kidnappers, often viewing the profession with open contempt. It was almost unheard of for her Guild to pick up a warrant with a DOA clause – Guild shorthand for dead or alive. The warrant issued for him practically guaranteed that whoever picked it up would try to take him "alive and intact".
She had plans for him . . . plans that apparently required that he was "intact". Knowing her, he might even enjoy some of them.
His fingers strayed to his throat, unconsciously tracing the lines of the scars that by all rights should decorate his throat. He smirked at the memory, leaning back and taking a deep drag from the cigarette he hadn't even realized he'd lit. He'd certainly enjoyed that encounter – most of it, anyway; she was a control freak, no doubt about that, and he'd gone along with it when she'd handcuffed him to her bed. He'd laughed at the gesture, knowing how easily he could free himself of the restraints, and it had turned him on a little – well, a lot, actually – when she'd turned the tables on him and taken control. He had enjoyed the juxtaposition. The knife she'd pressed to his throat, on the other hand . . . call him a masochist, but he might have enjoyed that, too, had circumstances been a little different.
It was only natural, he supposed, given his unusual choice of profession. Danger was practically a way of life – he wouldn't be any kind of a thief if he didn't revel in the thrill of the pinch, the adrenaline high after a particularly dangerous job. But Belladonna took it way beyond a little thrill, a little danger to get the blood pumping and the heart racing. It was all about control with that one; she'd held the razor-sharp blade to his throat, daring him to move while she teased him mercilessly.
She had certainly enjoyed making him squirm, delighting in his frustration as the cool steel at his wrists and his throat brought him up short again and again. The dark gleam in her eyes as she toyed with him, provoking him . . . he shuddered. She'd marked him that night, in more ways than one. Only the razor-sharpness of her blade had saved him from scarring; he'd explained away the cuts as a shaving accident, ignoring Henri's incredulous stare ("Y'shavin' in de dark wit' a rusty chainsaw, now, mon ami?").
No, he corrected himself. He'd seen the cool, calculating hate in her icy blue eyes when he'd left, and he very much doubted he'd enjoy anything she had planned for him.
A stray shadow caught his eye, distracting him from his maudlin thoughts. Belladonna might as well be worlds away; even if she knew he was back in the states, she'd still have to catch him. And he sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight.
His glowing eyes scanned the country darkness; the new moon was little help, but then he'd never needed help to see at night. Someone was walking a bike – a Harley, unless he missed his guess – along the driveway toward the main gate. He smiled, sliding down the storm gutter and landing lightly on his feet, fifty feet below. He recognized that unruly mass of auburn hair shot with silver. She was obviously trying to sneak out, waiting until well clear of the mansion to start the engine of the bike.
He realized, as he slipped into the shadows after her, that he didn't even know her name.
What's a name, after all . . . she's up to no good, and she obviously knows her bikes. We're practically made for each other.
He'd lost sight of her when he went to retrieve his own bike; he figured there was really only one direction she'd be headed, and he gunned his bike along the deserted country road, negotiating the treacherous curves and steep hills with a reckless joie de vie.
The wind rushing over her face, whistling past her, running its icy fingers through her hair; the dull, distinctive roar of the engine, half sound and half visceral feeling, drowning out anything and everything but her and the bike and the road. That nagging feeling of being followed was gone. With a twist of her wrist, the world dissolved around her, blurry and indistinct, as she rocketed along the windy country road at breakneck speed. She was focused on her objective, her mind far from the perils her situation would have presented to mere mortals; for somehow, she knew every curve and bump in the road, knew every twist and turn and gravel-strewn trap, just as she knew that nothing could harm her – not for long. She was invincible, and she was free, and she would soon have her revenge.
He reached town – such as it was – without overtaking her. Either she rode that Harley like a bat out of hell, or she hadn't come this way at all. There had been no turnoffs, no intersections on that back road. It seemed the Professor valued his privacy.
With a mental shrug, he kicked his bike into gear and headed off to have some fun of his own. Bayside was a small town; he hadn't cased it on his way in, but it was no different than any other small town America – there was a good side of town, and a bad side of town. Remy preferred the amenities offered by the latter. He found what he was looking for nestled in between a rickety structure that he supposed was a warehouse and a dilapidated railway station (predictable). A battered sign that he didn't bother to read swayed lazily in the breeze as he ducked into the seedy bar. It was dimly lit and none too clean; a surprising number of people were huddled around the ancient TV at the end of the bar, but the place was by no means crowded.
She eased back on the throttle as she approached the small town. Creed was scum, and they tended to gravitate toward their own. He wouldn't be found here, in this cookie-cutter version of Small Town America, but she'd surely find someone who could put her onto his trail. She gave in to the riotous clamor in her head, letting experience guide her; whose experience it was, she couldn't say, but that was a trivial concern. These small towns were all the same; she found the railroad tracks without difficulty.
He couldn't say what impulse had led him to follow her, and he was a little put out that he had lost her. Maybe he was getting soft. He needed a drink. Experience told him he wouldn't find clarity at the bottom of a bottle, but he'd settle for being too drunk to care. He was out of his mind, to even consider coming back to the states, not to mention working with amateurs, and here he was, following – trying to follow – a slip of a girl whose name he didn't even know. A girl who, thus far, seemed to be immune to his not-inconsiderable charms.
Maybe she's into girls. Fortunately, no one saw his eyes flare as he considered the possibility. He slid into a dark booth, motioning for the waitress.
"Bourbon, darlin'" he said, turning on the charm and catching her before she could speak. The accent in these parts grated on his nerves, perhaps even more so after the brief taste of home he heard earlier. Mississippi, if he wasn't mistaken.
Dieu, he had it bad. It wasn't normal, for him to be so hung up over a girl. Maybe he was just homesick. It had been too long since he'd breathed the lazy New Orleans air, thick with swamp and spice and an intoxicating, indefinable something, a promise of anything else a man could possibly want. These Yankees couldn't cook properly – and forget the crazy ideas they had about American food overseas; he hadn't had a decent gumbo in a dog's age. His mouth watered just thinking about it. He could almost taste it, and a flood of other memories came rushing back with it.
A swipe of her claws silenced the alarm. Had she always had claws? No matter . . . they disappeared with a thought, the faintest twitch of muscles she hadn't realized she had; the skin at her knuckles knitted together seamlessly, fast as thought, only a tell-tale smear of crimson marking the pale skin. She moved quickly, navigating a maze of leather and Kevlar, finding her size. She knew her size, didn't she? There were many answers to that question, but only one rang true. The black leather seemed to suck the light from her pale skin as she pulled the pants up, adjusting them over her hips with a quick shimmy and lacing up the sides.
A splash of color caught her eye, an oasis of pink and rhinestones amid the sea of black leather.
Ignoring the momentary impulse – was it hers? Surely not – she slipped into a sturdy, unremarkable jacket that was armored in all the right places and headed for the boots. She chose a pair with an aggressive, spiky heel, ignoring the growl at the back of her head; boots weren't meant to be practical . . . were they?
She stopped in the act of pulling on a pair of gloves, frozen in place, conflicted; she frowned, her thoughts straying to the blood staining her knuckles. No gloves, she decided. The decision made her slightly uneasy, and she felt as though her fingers were craving the feel of gloves with a memory all their own. She ignored that impulse, too, as she stepped through the broken glass, dropping the half-fingered biking gloves with a brief pang of loss. Time was wasting.
The waitress distracted him, returning with his bourbon; she made a point of leaning over him to set the tumbler in front of him. Remy smiled appreciatively at her, taking in the view with a smirk. She was younger and cleaner than he would have expected for a place like this; point of fact, she looked barely old enough to be handling the alcohol. She was asking for trouble with that barely-there outfit . . . not that you'd hear him complaining.
"Merci, darlin'," he murmured, trailing a finger lightly up her arm and watching her try to ignore the effect he had on her.
"Let me know if there's anything else I can get you," she said, a little out of breath.
"Y'can jus' keep dese comin, darlin'." She smiled, more than a little flustered, before heading back to the bar.
He sighed. He'd heard worse in the way of accents, but she was definitely prettier when she wasn't talking. Still, he knew a more than a few tricks, and he'd be willing to bet he could make her forget the English language entirely; he needed a diversion, and she certainly seemed willing. He swirled the bourbon thoughtfully in the clouded glass tumbler before tossing it back with a grimace. It was bitter, definitely an inferior blend, and he was glad he hadn't sipped slowly.
She found what she was looking for in the warehouse district, a run-down bar that redefined the word "seedy". There were more then a few bikes lined up in front, mostly big, chromed-out Harleys, and all of them scrupulously clean and scratch-free. That spelled trouble . . . but then, she was looking for trouble. One in particular caught her eye, a sleek, black sportbike with red trim. The only Japanese machine in the dusty parking lot.
She shrugged it off, noting the battered sign above the entrance; it did not display the name of the establishment (these places usually didn't display a name, but were known to their select clientele simply as "the bar").
Forget the shirt and shoes, no freaks
She smiled a grim smile. She'd definitely find what she was looking for here, and she doubted any of the patrons would balk at giving up information on a "freak" like Creed – or anyone he happened to be associating with.
He was on his fifth drink, and well on his way to intoxicated, when a familiar flash of auburn and platinum caught his eye. She hadn't seen him; he reached out and caught her wrist as she passed by, twirling her around and pulling her to face him.
His clever remark died on his tongue, and he gaped at her mutely. She'd changed outfits, having opted for head-to-toe black leather. It was a good look on her; his eyes raked her over, taking in the stiletto-heeled boots, the form-fitting leather pants that clung lovingly to every curve, and the black motorcycle jacket, unzipped to show a considerable amount of cleavage wrapped in a paper-thin black tank top.
"Why're ya followin' me, thief?"
She pulled at her wrist, frowning in irritation when he only tightened his grip to pull her in closer, shifting to bracket her with his legs.
"Jus' mindin' m'own business, havin' a drink," he smiled, turning on the charm and reaching out to her with his empathy. He frowned; she'd been a dizzying jumble when he'd read her before, but now he found only focused rage, threaded through with irritation. At him, no doubt. Nothing there for him to work with . . .
Yet.
His eyes flared, glowing like coals in the deep shadows, and she softened momentarily, her frown easing, the tension in her fame subsiding. She was still pulling at her wrist, but it was a half-hearted, token gesture.
"Why don' y'relax, cherie? Sit down and have a friendly drink?"
She smiled down at him, a wicked, knowing smile that set his blood on fire, her eyes sparkling and hard like emeralds as she stepped closer. "Why doncha let go of my wrist, and go crawling back to your swamp, Cajun," she purred, leaning over so her lips almost brushed his ear. He swallowed thickly as he felt her breath hot against his neck.
"And if I don'? Seems to me like y'breakin' curfew here, darlin', not to mention the dress code." She frowned in confusion, her brilliant eyes clouding for a moment, echoing an abrupt shift in her emotions.
His eyes widened as he felt her booted heel come to rest between his legs, the firm pressure against his groin a not-so-gentle request.
"You don't let me go, swamp rat, and I'll be breaking something else." She punctuated the threat with a twist of her boot, smiling as he winced and shifted under her.
Looks like she wants to play.
He stared up at her, fixing those luminous green eyes with his own glowing red embers, letting himself smirk as he felt her waver under his hypnotic stare, the barest shift of her taut frame as she edged closer.
She was curious.
A faint snikt, barely audible above his own pounding heart, was all the warning he had before he found three steel blades at his throat.
"You heard the lady." The voice at his ear was little more than a feral snarl.
Remy dropped her wrist, staring into her deep jade eyes as she backed away – but not without a final, vicious twist of her heel.
"Just where do you think you're going, Stripes?"
Rogue shook her head, trying to clear the fog that shrouded her brain. The Cajun had let her go – how had he followed her here? – but she had bigger problems. She needed to move quickly if she was going to have any hope of getting her information.
Remy's eyes bugged out as she continued walking, ignoring the mutant who still held Remy pinned to the bench with his adamantium claws. He remembered the man; Ororo had introduced him to the entire senior staff. None of their reactions had been precisely friendly, but this one . . . Remy had met his share of dangerous men, and this one topped them all.
She knew the man with the adamantium claws, probably better than he knew himself. She frowned. Her thoughts were blurry, and she knew it wasn't just the red-eyed thief that had her flustered. She felt her control slipping, and her world shifted dizzyingly.
"Stay here, Cajun," he growled, not bothering to sheathe those claws as he followed her.
Remy watched, riveted, as the man stalked up behind her, spinning her to face him. He tossed the rest of the bourbon down when he noticed that the two of them had already managed to attract the wrong sort of attention. Two large men in matching leather vests had slid off their bar stools, grabbing pool cues and moving to surround the pair.
"Logan . . ."
She knew the man – knew his name, and his deepest secrets.
He was angry; she could sense it – smell it – feel it in the tension of his hand on her shoulder. His claws were still out, glinting evilly at the edge of her vision. She could tell that he was worried, too, but she didn't have time to dwell on that. She felt them just a fraction of a second after he did, the two toughs circling them warily, and she knew what the situation must look like.
He slid out of the booth, casually slipping his bo staff out of its sheathe and extending it with a smooth, well-practiced gesture. The bartender saw it too; you didn't survive in a place like this very long if you couldn't see the fights before they started. Remy snatched a fork off of an empty table, sending it flying toward the man with a deft flick of his wrist; the fork brushed the man's ear before embedding itself in the wall behind him with a muted thwok, stopping the man short as he reached for the shotgun that was no doubt hidden beneath the bar.
The man's eyes met his, startlement turning to fear as he stared down the devil's own blazing red orbs. He wisely backed off, his hands raised appeasingly.
She slipped into a fighting stance, moving without thought, her back to the Wolverine. Someone fired off a shotgun – she could smell the black powder, mixing with the cigarette smoke, and it excited her. As if the shot was their signal, the two toughs attacked. Her claws were out before she could think, and she sliced through the hardwood pool cue, the impact jarring the bones of her wrist. And then suddenly, the sound of glass breaking, the scent of wood burning, and the entire bar joined in the fray.
And then, quicker than he could blink, all hell broke loose. Dieu, but he'd been missing a good fight. The need to lay low, even while abroad, had forced him to even out his famously hot temper. Remy barely ducked the shotgun blast, tucking and rolling with expert ease. Had there been someone else behind the bar? He couldn't remember; pulling out a card, he charged it until it just barely glowed, and tossed it toward the bar. By itself, it was just barely enough to make a pop and a spark, but he aimed for the booze; he ducked again at the sound of glass shattering, the high-proof liquors igniting as they spilled out across the bar and the floor.
Perfect. That should distract the bartender. He turned his attention to the real fight, casually sweeping a rather inebriated older man off his feet with his bo staff as he waded into the fray – a trucker, unless he missed his guess. The man went down hard; he wouldn't be getting back up anytime soon.
Remy dodged a flying chair, cursing fervently as he slipped in a puddle of beer; most of the bar was now involved in the fight, and he could hear Wolverine swearing, in between the obligatory battle cries of "filthy mutie!" and "freak!" The bar was grittier than he'd thought, given the number of people willing to jump into a fight with a man sporting 13" adamantium claws.
Mebbe we just stumbled in on a recruitin' session for de Purifiers.
Remy could see Wolverine, now, and the girl, both almost within reach. What had he called her? Stripes? Must be some kinda nickname. They were fighting back-to-back, moving in perfect synchrony – it was like watching a dance, or an over-choreographed Hollywood fight scene. He almost lost his footing again when he saw that the girl had unsheathed her own set of claws and was laying into her opponent with a savage ferocity. Her claws were duller, lacking the reflective metallic sheen of the Wolverine's, but it seemed they did no less damage. He watched in awe as she sliced cleanly through a baseball bat in mid-swing, dicing it into small cross-sections with no apparent effort.
Yep, he really knew how to pick 'em.
She ducked the bar stool, elbowing the man sharply in the stomach and kicking his feet out from under him. Bar stool? She was losing it; she had to focus – she had to get information . . . She caught motion out of the corner of her eye and she spun, almost losing her footing on the slick hardwood floor. Why on earth was she wearing stiletto heeled boots?
He went down as a chair splintered across his back; that would teach him to let a girl distract him in the middle of a fight. Remy slipped as he stood, diving to the floor to avoid another clumsy blow with the chair. He swore as the hem of his trench coat dragged through the unspeakably foul mix of fluids staining the floor, rolling to his feet and clotheslining a short, bald man brandishing a broken beer bottle.
She felt a sickening crunch as her fist collided with bone, the man's nose shattering under the force of the blow, and she felt a tug, the barest tingle as her fingers pressed against his skin. She braced herself against a wave of nausea, fighting to stay centered, to stay in control.
He twirled his staff in front of him, lashing out as he spun to take down the only remaining obstacle standing between him and the other mutants. Remy looked around – it seemed the bartender had managed to put out most of the flames, but was nowhere in sight; he'd probably fled. Most of the rest of the bar – people and furniture alike – was lying crumpled on the floor. He could see the radius of destruction extending out from the other two mutants, with the greatest destruction at the center of that circle. He whistled in appreciation; they'd managed all of this in little more than the time it took him to set the bar on fire. As far as he could tell, everyone was still breathing, but they certainly hadn't won over any friends to the mutant cause.
The Wolverine retracted his claws, surveying the scene as though daring any of the fallen to get back up.
"Time to leave," he growled, pulling the girl along behind him. She was shaking and stumbling, her eyes wide with a bewildering array of emotions. Gone was the cool, cold-blooded killer he'd seen earlier, replaced by a scared teenager who'd found herself in over her head. "You comin', Cajun?"
He realized he was staring, frozen in place with shock. He flipped his staff over, deftly telescoping it back in on itself and stowing it in its sheath as he stepped over a groaning form to follow them out.
"It was a mistake to place her in the Med Lab after her prolonged absorption of Logan."
Logan frowned, looking not at all appeased by Hank's admission.
"I'm afraid I may have miscalculated further." Beast swallowed nervously as the Wolverine focused on him, cracking his knuckles idly. "I had placed her on a light sedative, as I did last time, when she had her … encounter … with Piotr." Hank would have sworn he saw Logan's eye twitch. He hadn't been thinking when he'd done it; sedating Logan was a Bad Idea, on par with chumming the waters and going for a swim with the sharks. His physiology tended to accelerate the metabolization of any drugs out of his system; he also had a healthy distaste for waking in strange places after having been drugged. He tended to snap into his own 'Nam, actually. If Logan was a dominating force in Rogue's mind when he'd done that – confused, disoriented, reeling from a combination of absorption and the sedative and waking up in the Med Lab . . . well, there was no if about it, actually. That was exactly what had happened, with near-disastrous results.
"But she's resting quietly now?" Xavier looked tired, his face drawn and haggard. He'd had a long, trying day.
Hank nodded in confirmation, keeping a wary eye on Logan. "She's back in her room. I ran a quick sequence on her, and it looks like she'd back to normal, more or less."
"More or less?"
Hank twitched as Logan chimed in. Growled in, to be more accurate. "She's switched on, again."
Neither Xavier nor Logan had anything to say to this proclamation.
"It could be a result of trauma. We did push her rather hard, and it can't have been pleasant to . . . to wake up under those circumstances."
"Speakin' of trauma, why'd you leave that sleazy Cajun thief alone with her?"
Xavier frowned, steepling his fingers. Logan knew that pose; it was a sign of Deep Thought, with capital letters, a sure indication that the Professor was conflicted. It was a conscious effort to keep his claws sheathed – Rogue was his, not in any romantic sense, but she was under his protection, and he'd failed her . . . in more ways than one.
"Logan, it appears the man has a … calming effect on her that I can't quite explain." He carefully refrained from mentioning his intentions to enlist the man's aid so that he could study his mutation until he could explain it.
"Yeah, she looked real calm with him feelin' her up in that bar!" Logan snorted in disgust, storming out of the Xavier's office.
Xavier sighed, a deep sigh that spoke of too many worries.
"She knows she can do it, Xavier. We just have to show her the way." Were his thoughts so obvious? No, it had to be simply that Hank was torturing himself with the same doubts.
"I hope, for her sake, that you are right, Hank."
Kitty jumped slightly when she heard the door open. Jubilee had called her when Logan went after Rogue, and she'd been waiting up anxiously ever since. She and Rogue may appear to be polar opposites – one side of the room was decorated in pink and plastered with posters of the latest teen heart-throb, the other done in deep emerald and ruby and black, the posters of a darker, more disturbing variety – on the surface, they appeared so different, but they had developed an understanding of each other. More than that – they cared about each other. The petty squabbles over shopping and room décor and boys had only strengthened their strange bond.
She was used to Rogue's dramatic outfits, but she still stared in shock when her roommate stepped in, looking somewhat the worse for wear.
"Oh my god, Rogue, are you alright? We were so worried about you! What is that you're – eeep!" Kitty cut off with a muted squeak as she saw the tall figure lurking in the doorway behind her roommate.
"Sorry,petit, didn' mean t'scare ya. Jus' makin' sure she got back t'her room safe an' sound."
Kitty giggled shyly, raking her fingers through her hair and ignoring Rogue's pointed stare. She didn't miss the intense look he gave Rogue as she pulled away from him, jerking free of his supportive grip with a huffy sigh.
"Good night and good riddance, Swamp Rat." She sounded exhausted, and more than a little annoyed – but that was fairly normal, for Rogue.
"G'night ladies . . . g'morning, really, I s'pose."
Kitty smiled up at him, mesmerized by those glowing red eyes, twirling her fingers through her hair. "Good night . . . thanks for looking after her." What was his name? She knew his name . . . Romy? No, that wasn't quite right. She was usually better with names, but this tall stranger was so distracting. Remy?
Dreamy was more like it. He practically oozed sex appeal, from the sensual line of his lower lip to his boyishly tousled hair, to the aloof confidence with which he carried himself. No question about it, the boy looked good – and he knew it.
"You still here Cajun? Git gone, already," Rogue grumbled sourly. "Don't need anyone to look after me."
"Not worried 'bout a li'l river rat like you, cherie. 'S everyone else m'worried 'bout."
He turned before she could retort, with a wink and a smirk for Kitty's eyes alone, striding off down the hallway.
Kitty was treated to the unusual sight of her roommate struggling for words. She sighed dreamily, sharing a moment of sympathy with Rogue's tongue-tied state before rounding on her roommate. "Alright, what's going on here? When did you and the new guy get so cozy?" She paused for a second, looking Rogue up and down. "And what the heck are you wearing?"
Rogue shrugged out of the jacket, flopping down on her bed with an exhausted groan. It seemed her night was far from over. Kitty was relentless when she got her teeth into something, and she knew she'd found something juicy to bite into.
They say dreams allow the mind to process and catalogue the day's experiences, to analyze and store a million scattered impressions and memories. They say dreams are the key to unlocking a person's fears and fantasies alike. That night, Rogue dreamed of fire, a glowing pair of haunting red eyes.
She dreamed of blood and pain, twisting in her sleep as she ran from demons that were not hers to confront; she ran until even her dream-self tired, her tormentors always nipping at her heels, pressing her onward, driving her faster. The dreams were normal, if anything about this girl could be called normal. But she didn't wake screaming, drenched in her own sweat and tangled hopelessly in her own sheets; each time her unseen pursuers closed in on her, something warded them off, and she found herself enveloped in a protective shadow, bathed in an eerily familiar red glow.
(1) OK, it's probably obvious, but I like cars (and bikes), and I imagine that Xavier's garage would probably hold quite a few very cool cars, as well as the tools to fix them. As for the Harley, I'm not a huge fan of Harley's, but for some reason I think it fits Logan (she's hijacking his bike). The bike I'm describing is one of their Dark Customs, a Night Rod Special (because I think it looks the coolest of their "customs", it's got a solid, muscle-bound profile). For the purposes of this fic (and because I feel that all bikes should be ridiculously overpowered) I am going to assume that the bike has a bit more than the standard 125bhp under the figurative hood. Yes, I am a girl. Deal.