"The Dividing Line"
Chapter Ten: "Single Part of Two"
Rogue woke up to the bedside clock displaying 3:34 in digital green. Even as she tried to close her eyes and drift back into sleep, she could feel her body rapidly waking up. She felt Scott's arm across her stomach, his fingers caught between her body and the mattress, and their ankles were tangled up. Rogue thanked for the thin, stocking-like body suit she wore to bed, thankful as she had always been in nights like this... but not as thankful for the reality of his body next to hers.
He felt warm. He felt like the home she had never known.
Rogue settled back in, but she knew that it was a futile effort. Her consciousness was alive and it was filling her head with the strangest of notions: every concept, every idea, even the barest, most mundane of thoughts felt somewhat out of place. The waking thought was always someone else's, she knew, but this time, the waking thought belonged to the Rogue.
She wasn't sure what that meant.
Rogue tossed, turned, put her limbs into various configurations, pulled the duvet up, pushed it down, tried to clear her head of her own noise, tried to let her thoughts go where they may, all to no avail.
Scott groaned next to her as she tried to turn to her side, for the tenth time. She laid still, listening to her own heart beat, and waited for a sign that he was awake. His light, steady breathing told her that he wasn't.
Rogue gently slipped out of his arm and got up. She had taken one step when her foot got caught up in a piece of cloth on the ground. She crouched and felt for what it was. Her fingers slid on familiar latex polymer. Her uniform.
A scared kid drowning in his clothes had brought it to her late in the evening. All Rogue had seen of him through the uplifted hood of his hoodie were his pale cheek, strands of auburn hair, and scared, big, green eyes. He had flinched when Rogue had reached for what he was carrying, which was when Rogue had seen the PVC latex gloves he was wearing. Her mind had clicked at least one aspect of this boy into place, taking hints of his appearance and reminding her how much she resembled him when she was in middle school.
He was an untouchable.
Rogue had asked his name. The kid had mumbled something, too low to actually be heard. When she had asked him again, he had, hesitantly, said,louder this time, though not by much, "Kevin."
Rogue had thanked him, which had caused him to nod furiously before launching down the hall, leaving her standing in the doorway with her uniform back in her hands.
Rogue gently pushed her uniform aside and stood up, squinting, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the darkness. This was so much easier when she had had Kurt's or Logan's powers at her disposal, but she didn't want to follow that thought down. Too much shit there, too much, overbearing, overwhelming shit down that road. She knew that what she had barely been pulled back from was a result of herself. What the other her, wearing Scott's face had said – she had wanted to be somebody else so badly...
But what she had been given was a second chance. She had been given herself back, and to clutter that again with the echoes of others was too terrifying a prospect.
She looked around the room, her eyes gradually revealing the basic positions, sizes and shapes of the furniture, and noticed that things were still a bit scattered. They had only managed to put away their clothes, and some of their sentimental items before deciding to call it a day. Their territory, she thought, was only partially claimed, but soon, it would be theirs.
Theirs. Rogue felt giddy at the thought. Theirs.
Rogue's gaze drifted towards Scott. She had seen him like this many times, especially those nights at the hospital, and she had always felt the distance between them. He had never had qualms about crossing it, about delivering something so simple, rare and fucking wonderful as his touch, but most nights, she couldn't sleep, and she had roamed the room they were confined to, unable to leave him there, (and at least one of them should have slept, and with the amount of abuse he had taken on her behalf, she knew that it should have been him) and had felt that same distance.
Because when he was sleeping, when he was defenseless, he was untouchable.
But now, looking at him, Rogue knew that the strangest thing had happened: he wasn't distant anymore. He wasn't something she had to see, crave for, only steal in moments of absolute weakness only to content herself with the echoes of... he was there, he was in the bed that they were sharing, not out of necessity, but because he wanted to be.
He wasn't untouchable anymore, and he was still intent on showing her that neither was she.
Growing up, Rogue had been told many things. Here's your new mama, now go with her. I was told your mother disappeared, and your aunt knew me, so I wanted to take care of you, wouldn't you like that? You liked Siouxie Sioux so much, I got you a bunch of clothes like hers. You've got a skin condition, you need to cover up. You can't touch people, your condition may be contagious – we don't know, but better be safe than sorry. Rogue, meet Raven, she's a distant relative of yours and a friend of your aunt's.
No, you can't go to that party – there'll be too many people there. What if you accidentally touch someone?
Who's that? You know who, the boy you're keeping the picture of in your notebook. Where did you even get that picture? Why do you have it?
It went on and on in a series of lies told to her by Irene or Mystique. However, both of them had been very hesitant, very hush-hush about the subject of boys. Oh, Rogue knew the whole score – she had developed a habit of seeking answers in the school library, and enough biology books on the subject told her how the whole process worked. It was icksome, weird and fascinating, but that still didn't answer the question of how she was supposed to act around any of them.
She had watched the other girls from her little corners around the school and around the places couples and groups of friends hung out, but what she had learned was that it all required a lot touching, a lot of faked laughter and a lot of strange games. She didn't think she could do any of that, especially the touching part.
And then Cody had happened. Cody Rogers had gone and gotten himself into her head, and he had erased her name.
It was a bit of a blur, until Henry V and Scott Summers.
Rogue had thought he was like the others, a stuck-up asshole with way too much privilege and a self-righteous streak that could go for miles. Until that stupid rehearsal. It had begun like any other day at the office, until he had just flat out closed the book and had asked her what she was feeling.
Him? Of all people? The leader of her enemies? He wanted to know? God forbid – was he actually curious? The mere idea was just fucking ridiculous – he couldn't be interested or anything, not really... except he seemed to be.
You are like an angel, Kate.
That was when Scott Summers had started to occupy a part of her mind.
And it hadn't stopped. Rogue had never quite understood how he was able to capture her attention without doing anything. She would notice him. Her attention seemed to be attuned to his presence. After joining the X-Men, her situation had been taken to new heights – they were doing things together, both as part of a group and just the two of us, and she had found herself impatiently waiting for the things they did by themselves. The conversations, the training, all of it.
She didn't know how that was, but he had made her feel like she could do anything, be anyone. Anyone at all, anyone but herself.
Rogue had no illusions about it, despite an unexplored part of her constantly begging for it to be different. He was nice to her, yeah, but he was nice to everybody. She had found herself latching onto the things they had in common: a love for music, dead Russian authors, cheesy horror flicks, racquetball... he was easy to talk to, he listened, and he spoke. Every time he had told her something about himself, she had felt like he was sharing little secrets with her.
And he had never been afraid or hesitant to touch her. He had touched her enough for her to get to know him, know the parts of him that he himself was trying to run from. She could see him, she knew him, maybe even better than he would allow himself to know himself, but parts of it were painful for her. His intense affection for Jean, rivaled only by his envy of what she had been given (parents, control over her powers, the ability to know what he was thinking when he never had a fucking clue); his constant paranoia, fueled by his insecurities, that he would fail both the X-Men and the Professor; his inability to make a deeper connection with Alex.
But one thing had always made her cling onto the thought of him: his unexpressed need for her. The Rogue. Of all people. His need for her honesty, her lack of prejudice, her reluctance to judge, her damages and insecurities and phobias... the broken parts of her assured him that somebody else was as fucked up as he was, and the hopeless thought that maybe, somebody could finally understand him.
And now, he was here, in the room that was made theirs, distant, but not untouchable; open, body and soul, all the good and bad. All of it. All of him.
Rogue cast one final glance at him (just to make sure he was there) and then tip-toed her way to the door, thanking the carpeting for muffling her steps. She gently opened the door only enough to slink outside, and then closed it behind her. Once outside, she began to quietly make her way towards the stairs. There was only one place to be at this time of night, and in this state of mind: the kitchen. Most other insomniacs favored the rec room, and Rogue wasn't in the mood for a bout of socializing brought on by seeming similar circumstance.
A soft sound stopped her in front of a door. It was almost like a whisper, but heavier, bursting with meaning. Rogue recognized the vibration in the air. Jean. She was sharing her room with a new recruit, a blonde, Irish mutant by the name of Sean; for the lack of empty rooms, she had said.
Rogue decided that it was none of her business. She knew the whole score, yeah, but also had an inkling that nobody was supposed to hear this.
Rogue opened the kitchen door and found Logan, in his classical boxers and undershirt combo, having a beer while staring at the wall. Upon her entry, he turned. He smiled at her and greeted her with a cocking of his head.
"Hey, Stripe. Couldn't sleep?"
Rogue shook her head.
"Why don'tcha pull up a chair?"
Rogue first went to the fridge and recovered the large bottle of blood orange juice. It was half full. She figured she'd finish it, so she didn't bother with a glass. She pulled up a chair, and sit diagonally from Logan, who was building a small fort with bottles of Labatt Blues.
For a while, they sat and drank in silence. Logan broke it.
"So... you and Slim, huh?"
Rogue felt a smile stretch her lips. She nodded.
"Now there's a twist."
Rogue raised an eyebrow.
"Thought he only had eyes for Jeannie."
Rogue stifled an offhand comment with the taste of blood oranges.
"Don't get me wrong." Logan said, putting down his spent bottle and smoothly slicing open a new one, "I'm happy for ya. I've seen you lookin' his way, more'n once. Hell, even when I asked you if you were with us or not, you just glanced at him before you answered me. Wasn't exactly a state secret."
"Hell, did everyone know?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"Ah don't even wanna think about the amount of gossip that went on..."
"Yeah, I don't get what that is all about, either."
"What?"
"Gossip. I understand what it is, but I just don't get what it's for."
"Devil's workshop?"
"Amen to that."
Logan took a large swig.
"But, it ain't that much of a surprise, too. On his part. You were out of it, you didn't see the way he stormed outta this place. I ain't gonna forget that anytime soon."
Rogue could only stare.
"I don't stick my nose into other people's shit." Logan said, "Their personal business ain't that of mine. But I got these enhanced senses. I can't always walk away from whatever I'm doin' on accounta some argument within earshot – I'd never be able to sit down anywhere. So I heard 'em argue a coupla times. Nothin' major, I'm sure that if I could remember what I was like as a teen, I'd remember doin' shit like that too. But they always had these drawn-out fights, ya know. Forty-seven minutes plus, that one time."
"Ya clocked 'em?" Rogue asked with some amusement.
"Our secret." Logan said, "They had 'em few, but they had 'em still, like everybody else. Your name came up more'n once. It was nothin' apocalyptic, everybody knew that Slim was a little too attached to you. Jeannie had noticed. Naturally. Fuckin' telepaths..."
Rogue was surprised to hear this from him – he, who worked with a telepath every day.
"So this ain't much of a surprise. It's a twist, but not a surprise."
"Ah still can't believe this happened..."
"Believe it, kid." Logan finished his beer, "'sides... tough times are comin'. Better this typa shit happen now than later. I got a feelin' that we're gonna need to be able to be able to trust each other, more than we do now, to make it out of it in one piece. Won't have no room for any a' these... social changes in the fray."
Rogue rose the bottle of blood orange juice in salutation.
They sat in silence until both, simultaneously, decided to pack it in once again. Logan went off before they could get up to the sleeping quarters, citing his need to make the rounds once again. Rogue bid him goodnight and proceeded to her... no, their, room. On her way, she passed by Jean's door, and her senses suddenly felt a need to attune themselves to the lowest sounds that may issue from the room, but luckily, there was silence.
Rogue quietly entered the room and shut the door behind her. She waited for a minute or two for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. When she was able to see enough to navigate the room, she tip-toed her way to the bed. She gently kicked her uniform to the side, so as not to trip over it and stood there, trying to angle her approach just right. She didn't want to wake him up.
Good Lord, how do people do this? I never...
Determined, Rogue decided that the best way to do it would be an attempt at just sliding in between the covers, rather than putting her weight on it, adjusting the rest of herself and thus constantly shaking the mattress.
Rogue slid into the bed, and found her side cold. She pulled the duvet over her, and gently put one arm around him. He was sleeping soundly. Rogue closed her eyes and knew that she wouldn't dream – she didn't need to dream about him anymore. She was a single part of two now, part of him, and the reality of him negated the allure of any dream.
Rogue slept, content, for the first time in a long time.