Satin gloves drawn to her elbows. Dangerous skin smothered with layers of bottle-green clothing. Two-toned hair brushed and simply styled. Half a dozen framed photographs brashly flung at the far wall and stamped on. A modest smile plastered and perfected. Another gaze padlocked into sunny mode. Scuffed tennis shoes double laced. Feet forward. Door opened. And exhale.
Wolverine stared back at Rogue, concerned by the ruckus raised in the usually quiet-as-a-mouse and secretive Southerner's personal space.
"Hey," he greeted gruffly, peering inside the bedroom and suspiciously eyeing the shattered glass and dented silver frames littering the floor. "You taken to redecorating with a temper tantrum?"
Her sullen stare flounced from his path of sight to the wrinkled and ripped photos scattered across the Persian rug. Her nosy next-door neighbour had overheard the takedown of unwanted memories again. Why couldn't he do her a favour and plug his ears with wax every week or two? She didn't ask for much: just privacy and the right to beat her own belongings in peace and within the reckless realms of another major meltdown.
"They fell. Fell from a really great height, like the bookcase and the dresser, and don't forget the bedside table," she replied bitterly, sidestepping his muscular and looming frame. "I guess you missed the earthquake while soaking in the tub."
He raked a hand through his damp chestnut hair. "I thought we had a deal, kid. I back off, and you bed down with the schoolwork and learn to get along with the rest of the geeks."
She rolled her expressive eyes and slammed the door shut behind them. He didn't need to sniff out every blazing edge of the fiery storm gathering above Bobby Drake's head. "My room, my problem, Wolverine. Go back to prettying yourself in a bubble bath with your cigars, beer, and carefully crafted porn stash. What is it, Redhead Day again?"
Fostering a whole heap of surprise by the sudden spouting of a runaway mouth, he stalked alongside her wordlessly. Sniffing the fuming scent of a heartbroken girl spiralling into the shadowy depths of revenge, he eventually nudged her twice when they reached the ground floor. "You know, you keep frowning, and you'll cause another ruckus. This is a fresh start. Far from the chain-link fences of juvie."
"Every damn week, you remind me of that place," she complained bitterly, picking up a diamond-cut vase as they passed a chunky piece of furniture in the hall. When she caught the grimace on his rugged face, she shrugged. "It's chore day. I have to dust everything and anything from here to there."
"Uh-huh," he grunted sceptically, sticking to her side like glue. "And I remind you because you'll be right back there if you don't curb your temper and dampen down that attitude."
Rogue spotted Bobby Drake up ahead. He leaned coolly against a panelled wall, lazing around like a pig in mud with giggling girls hanging off his oozing, slug-like words. While a distracted Logan fished through plaid shirt pockets, searching for a Cuban cigar, she launched the vase at her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend's head. It startled the group of students, and they ducked at the last moment, the exploding antique glass raining down on them.
Logan glanced at the seething girl with a heavy sigh. "That's the temper I'm talking about."
"What was that for?!" Bobby demanded to know, straightening his back and cautiously brushing the shards of glass from his slick-backed hair, gel-tussled hair.
She pointed a trembling index finger at him, fury flipping her accent to a Southern field trip down south. The longer she ranted, the thicker the Mississippian lilt coated the violent threats.
"You're a real trash person. You ever look at me again, and I'll drop your lousy ass and send your lying, cheating, rat-like, rodent-eyed soul to the deepest, darkest pits of fiery, flaming hell. You hear me, Bobby Drake? I'll strike you down with an ungloved hand and dress like a Grim Reaper on an acid trip if I catch you near me again."
Hooking an arm around her waist, Logan hauled the raging Rogue backwards, levelling a scowl at the ice prick. He would get even another day. For now, his concentration remained pinned to cooling the wrathful tendencies of an out-of-control pain in the ass.
"It was one kiss!" Bobby shouted defensively, clenching his fists and agitated she had embarrassed him in front of his friends. "That's what beer and fun does, Rogue! Sometimes mistakes happen! You should know; you spent how many months in a jail cell?!"
She responded by tearing one glove off and crumpling it in her steadying palm. "One kiss and then what? I know the truth about your pussy picnic on the park bench! Your best friend told me everything when he tried to get into my pants!"
"No, you don't," Logan grumbled, steering her inside the empty rec room before she broke away. He knocked the door closed with the toe of his boot and guarded the exit with a furrowed brow. Loosening his grip, he shoved her gently toward the couch. "Sit your ass down and cool off."
Rogue slumped onto the leather couch, winding the taut fabric of the glove around her bare hand. She wasn't even embarrassed by hollering the words 'pussy picnic' in a public space inside a busy school. Gossip would spread like wildfire thanks to the flying vase, but she shrugged the mountain of troubles away and glared at the brooding Logan.
"You can stand there all day, but I'm not saying sorry. He deserves to be trashed, tarred, feathered and flung into a fire pit. I'm not even joking around. I want him gone with the devil riding him into oblivion. Bobby Drake's dead to me. Deader than that packet of octopus-flavoured chips those asshole friends of his tricked me into trying last week."
He scrubbed a hand wearily across his scruffy jawline and needed a shave and a month-long vacation away from the ear-splitting drama of a girl who raised hell every other day.
"Look, this ain't my first rodeo, kid. We've had a revolving door of misfits come through this school year in and year out. Some make it, others crash and burn because they can't tame their wild sides. Which camp do you see yourself in, huh? You want to fail or fit in?"
"I'm doing nothing but calmly reacting to Bobby Drake breaking my damn heart!" she hollered loud enough for the entire Eastern Seaboard to overhear, judge and mumble about.
He closed his eyes, calming the rage simmering on the surface. Nobody on this planet ticked him off more than a flippant, loudmouthed Rogue determined to kick up a fuss and damage his sensitive hearing. "How long you been dating him again?"
Her gaze dropped to the loose lace of one of her heavily graffitied tennis shoes. She reached down to tie it with a huff. "Two weeks."
"Yeah, fourteen whole days and twelve of those have been spent bickering, fighting, and tossing objects left, right and centre. You ever stop and think that maybe you need some time alone? You're in one hell of a freefall right about now, and nobody's gonna be there to catch your misbehaving ass if you keep this up."
Looping, tightening, and knotting the blackened lace, she glanced at him with a sullen stare. "Thanks for the pep talk, Wolverine," she spat sarcastically.
His eyes narrowed at the loose-lipped Southerner digging her own grave. "It ain't a talk; it's a warning. Buck up your ideas before you push everybody away."
A/N: Octopus-flavoured crisps exist. I just thought I should warn you of that fact. Beware and take care out there.