1. The Memory Room

Five caskets, in a half circle, in a locked room. Marie looked about, taking in the details her subconscious had built for this hidden vault, deep inside the recesses of her conscious mind. It was surprisingly comfortable, she noted. Beautiful, even, with the walls painted in rich dark colours, and a soft, thick rug inviting her to stretch out in front of the wood fire. She'd never noticed it, before, but then, she'd never even looked around, either. The Memory Room had never been a place to linger, before.

She was naked, in her mind-form, unable to bear even the touch of silk. She sank down onto the rug, folding herself into the perfect lotus she had never quite managed in the outside world, and considered this decision. Tomorrow, she would do it. She would walk away from everything the Professor had done for her, and every bit of self-respect she scraped together since her mutation manifested. She would join the line, and tell the world there was something wrong with being a mutant. Take the Cure, and trade her gifts for 'normal'.

Touchable.

She was frightened, she had to admit. She was pretty sure Storm was right – the Cure had been rushed to the market, so who knew what might happen? It might have awful side effects. It might be a plot to infect them with something. It might not actually work.

It might work.

It might work, and she would be able to touch. Be touched. Be alone in her head.

She'd forgotten what that felt like, to be alone. Even with them locked away, she could always feel them. Magneto was always waiting, watching. His casket had thick leather straps circling it, and the padlock had no key. She had tried accessing his memories, once, desperate to end the farce that was her trig final.

The next morning, she opened bleary eyes to find a massive paperclip sculpture on her bedside table. It must have taken hours to create – hours when Marie was asleep, she realised with a chill. Hours when Magneto was in charge. She'd reinforced his casket, then, insulating it, slamming it shut, and shattering the key into a million useless pieces.

Bobby and John's caskets just had a small, single lock, and she'd kept the keys hanging nearby. Their skills came in pretty handy, and sometimes she just liked the company. Bobby in her head was nicer to her than her so-called boyfriend … and John might be a no-good traitor, but his sense of humour always had cracked her up. So they'd hang.

Cody was no more than a whisper these days, but she liked to keep his casket clean and shiny. Kinda like a memorial. He'd been her first, after all, and he'd done it hard, poor baby. So she gave him a lock and a beautiful jewels to decorate it, and every now and then, opened it up to say hi.

She'd worried about that, at first. When she and the Professor had talked about how to deal with the various personalities she'd absorbed, the idea of putting them in a box seemed … disrespectful. Mean, even. It wasn't until he explained that the boxes were as much for their benefit as hers that she actually warmed to the idea.

Because having another person's memories in her head felt wrong, sometimes. Felt like she was taking advantage. Logan had asked her, once, how much she'd got of him. She'd told him about the stray thoughts and the weird cravings, and he'd smiled when she confessed she kinda liked it. But then he'd gotten all antsy again, and asked about her dreams. And his memories. She'd assured him that she'd never looked. His memories were safe, in that box.

The fifth casket. She had shaped this one of fine cedar, and given it scent and texture and a raw beauty none of the others possessed. There was a lock, and a key, but mostly, it hung open. Sometimes she left the lid ajar. His voice whispering to her, his skills at her disposal, his thoughts in her head: these were not hardships. And she respected his privacy enough to leave his memories alone.

But tomorrow, she was taking the Cure. Tomorrow, they might be gone.

And tonight, her mind-self was crouched in front of Logan's box, reaching deep inside to pull forth a manila folder. It was fat with visual encodings of everything he had seen and thought and remembered … photographs, if you will.

Marie tripped over nothing, and scattered them across the floor.

A pretty girl, out of place in that hick bar ...

Rogue, she said, dark, dark eyes flashing with challenge ...

Logan, she moaned, as those fucking incredible lips wrapped around his cock and sucked him dry ...

*

“His what???”

Her own voice echoed in the dark bedroom as her eyes sprang open, her mindform dissolving in shock.

It hadn't been a dream, though. It didn't dissolve, or seem ridiculous in the light of day. Dark of night. Whatever.

Because it felt like a memory. Logan's memory. Of her. Except, you know, the part where it had actually happened.

Incredible lips? His cock? Holy Mother of God. She shuddered, and refused to analyse why. Forced herself to concentrate on what, and how. It had been soft-edged and less specific than others, missing the extraneous details of scent and feel and sound, and suddenly, it clicked. A fantasy. An image he had created, layering on the details he wanted (the shine of her lips in dim light, the feel of them around his … penis, the brush of her hair against his thighs, the gleam in her eye as she ….) Marie gasped, fleeing the Memory Room once more.

She had to be wrong. Had to be some random fantasy, some other girl. (It had been her voice, though, and his eyes had lingered on her lips the very first time he saw her. And in the camper. And pretty much every time she'd seen him since, that thorough appraisal that touched on the white streak in her hair, moved down to gaze into her eyes, and then to her lips. “Cocksucking lips,” his voice reminded her, helpfully.)

“He doesn't think of me that way,” she insisted, aloud, but she didn't sound convincing, even to herself. She sounded … intrigued, Marie realised. Curious.

She closed her eyes again, and this time, the other caskets in the Memory Room might not have existed. She conjured a chair, then grinned, and reshaped it. Picked up the file from where it had fallen on the ground, and then stretched out the bed, snuggling down into the sheets that smelled of Logan, and the pillow that held the dent of his head. Usually, she felt safe here. Protected. Tonight, it felt like a gamble, or the scariest of dares as his sheets sensitised every inch of bare skin, and the smell of him set her on fire.

It's not real, she reminded herself as she sank deeper into the mindform.

Strangely, it was his voice that answered.

“For us, kid, this is as real as it gets. You ready?”

*

2: On delicate wings

Where to start? Back to that fantasy, her hormones yowled, but Marie resisted. This was her first and last chance to know him, to see herself the way he did, and know – really know – what he thought. Of her. Of them. (Of Jean, her bitterest self whispered, refusing to be silenced, even here. Especially here.) Fantasy was nice – that fantasy made her feel all sorts of nice - but it was merely a distraction. She wanted something more solid. Something real.

From the beginning, then.

Time to go. Tide's turning in here. Fuckin' reeks of fear. Get the cash, bottle of Jack, get out. Huh. Tiny little thing hiding under a big green jacket. Way young. Too young to be in here. Those big brown eyes pack a punch though, darlin. And those lips.

Cocksucking lips. Wonder how they'd feel … nah, fucking pervert. She's a kid.

Still, bet they'd …

A fucking kid.

Huh. Brave fucking kid, though. Good on you, girl.

*

Brave? Try foolhardy. Fucking stupid, kid – could'a froze to death back here. Or worse – not the type of guy ya hitch a ride with, kid. Didn't your Daddy teach ya anything?

Leave ya here for the next truck. Not that there's a lot of trucks. Not that any of the truckers are safe either. Don't look in the mirror, see her standing there. Don't! Fuck. I'm fucked. Big brown eyes and she's fucking scared, standing there, just waitin'. I am such a fucking fucked fucker.

She's climbin' up and she smells really grateful and shit. Don't look at her. Don't think about her pretty eyes and pretty cocksucking lips and how grateful a girl that looks like that could be. Wonder how old she is? Sixteen's legal, ain't it? Bastard!

Oh, now girl, don't you be sassing me. Try and look young, and innocent instead. Stop puttin' those thoughts into my head. Jesus, that accent. Makes me hard just listening to her talk. Fuck.

Gotta get a grip here. Kid must be cold … I'll just lean over and …

“I ain't gonna hurt you, kid!”

Huh. She's worried about her skin. Worried about hurting me! Least of your worries, kid, let me tell you. Can think of at least five ways to get you off without killing myself. Much.

And I heal, darlin'. I heal.

*

“Every damn time”.

Hurts like a motherfucker. But that's a good thing – reminds me to try and keep it inside, ya know. Not to be the animal. Or whatever it was they wanted me to be.

Just a man. Not much of a man – can't keep my fricken mind out of the gutter – but I can do right by you. Leave you somewhere safe. Stop thinkin' about your untouchable skin.

Stop thinkin' about sheets. Thin enough, I could taste you through 'em. The way you smell – bet you taste good, girl. Wonder what innocence tastes like? Wonder if she even knows what it could be like …

Be like? Be like? Ain't gonna be like nothing, asshole. Not with this girl. She's not for you. She's not a hard fuck against the wall, or a blowjob in the back room. She's slow and sweet and takin' your time and makin her come over and over before you even get your zipper down.

Stop thinkin' about makin her come. Doesn't matter what she smells like when she looks at you. That age, she don't know what she wants. That age, you got no business wantin' her back.

*

It was unprecendented. She hadn't even known it was possible – not that she'd thought to explore the idea with the Professor, exactly. Sure, she'd appreciated the rug under her bare feet, the fire warming her hands as she'd inspected it, but the sheets, and Logan's pillow – she'd thought that'd been more memory than actual sensation. Wishful thinking.

But when the wanting suddenly became writhing and the writhing became long, low shudders that rolled through her and left her panting, she realised something. What happened deep inside her mind found its equivalent in the real world.

As real as it gets, he'd said. And suddenly, she was cold, and regretful, even as her sated limbs began to flush with the heat from the fire.

Because Logan might have wanted her, but he had fought it. Hadn't wanted this. And she had taken it anyway.

Marie stared blindly at her clock, miserable in her too-cold bed and too-soft sheets. 10:15pm. In 12 hours, she would leave here, and be rid of this burden, this knowing too much and feeling too much and wanting too much.

She begged for sleep to come.

*
… long red hair and long sleek body and here was a woman he could touch, was allowed to touch no matter what the boyfriend said. She was grown up and beautiful and why couldn't he stop wanting the kid? Her little boyfriend had seen it, musta been obvious he wanted to drag her away and mark her until everyone knew she belonged to him, only to him …

… take it, take it, take it, live, live, thankyouGodshe's alive, alive, take it all …

… Stryker knows everything I have to get through to him but Marie – she's calling me needs me. Gotta go. Running and running and into the car with the two little pricks and Marie. Marie in black silk. Marie in short black silk and turn towards me just a little more sweetheart so I can see right down the front of that and beautiful little rosepink nipples, and fuck you saw me seeing them and now they're hard and I can't take my fucking eyes off you right now, wanna throw you back against the seat and eat you alive darlin' ...

… fuck, it's Mystique, shoulda known Jeannie wasn't up for more than a kiss. Gut the bitch, Jean's face ain't gonna stop me, Ro now, huh, fuck, no, not Marie, not her, could have her, like this, so easy to pretend it's really her under me and jesus part of me thinks so, part of me is fooled, don't laugh bitch, nothing funny about this, they can't know, they can't know ...

*
Whirr. 2.34am. The numerals seemed to be taunting her, their green glow making a mockery of her sleeplessness. Marie heaved a sigh and crossed to her bookcase, succumbing to the inevitable.

Mama's favourite book had been a collection of myths from around the world, and they had worked their way through those from Australia, and Bolivia, and Cuba … all the way to Greece, just before she'd left home. She'd been pulling the teenager card, insisting she was too old to read stories with her mother, but really, she'd loved them too. And on the nights when she felt too far from home, too much the motherless child, she turned to her own copy of Myths and Legends from Around the World.

She found Pandora on page 134. Once, it had terrified her, this story.

Pandora, they said, was the first woman. The bearer of wondrous gifts from the Gods, she was a joyous, happy, marvellous creature. She was forbidden nothing … except to open the box. At first, she was able to igore it – she had gifts aplenty, and playthings to occupy her time. But not knowing, never knowing, began to torment her. So she opened the box she had been forbidden to touch, and out of it flew all the evils in the world.

Temptation. Greed. Selfishness. Lust.

She slammed the box closed, but it was too late. Evil was abroad, and only one last thing remained trapped inside.

Hope.

There was the predicament, though. Pandora hadn't dared to open her box again, and risk unleashing more sins on the world.

But Rogue was desperately afraid that somewhere, inside Logan's box, hope was beating itself to death on delicate wings. Trying to escape.

*

3: Just another evil

Hope. Did she even know what she hoped for?

Once, Marie had hoped for adventure. It had kept her going, through the drudge of middle school, that difficult sophomore year, and the torturously slow first half of her junior year. Then fate had smacked her in the face and told her to concentrate on the here and now: a safe ride, her next meal. Hope had nothing to do with it when she climbed into Logan's trailer: that had been instinct. Action without thought. Hope came later.

When he stopped, and let her clamber in.

When a simple question gave her that first glimpse of the man inside.

When his life flowed into her, and his first thoughts were for her safety and wellbeing.

After arriving at Xavier's, her new world was too confusing and frenetic to give her anything to hope for, but she had him. Logan. He was her comfort and security and just hers … until he wasn't. Until he became just another X-man, and was gone more often than he was home. Jean Grey's would-be lover, and she just the kid with a crush. Just another teacher, and every pat on the head, too-quick hug, and “good job, Rogue!” made it clear that he was a friend. A distant, grown-up, authority-figure kind of friend.

Or so he wanted her to believe.

She wanted to go wake him, haul his ass out of bed and make him explain exactly what he'd been thinking every time he'd slipped into that big brother act. Make him verbalise that ferocious stab of desire that had frozen him, the first time he'd seen her in the leather. Make him trace those long, beautiful fingers over every curve, every seam, the way he had wanted to. His reaction had been visceral and primal, and she had wondered about it, the way he'd clenched his jaw and glowered at her. The way he still did, sometimes. The way he had yesterday.

The new memories were so fresh that they hadn't even made it into his folder yet. She'd shoved them in hastily and thrown to the bottom of the box so she could get back to herself and get on with battling the Sentinels. It had only been a tiny piece of shrapnel, and Hank wouldn't have even needed his tweezers, but Logan had grabbed her around the wrist and held on until even her aching legs were feeling better. “Teamwork,” he'd grunted as Colossus looked on in awe, and the rush of him felt so good that Marie wasn't inclined to argue.

How he felt about her now. If she was unprincipled enough to look. (Brave enough.)

She thought of her future, here, without the Professor. With Jean lost to the Brotherhood. Without her mutation. She thought of Hope, fluttering its wings, trapped. (Hope, when they needed it most.)

*

They weren't ready. Shadowcat and Iceman were running in fucking circles, Colossus was stuck in his defensive game, and Rogue was being careful to stay out of trouble. Guess she knows she'll catch it from me if she don't, because I won't have my girl risking herself for these idiots.

Not my girl, though she looks like she should be. Wanna peel her outta that leather, cut it offa her and taste it on her skin. Worth dying for.

Wonder if they'd let us keep the suit, when we go?

Can't believe I'm really thinking about this, now. Scott's such a mess he's worse than useless, and we don't even have a new doc yet. Storm's blowin' up at every little thing. Heh. If she don't fuckin' like my way of doin' things, why'd she ask me to train 'em in the first place? Better off if we left.

Yeah, we. She's got her fuckin' diploma, she's done with school, she's legal in Canada.

What makes you think she'd even wanna go, bub? Look at her there, all serious and focused. Lookin' good AND kicking ass. She's got a boyfriend here, these are her friends, learnin' to fly a jet for pete's sake – why would she give all that up just to hit the road with me?

She smells like mine. That's why. Fuck you, Colossus, get your hands off her. I'll take care of what's mine. Had enough of this.

“Colossus, how's your throwing arm?”

Not bad. Can see for miles up here! And there. Done.

“Class dismissed.”

*
So Jean came back. And her psycho bitch thing probably shook him up pretty bad. And the Professor died, which shook us all up, but … does it really change anything? Marie was sprawled on the Memory Room rug, warming herself by the fire.

She traced her fingers over the photograph, his beautiful face forever captured in an intent gaze at the smaller of the two figures crouched against the wall. Her. One small nudge and she was able to relive his thoughts, his feelings and even his plans for the night (six bottles of beer, a B-league hockey game, and an innocent brunette who'd snuggle up close and drive him crazy with wanting).

They were due a reckoning, and maybe they would have had it by now if things had been different. Maybe he would have opened the box wide and told her he wanted her, and she was his. Maybe she would have told him she needed him, and hated all of this. Maybe they would have even left by now.

But instead, they'd lost a battle, and endured a memorial. He'd seen the woman he could have loved (tried to love, wanted to love) taken over by something evil, and all those obligations (believed in me, the first people to ever believe in me, to need me for something other than killin') would be reeling him in now.

Logan wasn't going anywhere. Wouldn't be able to walk away from the battle that was coming. Now, more than ever, he needed to be a good man, the one that stuck around. But this wasn't all about him. And she needed to be somewhere else – anywhere, but here.

Marie nursed herself back to reality, and then reached up into the cupboard to take down her travel bag from the top shelf. A change of clothes, in case she needed to lay low for a while. Phone. Map. Brochure. Tomorrow, she'd be ready.

Because that's the thing about Hope. It's an evil too. Never what you expect, or as straightforward as you'd thought it would be. Kinda like the Cure, she mused, as dawn tiptoed in through her window.

*

4: Flying free

Today was her day, and Marie felt unstoppable. Rumours of a war, a crusade against mutants had spread through the Mansion, and the grief they were feeling for the Professor hung like a pall in the air. Their sorrow made her ashamed, and ungrateful, and she felt her mouth twisting into an antisocial frown as she hid Hope deep inside.

He was there, of course. Logan would always be there when she didn't want him to be, didn't want to be quizzed or to lie or to be understood.

“Need a ride, kid?”

Once, the chance to sit in the car with him, or wrap herself around him on the back of his motorcycle would have made her “yes, please” horribly transparent. But she knew, now, what torture it was for him, and what that fraught quiet concealed as he countered her chatter with monosyllabic answers. She didn't want that for him, any more.

“No.”

“Where are you going?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes – as if he didn't know – and struck low.

“You don't know what it's like to be afraid of your powers. To be afraid to get close to anybody.”

She knew he did. She knew more than he'd ever wanted her to, but still she laid it on thick, as if daring him to answer her honestly.

“I wanna be able to touch people, Logan. A hug. A handshake. A kiss.”

“I hope you're not doing this for some boy. Look, if you want to go, then go. Just be sure it's want you want.”

Her eyes watered then – boy? Some boy? Did he know her at all? - and she pushed the switch over into bratty teenager mode.

“Shouldn't you be telling me to stay? To go upstairs and unpack?”

“I'm not your father, I'm your friend. Think about what I said, Rogue.”

But Rogue was thinking about something else. Thinking of him, thinking of her. She and Kitty and Jubes had begged Logan to take them mall, knowing he would give them a level of freedom none of the others did. Walking away from the minivan, Jubes had teasingly shouted “bye Daddy!”, loud enough to turn heads, and the three girls had dissolved into giggles at the shocked looks he had attracted.

He simply raised a brow and shook his head, amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth.

But now she knew he had been admiring the shape of her ass in the tight blue denim, and thinking about the unbroken expanse of the middle seat. Thinking about peeling off those jeans, and following the marks they'd leave, starting at her ankles and biting his way up the line of her legs until he reached her sweet, virgin pussy. Pushing her knees back until they touched the seat behind her head, and burying his face there and fucking her with his tongue, until her screams echoed throughout the carpark. She'd be begging for his cock and so slippery it wouldn't hurt at all as he made her his, and as he fucked her harder and harder, he would make it eminently fucking clear who was between her legs. “I'm not your father, Rogue,” he would say each time she came, and just to punish her for those giggles, he'd make her come again, and again. And then when they were done, she would look at him, brown eyes full of love, and tell him she knew. “You're my lover, sugar,” she'd say, and “Mah name is Marie.”

So when he called her Rogue, she had to correct him, even as her breathing grew raspy with the memory, and his eyes grew heavy at her scent.

“Marie,” she said, and she saw it hit his pleasure centre.

“Marie,” he agreed, and it felt like … hope, she decided. It felt like hope.

*

She was close now. She could see the foyer beyond the double doors, and a woman sitting at a desk, handing out forms. Eight, maybe ten people ahead of her, depending on how long the line inside was.

He was close, too. She'd been watching him watch her from across the street, straddling Scott's old motorcycle and trying to be inconspicuous. Tried not to roll her eyes, but he had to know he was rumbled. She would'a gone over there to tell him off if she hadn't been worried about losing her place in the line.

Why was he here? He'd said he wasn't going to stop her, as long as it was what she really wanted. Had he changed his mind? Or was remembering that old promise, to protect her? Maybe he was just being a friend. Maybe she'd gamble on that.

Marie raised an eyebrow in his direction, and then crooked her finger. Come here. She saw his eyebrow shoot up, and did it again. Come here.

He slid a leg over the bike and strode towards her, irritation written on his face.

“What?”

“You're the one spying on me, sugar. Ya can't manage to be a bit more polite about it?”

Another shrug.

“Just wanna be sure you're safe out here, Marie. Happy that you're making the right decision.”

“I see. Because killing people with a touch is easier to bear today than it was yesterday?”

He flinched, but his mouth firmed. This time he would argue.

“So you don't touch. You can still have a life, Marie. A good life. There'll be … ways around it. Ways that don't involve something the government's using as a goddamn weapon.”

She snapped. Stepped in close, and whispered in his ear.

“Lots of ways, aren't there Logan? But still, you'll always wonder. What innocence really tastes like.”

He reared back, eyes unbelieving. A flash of anger, followed by something far worse. Guilt. Shame.

“You said ...”

“I never did. Not until last night. Not even once. But … I was saying goodbye. You were so busy chasing Jean, and mourning the Professor and being Logan the fucking Wolverine ...” her voice broke, and she couldn't have said whether it was sorrow or anger at fault.

“So I looked. I was up all night … looking.” Her lips curled around the word, and his eyes darkened as he took her meaning.

The line shuffled forward, but she stood in place. Someone catcalled behind her, but the mutterings grew instantly quiet when Logan popped a single, central claw in their direction.

“And in the morning, I knew I was doing the right thing. I have to have hope, Logan. This is my hope.”

“Hope for fucking what, Marie? A normal life? Playing happy families with the Popsicle? Mini-van in the suburbs and a spot on fucking PTA?” Scorn dripped from his lips, but Marie's smile never slipped. Instead, she reached out to take his hand, and her fingers lingered, the silk of her glove caressing the spaces between his knuckles.

“I'm hoping you'll be honest. I'm hoping you'll tell me what you really want. I'm hoping, sugar, that you'll be brave enough to let me want you back.”

He'd gone silent and still, but she could see something stirring in his eyes. The line moved once more, and this time she moved with it, their hands slowly drawing apart.

“Go home, Logan,” she said, and her heart leapt as she moved through the double doors and into the clinic. Took her consent forms with a cheery “thank you,” and returned them with grin. Leapt up as they called her name, and then smiled as the hypodermic needle penetrated deep into her bicep.

As the transformation took her, Marie's vision separated into a thousand points of colour, then strobed into what looked to be a million butterflies.

Hope, flying free, she told herself.

fin