At first it’s a relief. To be on his own again. No need to worry over her. No need to keep remembering that she’s her own person who has a say over many things. No need to try and act nicely. First hour he’s walking down the side of the road he keeps scratching himself, belching and farting just for the hell of it. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s missing her already. Missing her scent and the warm feeling radiating from her. She gave him the reason to clean up his act, pull his shit together. Now that she’s gone, his senses are still sharp and he’s alert. He doesn’t want to be. Doesn’t want to hear every snap and crackle. Doesn’t want to keep sniffling the air. And he fucking hates it when there’s not a single trace of her in the crisp breeze that enters his nose and lungs every time he breathes.
“Get lost, asswipe…”
A bear rustles deeper in to the forest lining the road. For a moment he considers following it. His knuckles are itching, but the ugly truth is, that it would most likely be a fight he wouldn’t come out on top. If he were lucky the teddy would just maim him and leave him to freeze to death. And now there’s no Marie to drag his sorry carcass to safety.
“Fuck…”
It’s time to tuck the cocky attitude back to the closet. In the cage he’s still the king, able to mop the floors with anybody who dares to enter, but out here… Too many variables. Time to start turning the other cheek and hiding again.
“I’m a fucking moron.”
And that isn’t anything new. His stubbornness has gotten him in to trouble before. Stupid, old-fashioned pride and plain paranoia coupled with rather selfish nature will be his downfall one of these days. But not today. He grins, adjusts the knapsack hanging from his shoulder and sticks out his thumb when he hears a truck approaching. Sharp twang of fear slices through him like it does every time a car or a truck stops beside him, but he ignores it, grabs the door handle and yanks the door open. Takes a quick whiff from the driver, and when his scent reveals nothing but weeks worth of dust and sweat climbs in, slamming the door shut before the man gets the chance to start whining about the cold weather.
“Car trouble?”
“You could say so…”
“I think I saw your wheels few kilometers back there. Broke down?”
“No. Driver ditched me.”
“Driver… Holy shit, man! What happened to your eyes?”
“Accident when I was a kid.”
“What kind of an asshole abandons a blind man in the middle of nowhere?”
“A reasonable asshole. How long for the nearest town?”
“We should be getting there in an hour.”
“You know if there’s a cage? I could really use some money.”
“Jesus. Aren’t there easier ways to earn your living?”
“Probably. But it’s something I’m good at.”
“There is a cage. But can I give you an advice?”
“Sure.”
“There’s this guy, I haven’t seen him, but they say that he’s a real animal in the cage. Wolverine. Stay out of the ring if his name comes up, okay?”
“I will, I will…”
An hour passes. The trucker, elder man called Fred keeps steady conversation going. He keeps contributing with short grunts and nods, generally just dosing off in the pleasant warmth of the cab. He learns everything there is to know about Fred and his family. Gets interesting tidbits of the towns he’ll be facing if he keeps traveling south. Gets a cup of coffee that is thick as tar, strong enough to make even his throat burn. And there’s another kind of burn inside of him as well. He can see her every time he closes his eyelids. Shimmering golden aura seeping through the cold silver and darkness, searing his gut until it actually starts to physically hurt and there’s rather embarrassing moisture trickling down his cheeks.
“You’re not alright, are you, buddy?”
“None of your business. But thanks. For the ride, and coffee. And thanks for…”
He turns away before his traitorous body humiliates him even further. He is not crying, for fuck’s sakes. He doesn’t cry. And when he hears the truck revving the engine, Fred getting ready to hit the road again he has to suppress the sudden urge to scramble back in and beg him to take him even further, closer to the border from where it would be easier to find a ride to the States.
“Get a grip, you fucking pansy…”
He shrugs his shoulders, straightens his back and makes sure the usual scowl is in place over his features before he walks in to the bar. Stench of blood, vomit, cigars and booze greet him. Home. He strolls to the bar, making sure that he’s not stumbling or seeking support, letting his nose guide him through the noisy crowd. He orders a beer and asks the barkeep to add his name on the cage roster.
“Wolverine. Boy, am I glad to see you!”
“Why?”
“Take a good look around you. You see anybody fit in to the cage?”
“Nope.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Was thinking that I should quit the business altogether. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
“Why?”
“Could you stick around for couple of days? You know, to lure in more hard hitters?”
“I guess I could be persuaded…”
“Room and meals on the house. Fifty percent of the income from the fights.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“I’ll have Clara to show you to your room…”
“No.”
“You want someone new?”
“No. Just not interested in that kind of reward right now.”
“Okay. Suit yourself. Here’s the key. Let me know if you change your mind. Clara has been asking for you, you know…”
“Not interested. Fix me a sandwich. I’ll go and get settled in before I get in to the cage.”
“A sandwich? Wolverine…”
“Just make the goddamned sandwich, Burt!”
Now that he actually knows where he is it isn’t any easier to keep pretending that he isn’t missing her. Three more hours and he’d be cross the border. From there it would take few more days to reach N.Y. From there… He doesn’t have the slightest idea of where exactly in N.Y. Xavier’s school is, but he’s pretty sure he could locate it easily. Too easily. He wouldn’t fit in to that world, no matter how hard he tried. So he plunks his knapsack to the corner of the small room, returns to the bar, eats the sandwich and steps in to the cage. Beats up squirts that dare to enter, accepts drinks and throws them back to drown the flickering image of the girl dancing at the surface of his blind eyes, and keeps repeating it night after night for a whole week, until a familiar scent drifts among the stale booze and sweat. Leather and hot electricity. Summers.
“What the fuck do you want from me, bub?”
“It’s Rogue.”
“Take me there.”
He’s glad that he’s blind. He doesn’t like flying, and his perverse curiosity would keep his eyes glued to the window and the ground somewhere far below if he were able to see the whole two hours it’ll take to reach Westchester. Now he settles to his seat, keeps his seatbelt fastened and his fingers grasped tightly around the sturdy armrests even when Summers glues him in to the situation.
Taken. Stolen from the sanctuary, by Magneto of all the possible people.
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