"--but it's not just ice, I lower the temperature too. So now I can't decide between Freezer and "
Bobby talks incessantly, sits next to her even when there are available chairs next to people without poisonous skin. He doesn't require an answer, but gives a kind pause after every question.
"What do you think? Cuz, you know, it doesn't have to be something completely related to your mutation. I mean, Professor Xavier is 'The Professor', not 'Mr. ESP' or something. Have you picked a code name yet? Everyone's doing it. The teachers are even going to put them on our graduation papers. John going with 'Pyro', Kitty says either 'Shadowfax' or 'Vapor.' But I can't decide at all--"
"I like 'Iceman'," she volunteers shyly, picks at the uneven grain of her pencil.
He always smiles so eagerly at her. There's something foreign in his expression, not cruel or lewd, which might explain why it took her so long to place a label on it.
"Really? You think so? That was the one I was leaning--".
::::::::::::::
The girl rolled and twisted the sheets into a tight ball, small enough to carry with ease. She set the bundle into the laundry basket, turned to strip the pillows of their cases.
Jubilee was sitting cross-legged on her bed. The scent of Doritos and the flip of pages; she was searching for new make up tips, dog-earing the paper with the orange dust of fake cheese. Every few moments, she sent a "Hmmph," a tut, an expression that alternated between amusement and irritation toward the girl.
"You know you don't have to do that. The cleaning service do sheets and towels."
The girl knew. She'd heard the sighs generated by the state of Jubilee's bed, the crumbs and industrial vacuum had to be brought in to collect. She'd quietly excused herself, told the kind woman assigned to their hall that she would take care of her own things, it was fine, she wanted to, really, thanks. Escaped to the library until there were fewer bodies filling the small bedroom, to marvel and cringe at this facet of mansion life. The idea of not doing what little she could to care for what she had been given here.
::::::::::::
A thin hall with paintings of flowering fields. Bubbles of air that caught and broke in her throat before they could reach her lungs. Frantic little gasps, pain in her chest and eyes from the illogical violence of a panic attack. Her feet in their almost-new tennis shoes pattering on the hard floor, somewhere between a stumble and a run.
She didn't understand. Nothing had happened, nothing unusual. Nothing that should break all reason and control and set her fleeing from a threat she hadn't even identified.
It was Friday, the last class of the day finished and two hours before to go before dinner, before she had any obligation to be around other people. The girl left the circle of choirs in The Professor's office with only thought of getting upstairs, getting somewhere quiet. Perhaps read the book of poetry she'd found in the library.
Nobody spoke to the girl, looked her her way; she didn't need to flatten herself against the wall to keep space between herself and the moving crowd. It was considerably one of her better days. It had all been fine. Fine.
She'd passed the entertainment room, caught a glimpse of Jubilee on the couch, her fake nails tracing some secret pattern on a boys neck. Younger students on the floor by the TV, arguing over the limited Xbox controllers. An irritated voice that cried, "It's my turn!"
Then, suddenly, her lungs weren't strong enough to perform the job they'd been doing for years. And she was whimpering through this narrow hallway, the walls too close and getting closer. And her room was so far, so far. Wait--where was the her room? Had she made a wrong turn? Had she ever been down this corridor, so blurry and claustrophobic?
The girl took in a deep, useless gulp of air. Her vision swam and her heart battered fiercely in her chest, a wild attempt to break free of its cage.
Thoughtlessly her hand scrabbled at the knob of the closest door. Anything could have lain behind it. Another bedroom, another person. It didn't matter, didn't stop her. She had to get out of the open. She had to--she had to hide. Frantic fingers managed to twist the sweat-slicked brass. Muted click of the latch's retreat, and the girl forced herself inside. A tiny storage room. Neat stacks of supplies for the hard working and virtually invisible cleaning staff. Perfect.
The girl closed the door, felt her knees buckle and the distance between herself and the floor diminish by a couple feet. She came to an awkward sitting position on a tub made of hard plastic. Breathing wasn't getting any easier. Her nose was running, her cheeks cold and moist with tears she hadn't been aware of until now.
It took him only moments. Two or three minutes, at most, and even in her preoccupied state the girl knew this was unusually swift. As if she'd paged him. As if this was their usual meeting place and he was simply running a little late.
One heartbeat, she was crouched in the dark closed, alone with the smell of metal and glass cleaner and plungers. Then another throb in her chest, a slim rectangle of light, cutting her down the middle. Replaced, filled almost immediately with the solid bulk of him. Loose brown shirt and jeans missing their usual belt. She couldn't see his eyes.
Her stomach clenched; her legs stiffened in some precursor to flight. But, strangely, the blockage in her throat thinned with Logan's appearance. She inhaled.
The girl knew he was taking her in, absorbing her disheveled and hysterical appearance, her unsteady squat on a container that she would later identify as toilet cleanser. He didn't speak. And then Logan took the step that brought him inside with her. His arms reached out and in some delicate maneuver of body parts among boxes and bottles that the returned darkness prevented her from seeing, the girl's tearful face was pressed against Logan's stomach. Smashed there against soft folds of cloth and muscles that lacked any give. It was not uncomfortable. His hands found her skull, her hair, held her in place. Calloused fingers discovered obscure paths through the brown locks. Stroking, letting the strands slip over and between the digits, tugging teasingly at the knots and soothing. Her features twisted up; she bawled against him, long keens that wouldn't have been so loud if she had not been so utterly silent.
Dimly, a part of her (more in tune with the expectations of normal society than the girl knew) recognized that she was embarrassing herself. That she should feel humiliated. Grateful only that the person who found her had already seen her snap many times before. Wipe herself off, apologize, and escape from this much too cramped chamber.
That part was speaking too quietly to be heard.
And he was still soundless, one of his hands leaving her hair now and again to rub her back, smooth over a shuddering spine. And she was calming now. Big breaths, gulps, one after another. And the flesh under his shirt was hot and she pressed her face harder against it, turned her head back and forth, a rough nuzzle with her nose and forehead and lips and there, finally, he made a noise. A hitch in Logan's breathing, a rumble in his chest. And his thumbs brushed the bone behind her ears, the thick strands acting as a gauzy barrier.
It took a long time for either to notice that this protection was insufficient. That he was not wearing the gloves that he often donned when spending time with her. That with her next sob his hand slipped, cupped the back of her neck reflexively. That it rested there long past when the pain should have begun, where her hair was only faintly tan whispers.
That nothing was happening.
.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
The site gremlins must have struck again, cutting off half of the previous chapter. I tried repeatedly to re-copy and paste and post the text, but it doesn't help. I am posting the second part, though it isn't much, as another chapter. I apologize for any irritation this may cause. Thank you!