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?”
*
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Story Notes:
Authors notes: It's taken a long time for me to come to terms with X3. And then I started thinking about Marie, thinking about taking the Cure. And this bunny bit me on the butt, bigtime. Need to exorcise it so I can get on with Sleeping Dogs. This will be 3 or 4 chapters at the most.
Chapter End Notes:
Inspiration is a two way street, people. Please review!