Well, right about now I'm wishing that I was telepath, or a teleporter like Kurt, so I could take a peek into my room and see if Logan is still there.  I've been hiding out in the second floor reading nook at the end of the East wing, trying to act all casual while random people give me odd looks.  Why yes, fellow mansion dweller, it was quite necessary to visit the library wearing nothing but my bathrobe.  See, 'cause I just looove books.  Can't get enough of them.  In fact, I love them so much, I couldn't even wait long enough to put some clothes on first.  That's how much I love them.  It's perfectly normal.  Yeah, totally.

I suppose I could have gone to Jubilee's or Kitty's room to hide out.  But after that whole thing with Bobby spilling the beans about Logan and Angelica, I just didn't feel like going back there yet.

I didn't really have a plan per se for what I would do once I put on my little rebellious naked parade in front of Logan.  Once I strutted out of that room, I just started making a beeline towards the first place I could think of on the fly.  That's the problem with us hotheads.  We don't really think things through before we do something impulsive like that.  I have to shake my head and roll my eyes at myself.  Not so Rogue-ish now, are we?  Instead I'm hiding--hiding--like a ridiculous juvenile, afraid of facing the big, bad Wolverine after that display I put on.  Still, it was totally worth it to see the look on Logan's face.

I think my inappropriate attire and impending nakedness have killed the peaceful reading vibe in the room, because everyone has quietly cleared out.  Sigh.  I suppose I need to strap on a set and start heading back to my room, Logan or no Logan.  Besides, I'm getting cold.  Reaching up to put away the book in my hand, I spot a worn copy of Anne of Green Gables.  Oh, man--I haven't read that series since I was a kid.  That brings back a flood of memories.  My best friend Sarah and I used to voraciously read all about Anne and her misadventures, and then try to reenact them, pretending we were Anne Shirley and Diana Barry.  Sarah was the sweet, proper one, so she liked being Diana.  I was always Anne, of course.  That's how I broke my arm the summer I was twelve, trying to walk the roof of Daddy's tool shed the way that Anne walked the Barry's kitchen roof.

After I pulled that stunt, Daddy wanted to take away all my Anne of Green Gables books so I wouldn't get any more ideas.  But Mama stepped in and said it was good for a girl to have ideas, good to get into trouble once in a while.  That's what made a girl independent, and tough, she said.  Thanks to Mama, I was back to reading my books the very next day.

I always admired Anne for her spirit, her spunk.  Maybe she was an orphan, but she found a new family and became friends with people who loved her more than she could have ever hoped.  And no matter what bumps life threw her way, she was always able to overcome them, in her own unexpected and gloriously spunky way.

After flipping through the pages, I push Anne back onto the shelf, then pause.  You know what?  Maybe it would be kind of fun to read her again, just for old time's sake.  I tuck the book under my arm and head for the door.  Ugh, I hope I don't run into anyone I know, like Scott.  Or worse yet, one of my students.

"Oh, hi!  You're Rogue, right?"

Aw, cheese and crackers.  This can not be happening.  I've never met this person before in my life, but somehow, I know exactly who she is.  Why, oh why do you delight in torturing me, fate?

"I'm Angelica.  I'm so glad that I bumped into you; I wanted to introduce myself before the mission tonight."  She extends her hand and flashes a mega-watt smile.  I want to punch all her perfect teeth in.

Where did that come from?  No, Rogue.  Be nice.  Be professional.  This woman has done nothing to you.

Yeah.  Nothing except swoop into my domain with her flowing red hair to take my Logan away.  Screw being nice, says my inner voice.

You know, me and Logan, we were getting along just fine before this red-headed hussy showed up, says the voice.   We had a good thing going.  In fact, things were just starting to warm up.  I bet if I could have just kept chipping away at his resolve, he would have been mine in no time.  Then she came along.  What a coincidence that Logan decided to have "the talk" with me the same day he and miss FireSlut met up at the gym for some "physical education".

The thought makes my blood boil.  For the first time since I learned to control it, my skin wants to turn itself on.  Quite suddenly, I can feel everything, only magnified; the insidious craving, the itch to touch bare skin and feel the pull, the insatiable hunger.  My skin is hungry for life, and power, and memories.  It wants to reach out, and take, and take until there's nothing left.

A black thought, snakelike and sinister, creeps up the back of my neck and coils into my brain.  It would be so easy.  So easy to just extend my arm and take her hand, under the guise of friendship and politeness.  She would never see it coming.

I wouldn't have to hold on for very long.  Just a brief touch, enough to take a peek at her memories.  That's all.  We don't really want to hurt her.  We just want to know what she and Logan have been up to.  We need to know.

Just one, little, tiny, harmless touch.  She'll barely feel it.  Maybe she'll feel a little dizzy, but she'll shrug it off as nothing.  It's wrong, I know.  But we don't care, do we, says my inner voice.  We deserve to know.

I plaster a smile on my face, and everything is in slow motion as I reach for her outstretched hand.  My heart is beating so loud in my ears and I wonder if she can hear it and I can't believe I'm doing this but I can't stop myself, I don't want to stop myself.  Our hands make contact and I'm still smiling, and then carefully, carefully, the voice says, just for a second it says.  I open the connection, and quickly try to close it before I knock her out.  Unexpectedly a flood of images invade my brain, of Logan smiling at her, flirting with her, giving her that look that is so familiar because it's a look that used to be reserved for only me.  She laughs and touches his chest, and it's like a slap to my face when he touches her face in return.  The images are so vivid, and oh God I forgot, I forgot how strong and fast the memories come on, and I've seen enough and I don't want to see any more, and I try to close the connection, but something is wrong.  I can't close it, and now I can see the veins popping up in her face and her eyes are wide with fear and pain, and I try to pull my hand away, but I can't, I can't.  What's happening?  Let go, my inner voice screams, but I can't.  I can feel her powers surging through my body, the microwave energy pulsing all around, the heat radiating from my pores.  I'm trying to wrench my hand free from hers, but it's like they're fused together, and still her life force is being sucked into my body at an alarming rate, and I can hear her voice inside my head now and she's scared and confused.  Let go! My inner voice and hers scream in unison, and now I can't tell whose voice is whose, and I'm seeing her and seeing myself at the same time, and we both have a look of horror on our faces.

Her pupils have dilated and her eyes are frighteningly black, and her lips are blue now, and I can feel the influx of her life force slowing down, but not because I'm controlling it and not because I've broken contact, but because there's not much left.

Finally the connection is broken; she is emptied, and her body drops to the floor with a sickening thud.  My chest is heaving.  Tears are streaming down my face; tears that are both mine and hers.

What have I done?

I look down at my hands.  My treacherous, poisonous skin and murderous hands.  The air around them is rippling with energy, intense heat radiating from my palms.  The atmosphere is thick and heavy, vibrating with a low, oscillating hum.  The curtains, the wallpaper, the books on the shelf begin to smoke as if they are about to set on fire.

There is a mirror on the wall to my right.  Slowly, I turn my face towards the reflection; the image I see sends a chill down my spine.  Gone are my stripes.  In place of mahogany and white, long voluminous waves of flowing red hair.

Approaching the mirror, I gaze into stricken eyes that are mine and not mine.  What have I done?

The girl in the mirror reaches her hand towards mine; she wants to touch me, but I recoil.  Question fills her eyes... her hand stops, and then hesitatingly withdraws.  Her lips are moving, but I can't make out the words.  She's trying to tell me something.

"I'm sorry," she says.  "I'm--

 

"--sorry, I must have the wrong person.  I thought you were Rogue."

"Huh?"  I blink my eyes a few times and look around.

"I said I'm sorry, I thought you were Rogue, 'cause of the...because of the stripes in your hair.  My mistake.  Sorry about that."

"Fuck," I whisper under my breath.  I've been daydreaming again.  Hallucinating is more like it.  Or was that fantasizing?  Ugh, that is terrible.  I need to snap out of it and get a grip.  What kind of a person thinks those thoughts?  A person who needs serious help, that's who.

Angelica's eyes shift nervously, clearly not expecting a complete stranger to refuse her hand like a leper and then swear at her after what appears to have been a psychotic episode.  Better try to recover this, quick.

"Oh, um...no, hi," I reply awkwardly, pulling my robe a little tighter and offering my hand.  "It's me.  Rogue.  I was just...you caught me off guard is all."  I smile and try to look as normal as possible.

She smiles apprehensively, then shakes my hand.  "Hi, nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you."  Much to my relief, it's nothing but a normal handshake; I have managed to not suck the life out of her.  Go me.  "Sorry about that...thing...a minute ago; it's been a rough day.  I didn't mean to get all weird."

"Oh.  That's ok!" She smiles without reserve now.  "We all have days like that, right?"

"Yeah," I chuckle, and this time, I'm the one to smile without reserve.  Something about her demeanor puts me at ease right away.

"So, um...yeah.  I just wanted to introduce myself, and I thought maybe we could get to know each other a little bit before the mission tonight."

"Oh, yeah.  Of course.  That's a great idea." I glance down at my appearance and smile sheepishly.  "As long as you don't mind me hanging around in this getup.  Don't ask."

"Not at all," she laughs.  "And I won't ask."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour has passed like the blink of an eye since we sat on the sofa for a chat.  In such a short time, I feel like I've known her my whole life, and all I have to say is this.  Slap me with bread and call me a sandwich, she really is as great as everyone says she is.  After a mere 10 minutes of talking to her I could see what all the fuss was about.  Smart, funny as hell, super nice--a much nicer person than I am, apparently, seeing as that she doesn't seem to have warped fantasies about draining the life and memories out of a person she just met--and, dare I say, hot.  She really does have a whole cute yet sexy thing going on.  Great smile, and dammit if her laugh isn't just the right mix of feminine and genuine.  No wonder both Logan and Bobby want her.  Hell, if I ever switched sides, I'd want her.

She's the real deal, too; an open book with not a fake or malicious bone in her body.  I have a very sensitive bullshit meter, and this girl has not set it off.  Not even remotely.  She's actually... someone that I could see myself being friends with.

This is so unfair.  I wanted to hate her.  I really, really did.  But instead, I find myself actually liking her!  What the hell just happened?

Suddenly I'm feeling very conflicted.  For once, I realize, Logan is interested in a woman that might actually be good for him.  That's never happened before.  She's a genuinely good person, with just enough sass to hold her own against his strong and dominant personality.  And I think she would treat him right.  If I really care for him, shouldn't I want what's best for him?  Shouldn't I want him to be with someone if there's a chance that she might make him happy?  He deserves that.

And what about Angelica?  Logan is a great guy...a really great guy.  If she truly likes him, and he truly likes her, and there is even a small chance that they could be happy together, who am I to stand in the way of that?  I can't come between two people, can't crush their potential, just for my own selfish reasons.  That's one step away from being a home wrecker.

It all falls into place.

Angelica is still talking to me, but I can't hear her any more.  I can only feel my long-buried hopes dissolving, floating away.  I can do this for Logan.  I can give him a chance.  And this time, I'm going to keep my promise to be the friend that he needs me to be.

"Hey...are you ok?"  Angelica's brows are drawn together with concern.  "You have tears in your eyes.  What's wrong?"

A tear rolls down my cheek, but this time I don't fight it.  "It's nothing," I reassure her with a watery smile.  "I'm just...PMS-ing.  I get emotional sometimes."

She looks at me with an expression that says she doesn't believe me, any more than Logan believed me when I fed him that line.  To her credit, she says nothing, instead giving me the space I need to grieve without scrutiny.

We decide to take our leave and head back to our rooms; the ball is only a few hours away, and we both need to get ready.  To my surprise, she gives me a hug.  And to my bigger surprise, I hug her back like I mean it...because I do.

We go our separate ways, and I start the long walk back to my room.  Once again, the hallways are empty as I make my way, and I am grateful.  I won't have to explain myself, not for what I'm wearing, and not for my tears.

 

By the time I reach my room, the tears have dried.  The room is quiet; Logan is not waiting for me.

I drop my robe to the floor, and then my hair towel.  I enter the bathroom and face the mirror.  After a moment, I splash some cool water on my face and pat dry with a towel; then I go to my closet and pull out a forest green wrap dress and black heels.  Laying them on the bed, I go to my dresser and take out a black satin bra and matching panties.

I finish dressing and begin working on my hair and makeup, an elegant upsweep with white strands framing my face, smokey eyes and a touch of gloss on my lips.

I take one last look in the mirror.  Then I gather my things: scissors, clipper, comb, all tucked into a small leather bag.  I turn off the light and close the door behind me, then start down the hall...now turn left at the corner...2, 3, 4...5th room on the right.

I stand in front of the door, and smooth my dress one more time; I take a deep breath, then knock on the door.  For a moment, there is no answer.  I'm about to turn away, when the door unlatches and swings open.

"Why hello, chère.  To what do I owe the pleasure?"  A pair of glowing red eyes peer at me inquisitively, then skate up and down my body.

"I promised you a haircut.  And you promised dinner and une lagniappe."

He pauses, surprised at my assertion.  "That I do recall, Miss Rogue," he says finally.  He studies my face for a moment, then steps aside.  "Please, entrez."

His eyes follow me as I walk past, and then the door shuts behind us.

 

 

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