When I was a child and I couldn't get to sleep on dark nights with the wind howling and the shadows in my room seeming to rear up, ready to devour me, I would call out for my mother. She would always come to me and tell me stories to help me fall asleep again. As I lay here in this cold room, unable to move on a bed that offers no comfort, I remember my favorite story.
"There once was a princess whose only love was to dance among the stars which made up her home in the heavens. She would dance from star to star, touching the native peoples with her passion and her courage, her love for the universe and her unswerving devotion to dance. However, the princess could never stay long at any one star. She was always filled with sadness when she was forced to continue her dance, no matter how much it pleased her, for the people of each star quickly became her friends."
"Soon, although she did not wish it to, her sadness spread into her dance, and the people of the stars she danced on suffered greatly. The princess felt great anguish at this, and resolved to stop her self-pitying ways. It wasn't so easy, though. Each star she was compelled to leave for the next drove her to lower depths of despair and doubt. Soon, she had lost the will to dance, but her pattern was established and she could not stop."
"Then, one day, the princess danced to the star which our Earth revolves around. Here she found a people whose nature could be as dark as her own had become, if they let it. However, these people were happy, for the most part. Soon the princess discovered why. The people of Earth knew how to rejoice in the simple things which made them happy, how to search out love and cherish it above all else. Soon, the princess took to heart the lessons the people of Earth had been so eager to teach her. She fell in love with a young man from a small kingdom and they married. The princess's dance had ended, and with its ending her life began."
I whisper the story to myself as I look at the ceiling that glares at me. So white. Too white.
The story has begun to destroy the numbness I've felt inside for longer than I care to think. As that protective barrier cracks, my memories trickle through it. I try to force them back, but they keep coming and coming....
* * * * * * * * *
I sat beneath a tall elm tree and gazed out at the gardens, which were displaying all of the brilliant colors of fall. My fingers idly played with the chain that I always wore around my neck. The tags that laid between my breasts were both a comfort and a reminder of a touch I could never know without pain and sorrow accompanying it. Truly bittersweet. It was here that I allowed myself to become lost in thought for the first time in public, the first time during the light of day.
I'd been at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters for two months, yet I hardly knew any of my fellow students. I knew that it had seemed strange to everyone around me when, after such a promising start, I had taken to keeping myself as isolated as possible, to staying in my room with my headphones on and a book in my lap. Yeah, I heard all that straight from Cyke--even now I can't stop the Logan in me from thinking of him like that--when he was talking to Storm, although I'm sure that neither of them knew I was there, hidden two rows of books to the right of where they stood in the library.
I didn't want them to find out why I hid from the others. I knew that if they did, they'd make me stop. They wouldn't want me to cause myself so much distress, or so they'd put it. They just wouldn't understand. I was so sure of that.
Like I said, normally I only thought about this at night, with my face pressed into my pillow and repeating to myself that I was *not* going to cry. That day was different, though, I decided as I leaned against that tree. The night before, I'd almost been caught. I'd been indulging, not for more than a few minutes, when Kitty had rushed into the room I shared with her and Jubilee. I had barely enough time to open my eyes and paste on a smile before she asked what was wrong. I told her I had a headache, and she left it at that.
I was almost disappointed. Who knew being so close to being caught could be such a thrill? I had pressed my face into my pillow for a far different reason that night. I was exhilarated.
.
I knew that it was dangerous. I knew that, if I wasn't careful, I wouldn't be able to go back to being "me" one day. That didn't matter, though. Not when I could feel. Not when I could touch. And it seemed like such an easy answer to me at the time, despite the danger.
At least once a day, I lost myself in the memories.
Not my memories, of course. I had been so naive, so young, that I hadn't known how to value a touch before it was too late. I had never reveled in the smallest brush of skin upon skin, as I should have. Instead, I had wasted the precious little time I had.
I had several sets of memories to choose from. Back then there were only the three men. Who to choose? Who, indeed. That was always my first question. Some nights, actually, many nights in a row, it would be Logan’s past, or what he remembered of it and had given to me, that I would turn to. I craved the animalistic nature that could be mine only when I was immersed in his memories. What was the harm?
The night Kitty interrupted me had been a rare Eric night. He I tried to ignore at all costs, but there were times when I couldn't stand it anymore, and he would surface and his memories would engulf me. The pain of the camps, the feel of the dead bodies surrounding me as I moved through the camp’s halls to do the work assigned to me. The pleasure from the touch of the one person who had ever been able to affect his life in any positive way bound me to the Professor more each time I accessed Eric. These memories intoxicated me, dragging me under in a dizzying well of pure, raw emotion. Eric was never half this and half that. I'll give him that much.
Even rarer still were the times when I indulged in the sweet and still-tender memories of David. He'd been almost as bad as me, not understanding the potential in touch. That in itself was more than enough of a reason to avoid him except when I needed only to feel that I was being held gently and lovingly. It's strange, you know, to remember holding yourself, your hand running up and down your own bare arm. Yet it isn't your hand at all and you know that. Yes, very very strange. Not to mention very seductive in its own special way.
That's how I'd come to describe every memory gifted to me. Seductive. They called to me, beguiling me to live with touch through them. Who was I to say no? They pulled at me, not too strong, not strong enough to subvert how I really am. I was always so positive about that one. Isn't it nice to know that you can be wrong once in a while?
But back to that autumn afternoon. I leaned back against that elm tree and sighed happily, already feeling a chill of pleasure run down my spine at the thought of doing this so openly. I tried to decide whom to call up this time. Not Eric, no, I'd had enough of him the night before to last me for at least another week or so.
The feeling of cool metal in my hand made me look at it curiously. A spark caught fire in my mind when I saw my fist curled around the tags. I lovingly traced my thumb over the raised letters stamped into the metal.
"Wolverine," I whispered solemnly, not really reading the name so much as breathing it in. A small smile curled over my lips. "Logan."
The decision had been made. Not that I had really surprised myself, of course. I found myself coming back more and more often in those days to Logan and his memories. I believe that Jean saw some of this and interpreted as a crush. Little she knew.
Logan had been gone almost as long as I'd been at Professor Xavier's School, and I'd known him for an even shorter time. Not even a week, really, when all was said and done. However, he'd been the only one to touch me, skin to skin, without fear and thinking only to save me. Even the first time, that had been his main worry. Hell, why not? He'd just buried nine inches of adamantium in my chest. The second time had been a bit different, you see. He knew what he was doing. He didn't give a tinker's damn if he lived, so long as I didn't die. You want to think that turned my head a bit? That maybe that was the reason I'd chosen Logan's memories so many times? Fine, you be my guest, sugar. After all, who am I to argue with the truth?
But back to that day. Shit, I do tend to get sidetracked in my own memories. It was a good thing for me, or so I thought at the time, that when I let myself enter their memories, I could focus like a fucking priest during mass.
I apologize. Even as I'm remembering this, Logan's pull is strong. Do you really think I would use language like that? I'll try to tone down the Logan growling in my head right now at myself--now, ain't that just a pretty picture--and get on with the telling of it.
It was as if thinking of Logan as I leaned back against the rough bark of that tree triggered the memory I needed. It was one with a lot of skin involved. His usually were.
She was an ex-stripper who had moved to Vancouver to start up her own strip club. That wasn't where I met her, of course. Nope, that was in a little bar--and the Rogue in me prompts me to add "seedy" to that description--a few miles outside of the city. She was miles of bare leg and tits that practically fell out of a neckline so low I wondered why she bothered with the shirt at all, and I wanted her as soon as I laid eyes on her. Apparently, the feeling was mutual, 'cause when I was at the bar getting my first shot of whiskey I smelled a cloud of some musky, sexy perfume approaching. That's why her hand on my shoulder didn't get the attention of the metal in my hands.
Her name was Cindi. She said it in such a gaggingly cute voice that I almost lost all the interest I'd had before. Then she pressed herself against me in a way that just shouted, "I know how to make you scream," which, of course, I wanted to find out.
On the way back to my motel, she gave me head in my truck. It was a pretty damn good feeling, her mouth all hot and wet on me. Enough to make a man think of other hot and wet places he could be diving into.
We were inside my room and stripping each other in a frenzy to touch about two seconds after I unlocked my door. I soon had her bare breasts in my hands--wasn't that difficult, after all, since she'd been as near to hanging out of her shirt as she could get and still be considered decent by most standards--and that's when I started to feel that buzz that sex usually brought me. Damn, but it's a great buzz while it lasts.
We dropped to the floor, not even bothering with the bed just yet. I touched her between her legs, not very gently, and found that she was indeed as wet and hot there as her mouth had been only minutes before. I didn't keep up that touch for long. I couldn't. She was whispering naughty little things in my ear, what she wanted to do to me, what she wanted me to do to her. I couldn't resist it. I spread her legs wide--shit, did I mention that her legs were so fucking long and shaped in a way that would make a fucking corpse's mouth water?--and began to pump into her, hard and fast. She was screaming, begging me not to stop, begging me make her come. Damn, that was a good night for my ego.
"Rogue."
She was lying next to me in the bed, which we'd somehow managed to crawl into. Her hand was playing with the hair on my chest, circling, moving lower and lower until she wrapped her fingers around me and began to rub. Her smile was playful and fierce at once.
"Rogue, are you all right?"
I opened my eyes, recognizing that voice, praying to whatever power was out there that she hadn't seen, that she hadn't pried. Not that she had a habit of doing that, mind you, or that she could be that strong, but maybe this once...
"I'm fine," I said, making my voice as groggy-sounding as I could. There was no use in telling her the truth. Let her think I had had a bad dream or something.
"You sure?" Jean asked. Damn. She suspected something. Even then, I knew she'd be the one I needed to hide from the most.
I looked off into the distance, trying to think of what I could say that would shock her into silence. Something that would have the ring of truth to it, the kind of tone that would convince her that I was worried about something, or that I was unhappy. Not that I'd just been getting high on touch and the chance of being caught at it.
Jean's eyes were fixed on a point beneath my chin. I looked down, and it was only then that I realized that I still held Logan's tags tightly in my fist. I slipped the chain and its tags inside my shirt where it usually resided, and in that instant I knew exactly what I could say that would make her believe me. That would scare her, maybe even scare her away. Something she might not be willing to tell anyone else.
I began to speak, turning my head to gaze out over the School's lovely grounds, so bright with red and orange and yellow as I did so. The reds just reinforced what I was going to say.
"Do you know how lucky you are, Jean?" I asked, letting my voice get all hoarse and choked. "For a mutant, you're pretty normal. Your powers can be controlled. You don't kill, ever, unless there's no other choice, and then it's just the enemy you can destroy, so it's not all that bad. You can touch anybody, anything you want to. Your body isn't a prison that you'll never escape."
I could feel Jean staring at me, could almost feel the waves of shock emanating from the woman kneeling beside me in the thick grass. I knew she’d never heard such things from me, but I was beyond caring about Jean, caught up in the flood of emotions that had accompanied my words. Damn, I hadn't been prepared for that. Hadn't wanted it.
"You can let yourself care for someone. I can't because, sooner or later, I'll want the kind of tactile response that you'd expect to go along with affection, with love. A hug, a kiss, even just a hand squeezing mine with no glove to get in the way. I have to deny myself all of that, every day for the rest of my life. My skin would kill the ones I love the most, and I couldn't bear that."
Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I really didn't care. I didn't want to wipe them away at first. They were the only tears I'd cried in a long while. Maybe too long. Anyway, inspiration struck just then. I looked at Jean and lifted my right hand. I slowly pulled off my glove and lifted my bare fingers to my face. As I wiped the moisture away, I made the ultimate confession.
"I can kill with a touch," I whispered, so low that Jean had to lean forward a bit. "I can kill anyone--except me."
I struggled to my feet while Jean was absorbing this with the shock I had desired to make her feel. I pulled on my glove, looking down at her bent head. Without giving her a chance to speak, ignoring the hand she stretched out to me and her pleading eyes as I backed away, I left. Hurrying across the lawn to the School's back entrance, I only looked back once. Jean stood now, and even from a distance of more than a dozen feet, I could see the anguish in her eyes.
* * * * * * * * *
Thus was the beginning of my dance. I didn't recognize it as such, of course. Not yet. Not for a good long time. And that realization almost came too late, anyway.
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Story Notes:
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, but if you’d sell ‘em to me at a price that would be even with what I currently make, I’d snap ‘em up in an instant.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Author’s Notes: This story has been revised to make up for the author’s formerly stupid approach to them. Hopefully, it's much better now.
A/N 2: Italics are the memories.
A/N 2: Italics are the memories.