***
Disclaimer: Umm, yeah the comic people own all the characters. No copyright infringement intended, no profit being made, yadda, yadda…
Notes: Well, here it is. My first X-Men fanfic. Very short (as is typical with me), no new characters (as is typical with me), and a bit of introspection (very typical of me). Feedback would be appreciated. I should probably point out that I haven't really read a single piece of X-Men fanfic yet, so I've no idea how this compares.
***
He's fading every day.
He's still there, he'll always be there, but he's fading every day.
The first few days after the 'incident' were awful - I didn't know who I was, why my claws wouldn't come out of my hands, why I couldn't remember that I shouldn't touch anyone, why I started thinking of Jean in the way that he thinks of her.
It got easier. After he healed I could pretend I was good old Rogue, same as usual. I could be upset that he was leaving, could be not so secretly delighted when he gave me his dog tags. He would be coming back, and that was a good enough reason to smile.
Some of his 'gifts' have been more permanent than others. The healing ability vanished almost immediately, although I'm convinced that any paper cuts I get heal up a lot faster than they used to…
Mostly though, I've stopped caring what people think about me. It's allowed me to do things and be a person I never would have been - and I suppose it's something to be grateful for. There are things I wished I hadn't done because of that 'gift', but I couldn't really call it regret.
Sometimes I'll see Jean sitting somewhere, supposedly working over some kind of medical information, but when she stares into nothingness, I know who she's thinking of. Even now I can still feel her hand brushing over his chest.
:::"That tickles.":::
God, she has a beautiful smile.
I never know which of us is thinking that.
I don't really mind.
I have, over the few months since he left, become used to him living in my head. It's like he set up his own room with posters of well-endowed women, empty beer bottles, and a television set that only shows the same thing over and over - although, as yet, I've never been able to figure out exactly what is showing on the television. It's incredibly frustrating.
But I find the fact that he has a personal space, there, in my head, comforting. He's gone, but he's still there.
Yet he's fading every day.
I used to enjoy the internal conversations and arguments I had with him. They still happen, but less and less. I'm used to him being there, even with his patronising "Hey kid."
I don't know if I can be just me again.
We received a message from him last week. Addressed to no one in particular, just letting us know he was still alive. Actually, that's exactly what the message said. "I'm still alive." That's not very reassuring.
I'll be fine, I suppose. I won't weep and wail until he returns, but I will look forward to it.
In any case, I still have that little room in my mind. It's getting smaller, and the television is getting quieter as if someone's fiddling with the remote, but it's still there.
Sometimes a 'bub' will slip out completely without warning. It amuses the heck out of Jean, but all Scott does is glare. Sometimes a 'bub' will slip out just because I want it to, just because there's enough of him left to enjoy getting a reaction out of old one-eye.
Okay, so that was him speaking.
I'll be fine. I have friends here. They're almost enough.
And tonight, when once again I can't resist the incredible urge, I'll sneak out of the building and light up a cigar.
Thanks for that one, Logan. So much for taking care of me.
~FINIS