Disclaimers in part one
Authors note: A big ass cheer to Em and crew for the amazing support thank
you! :::throws fic baring carrots to the bunnies:::
Additional: I'm not too sure I like how this one turned out so if anyone can
offer some pointers structually I'd love it!
Sorry this one is so short! Trust me Chapter 8 is a dozzy! -Cordelia
The air outside was several degrees cooler when he finally found the two
story apartment building and got her to her standing outside of the front
door. Logan fumbled with the keys, finally able to open the door.
The smell that greeted him was a mix of cigarettes, incense, and weed. And
Rogue. He'd found the right place.
Rogue was now murmering and trying to push away from him, but quickly lost
her posture and pitched forward. "Oh no you don't, kid" He said catching her
with one arm around her waist and the other coming up vertically between her
breasts, barely missing her bare collar bone, now completely out.
Logan had to hoist her up to get Rogue past the doorway. Kicking the door
with a grunt, he quickly located the cot she used as a bed and deposited her
Returning to the door and locking it. 'Girl ain't liven in the best of areas'
he thought grimly reguarding the unconious mutant with empathy. He'd been
there and back and on a return trip with detours til he found a place with
Xavier's band of merry men.
He then took to expoloring the tiny apartment. The walls were plastered in
monsterous black and white posters of androgynous beings, eyes dark with
depression. Logan could only assume the music that made them famous would be
as such. Which brought him to her music collection stacked haphazardly on the
floor surrounding a small silver stereo, a back pack next to it with a half
finished essay on top.
On the far wall near the shower stall and endenture that held the toilet and
sink was a small book case crammed with what looked like every book from here
to Rogue's native Mississippi. Messy volumes in both hard and paper bound
editions ranging from Lovecraft and Camus to Poppy Z. Brite and comic books.
The floor next to the case was a small forest of marble mushrooms and pewter
faeries. Logan shot a glance over his shoulder to the drugged girl on the cot
and back at her fantacy collection that betrayed her youth. Beside the little
illusion of perfect innocence was a well thumbed and dog earred edition of
Joan of Arc. He picked the book up, the cover dry under his calloses and the
violet light from a lava lamp making the white paper purple. 'Doesn't exactly
peg me for a Catholic' he was proved wrong by the crystal rosary he found
strung around knob of the vanity, there he also found pagan religious texts
also dogearred and a small silver penticle necklace. 'She's converted' was
An old picture was wedged between the mirror and it's frame. Irene Adler. He
recognized the woman from the file the professor had on Rogue listing her as
legal guardian. A vertical crease ran throughthe laminated paper making the
winkles on the womans face even more promenant. He flicked the photo back on
to the vanity and returned to the fridge and removed a Guiness. Striking the
cap on the counter to open it, Logan took a gulp before taking a seat on the
bean bag chair oppisate of the cot.
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