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4235Fic: Cicatrix: Logan, L/R [/1/]

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  • victoria p.
    Apr 17, 2002
      Title: Cicatrix
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: "She has the scars to show for it."
      Rating: G
      Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
      fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
      Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool
      Feedback: Helps prevent permanent scarring
      Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete'n'Melissa, Dot, and Meg. Inspired by Blu's
      "Babylon Revisited" and my trip to donate platelets this afternoon



      Logan is not a vain man. He knows he is attractive -- to both sexes --
      and in almost perfect physical shape. How much of that is his mutation,
      he's never been sure. He doesn't question, just accepts the good things
      it brings with it.

      He knows he is attractive, but he doesn't spend much time thinking or
      worrying about it.

      Which is why Rogue was surprised when he brought home the mirror. It's
      long -- she can see herself from head to toe in it -- and it now hangs
      on the back of the door in their bathroom.

      He occasionally stands before it naked, and she admires the planes and
      angles of his body, the sheer perfection of skin stretched over bone and
      muscle -- thinking that he's doing the same. She secretly giggles at
      this preening, and though she would never tell him, she thinks it's

      She doesn't know he hates his skin, almost as much as she hates hers.

      There isn't a mark on it -- no scars, no bruises, not even a callus. His
      skin is flawless. He carries all his scars on the inside, his suffering
      hidden by the cloak of perfection.

      She has long since stopped being shy; living together means casual
      nudity to him, even with the ever-present danger of her lethal skin, and
      she has become used to being naked in front of him, though she still
      gets nervous that he will be hurt.

      She doesn't know the placement of the mirror was deliberate, that he
      watches her when the bathroom door is angled the right way. She steps
      out of the shower, water glistening over pale skin, the sunlight from
      the window gilding her to the color of warm honey.

      As she goes about her morning routine, brushing her teeth and her hair,
      applying her lotion and plucking her eyebrows, he watches her, takes
      careful inventory of her well-being.

      He starts with her feet: heels callused from going barefoot whenever she
      can, toenails trimmed and painted weekly. Up her calves, his brow
      furrowing over the large bruise purpling on the back of her right leg
      and the small scabs from where she's cut herself shaving. Over her
      knees, which wear the faded wine-dark stains of an active childhood. He
      scowls at the inch-long scar across her thigh; her uniform torn by a
      knife on one of their missions, a superficial cut, but one that left a
      remembrance. She had refused his offer of healing, as she does every

      He sees the little scar on her belly, the result of an appendectomy at
      the age of twelve. It resembles a small pink spider, and outside of the
      doctor who put it there, only he has seen it up close, traced his lips
      over the dead tissue that doesn't react when touched.

      He sometimes wonders if he should love the scars instead of hating them,
      because they allow him to touch her with his lips and hands, but he'd
      rather always have the barrier of silk between them than have her hurt

      There are faint red marks on her hips -- his hands put those there this
      morning as he made love to her. Even those he wishes away, feels the old
      self-loathing rise at his rough treatment of her, though she laughs and
      tells him she likes it, that he's just being an old woman. He knows she
      tells the truth, but still, he worries.

      She seems so fragile, as if she's made of glass, and he hates being
      rough and clumsy with such a priceless gift.

      He continues his inventory. There's a burn mark on her arm; he scowls.
      It's new, and he wonders which of their enemies put it there, or if she
      was simply careless when baking cookies with the youngsters yesterday.

      Her hands are red, the knuckles still chapped from the long, cold
      winter. Skin raised in Mississippi doesn't react well to cold New York
      weather. Fingernails, too, are trimmed short and painted red. Her
      fingers are long and elegant, unencumbered by jewelry.

      On the underside of her left breast, he notes the bite mark he left
      earlier and winces. She rakes her nails down his back and the sting is
      invigorating, but the trails of her passion are gone long before he can
      get to the mirror to look.

      His dog tag lies between her breasts. It leaves its own mark on her, the
      public declaration that she is his, and he, hers. Someday, he thinks, he
      will put a ring on her finger, but neither of them is ready for that,
      and the dog tag is enough for now.

      There is no scar, no trace at all, of where he impaled her. He healed
      that completely, and would do so again in a heartbeat, God forbid the
      need ever arose.

      Her face and neck are flushed from the heat of the shower, and the skin
      on them is unmarked. She has a flawless complexion, the envy of the
      other women in the house. She talks of getting a tattoo, and he grits
      his teeth and pretends to go along with it, not wishing to have her
      touched -- branded -- by any hand but his. And even that he would
      relieve her of, if she'd let him.

      His eyes settle on her hair.

      The lingering reproach of the two white streaks that she will never dye.
      She likes them, claims they are chic and sexy. And she's not wrong. But
      they silently rebuke him. Had he been faster, stronger, smarter, he'd
      have been able to save her before she'd had to experience that pain, and
      then his own to compound it, when he healed her.

      She is strong. He knows this in his heart and his mind, even as the
      evidence before his eyes belies it.

      She has taken him on, taken Magneto, she has survived the road and the
      nightmares and the damage he's done her unintentionally, and she has the
      scars to show for it.

      He envies them, even as he wishes she'd let him make them go away. But
      she wears them proudly, seeing them as badges, road signs on her
      journey, each with its own story to tell of how she grew from being the
      sad, scared girl Marie into the strong and confident Rogue.

      Then he looks again at himself, and sees a blank slate, a life
      unexamined, unlived, and wills her to imprint her love on his soul, even
      as the marks fade from his body.

      He knows she's strong enough to do it, strong enough to bear the burden
      for them both.

      And he loves her all the more.





      "I go online sometimes, but everyone's spelling is really bad. It's
      depressing." Tara, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_


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