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FIC: Nowhere Fast [R] (1/2)

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  • Andariel L.
    Title: Nowhere Fast Author: Andariel (andariell@yahoo.com)Rating: R (language, adult situations)Synopsis: Rogue is having trouble coping with her
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 28, 2001
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      Title: Nowhere Fast
      Author: Andariel (andariell@...)

      Rating: R (language, adult situations)

      Synopsis: Rogue is having trouble coping with her problems. Scott and Jean are
      having trouble coping with Rogue.

      Classification: Rogue, Scott, Jean

      Setting: Movieverse -- Rogue is in her early twenties.

      Disclaimer: I own squat (sad but true). Please don't mind me while I play with
      toys belonging to Marvel, Fox, and a whole legion of other people who have a
      boatload more money than I do.

      Archive: XMMFF -- Otherwise, just email me if you want it.

      Notes: Like those "music from and inspired by" soundtracks for movies, this is
      fic inspired by jenn's "Illusions". I read the Illusions series and was blown
      away by jenn's depiction of the dark side of Rogue. This is not nearly as
      eloquent, but you will probably notice some similar themes here.

      Dedication: To jenn for the reason above and for several others -- because she
      didn't hate it <g>, because she beta-ed it (which saved me from making
      embarrassing errors and helped phenomenally with the phrasing in some sections),
      and because she's my fun-lovin' chat buddy. Love ya more than my luggage, chica
      (even when you do slip over to the Dark Side <wink>).

      < > = thoughts

      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

      Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters - 3:04 AM

      Jean heard the noise first, but Scott was closer, so she nudged him awake.
      Immediately alert, he grabbed the receiver and pressed the blinking button to
      activate the in-house line.

      "Yes, Sir, what is ... I see ... I realize that. I'll be ready in five
      minutes." As he put the receiver back in its cradle, Scott took a moment to be
      grateful for the fact that the Professor now woke him up with phone calls rather
      than telepathy. Scott had found it extremely disorienting to be awakened by a
      voice inside his head at three-whatever in the morning.

      Throwing back the covers, Scott wearily climbed out of bed. Jean rolled to her
      side and propped her head up on her palm. She watched as he removed the old
      running shorts he slept in, letting them drop to the floor on his way to the
      closet. Hearing the faint echoes of Scott mumbling under his breath and the
      sound of clothes being forcefully jerked off their hangers, Jean dropped her
      head back on her pillow. Glaring at the ceiling as if it were responsible for
      the nasty familiarity of this ritual, she blew out a resigned breath and
      habitually played her assigned role in the piece. "What is it? Should I be
      getting up, too?"

      Scott emerged from behind the closet door with a pair of tan chinos and a white
      oxford shirt in one hand, his loafers and a pair of socks dangling from the
      other. He shook his head as he dropped the shoes and socks on a chair and
      quickly began pulling on his slacks. "Not necessary. I can handle it."

      'I can handle it' translated quite easily for Jean after all the other nights
      that had preceded this one. Imagining she could actually hear Scott grinding
      his teeth in aggravation, Jean sat up and drew her legs toward her, wrapped her
      arms around her shins and lightly bounced her forehead on her bent knees as if
      to jar loose the solution to this mess. Lifting her head, she saw Scott
      buttoning the bottom half of the shirt, then tucking it in and fastening his
      slacks. His jaw was tightly clenched. Definitely grinding his teeth again.
      She sighed, half in worry, half in disgust. "When is this ever going to end?"

      Scott walked around to Jean's side of the bed. She scooted back from the edge
      to give him room to sit and put on his socks and shoes. "Remember what I said
      the first time you asked me that?" He turned his gaze to her briefly while
      pulling on his shoes over the quickly donned socks.

      The slightly sad, self-mocking grimace on his face pushed away Jean's
      exasperation. She reached over and quickly straightened Scott's sleep-mussed
      hair with her fingers. "Yeah..." she replied quietly. "You said it was a
      phase, that it would last a few months, tops."

      Finished with tying his shoes, Scott absently raised his hands toward the
      buttons of his shirt, shifting so that he was facing Jean from his position at
      the edge of the mattress. His hands paused, hovering over the last buttons as
      he shook his head. "Nineteen months later and nothing has changed. Shows how
      terrible I am at reading people."

      Jean softly batted Scott's hands away from the buttons, finishing the job
      herself. Framing his face with her hands, she kissed him gently, then leaned
      back, trapping his gaze with hers. "As much as you'd like to be and how hard
      you try to be, you're not perfect, Scott. None of us are. All we can do is our

      Scott nodded slightly, then pressed a fervent, tender kiss to his wife's
      forehead. Standing slowly with a frustrated sigh Jean felt in her mind rather
      than heard, he crossed the room and grabbed his leather bomber jacket from the
      antique coat tree that Xavier had given them as a wedding gift. "I just hope
      that the best is good enough."

      He was out the door and descending the steps before Jean could think of a good

      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

      The Demon's Lair Nightclub - 3:43 AM

      Barely there lighting with neon signs advertising various brands of alcohol
      serving as wall decorations. Loud noise standing in for music. A thick haze of
      smoke hovering in the air that would set off the most insensitive of fire
      alarms. An abundance of strangers looking for an hour of sweaty oblivion with
      someone as desperate as they were to escape their own misery.

      Rogue felt right at home.

      She hooked a finger in an ashtray resting on the bar and pulled it toward her.
      Flicked ash off her cigarette, then cleaned the fingertip of her glove by
      catching some condensation off a nearby beer bottle and swiping a streak of wet,
      black soot on a cocktail napkin. Hooking a foot in the leg of the stool she was
      perched on, Rogue pushed back hard enough to swivel the seat to the left so she
      faced the bar, then pulled to turn it back to the right.

      Reassured by the resulting fuzziness in her head that her buzz was still in full
      swing, she threw back her shot. Slamming the glass face down on the bar, she
      grinned in challenge at the man in front of her, his stool set so close to hers
      that their knees nearly brushed. He drank his own shot with gusto and signaled
      the bartender for two more. Rogue had snared this one early. He'd bought all
      but one of the drinks she'd had. Not bad if she did say so herself.

      When the next pair of shots was set on the sticky bar top, Rogue raised hers to
      her lips and slowly licked the rim of the glass. An upward glance revealed that
      he was practically panting. A smile slowly formed as she set the shot glass
      back on the bar and raised an inquiring brow. "So what d'ya think, sugah? How
      would I taste?"

      A slick, lustful, fundamentally disgusting smile tripped along the man's lips.
      What had he said his name was again? Dirk? ... Derek? Something along those
      lines. It didn't really matter to Rogue. He was just convenient, like the
      alcohol, like the cigarette dangling from her gloved fingers. Just another way
      to forget for a while, to make-- "Lookin' at your skin, I'd say peaches and
      cream, baby."

      With a force of will that she hadn't suspected she would still possess when this
      intoxicated, Rogue refrained from laughing at his leering, smarmy line.
      Laughing would not do. Unless she was looking to pick a fight? ... Nope. She
      didn't want to bait this one. She wanted to get laid tonight, not lay someone
      out, and he seemed like the type who was just twisted enough to go for the "no
      touching" rule. If he didn't, he'd learn fast enough that it was in his best
      interest to comply.

      So, no laugher. Instead, she raised a brow and traced a line up his denim-clad
      thigh with the hand not holding her cigarette. The reaction of his body to her
      questing touch caused a wry, seductive smile to join her arched eyebrow.
      "Really? And what about... elsewhere?" she inquired with a meaningful downward
      tilt of her gaze.

      He licked his lips suggestively, and Rogue valiantly fought back a fresh giggle
      that threatened to burst out of her. He thought this behavior was tempting?
      Jesus Christ... Men could be such idiots.

      "I'd love to know first hand, but if forced to guess, I'd say you'd taste this
      side of heaven with just enough sin to be earth bound."

      Fuck. Lines that lame couldn't come naturally. He had to have been practicing
      that one for a while. If she didn't steer this back on track, Rogue was sure
      that she'd lose the desire to fuck and settle on kicking his ass for release
      instead. Every word that came out of his mouth was making the latter option all
      the more appealing. Maybe she'd fuck him and then kick his ass, just on general
      principle for using such atrociously bad pick-up lines. "And my mouth? What
      would that taste like?"

      He stared at her blood red lips silently, like he was trying to think of a good
      response. Rogue was certain that could lead to nothing but another Bad Line and
      a Well Deserved Ass-Kicking. That was okay. She was nothing if not flexible.
      "Something sweet. Strawberry, cherry maybe."

      Rogue opened her mouth to reply when a familiar voice came over her shoulder.
      "I'd say that a combination of a distillery floor and an ashtray would be closer
      to the mark."

      Fan-fucking-tastic. She hadn't heard him come up behind her. <I must be more
      shit-faced than I thought to forget my training like that -- Never leave an
      entry at your back.>

      Rogue had to wonder how long he'd been standing there listening. Scott could be
      quiet as a cat when he felt the need. One of the things he shared in common
      with Logan, common traits that neither man reacted well to having brought up in
      their respective presences.

      Cursing herself for not having moved things along quicker with Dominic (*that*
      was his name), Rogue considered her options for dealing with her unwanted
      guardian and his complete lack of enthusiasm for her particular idea of fun.
      Why the hell did he insist on chasing her down like an errant puppy? First
      instincts told her to scream the obvious at him -- that she was physically old
      enough to do what she pleased and mentally older than she needed to be to handle
      any situation that arose from her little escapades. Still, that had never
      worked before, and Rogue wasn't in the mood to participate in history repeating

      Rogue swiveled the stool around and faced Scott's disapproving glare. She
      couldn't see his eyes, but then again, she didn't need to. She'd been on the
      receiving end of his "I don't approve of this behavior" look enough times that
      the attitude was clear from the set of his jaw and the fists forcefully shoved
      into his jacket pockets. Rogue mused to herself that that was probably to keep
      him from dragging her out of the bar or strangling her, whichever impulse was
      currently striking him with a greater degree of intensity.

      She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray near her elbow and gave Scott a
      charming smile, just because she knew her nonchalance would piss him off even
      more. "Hey, Cyke! I didn't think this was your kind 'a joint. Pull up a stool
      and I'll buy you a drink before last call."

      "This *isn't* my kind of place, and you just got your last call, about three
      hours too late, based on the look of you." Scott shot the uncaring bartender a
      dark look from behind his visor. He'd taken to wearing it when he came to fetch
      her back home after one particularly drunk and tenacious suitor hadn't
      appreciated having his "date" snatched out from under him. Scott lived and
      breathed the Boy Scout motto, so now he always left his glasses in his pocket
      and came with his visor preset to a stun intensity that would definitely
      discourage any overzealous followers.

      Scott turned his gaze back to her. He jerked his head toward the door. "Let's
      go. I'll drive you home. We can pick up your car tomorrow."

      Dominic chose that moment to become indignant, shooting off his stool to get in
      Scott's face. "Who the fuck are you to tell her what to do, mutie? Are you her
      fuckin' keeper or..." Dominic's eyes suddenly caught on a flash of gold as Scott
      removed his hands from his jacket pockets. "Aww, fuck. You're her fuckin'

      Her restraint finally stressed past its limits, Rogue gave in and started
      laughing. Scott shot her a glare before turning his attention back to the
      suddenly deflated (and verbally challenged) Dominic. "You got it. Very
      quickly, I might add, all things considered."

      Rogue stopped laughing. For someone as orally precise as Scott, she knew the
      answer had been purposely vague. *She* knew that Scott was confirming the
      "keeper" question (which grated, but wasn't the main reason she was speechlessly
      staring at Scott), but she knew that Scott was letting Dominic assume... no,
      more than that, he was *encouraging* Dominic to assume that Rogue was a married
      woman. Scott's wife, no less. *That* certainly could come in handy if she
      needed it...

      "Let's go." The calm, steely command in Scott's voice brooked no arguments. It
      was the field commander voice he rarely used when not wearing Cyclops's leather.
      Though, come to think of it, he'd been using it with Rogue more often outside of
      missions these days. She obeyed commands when they were in the midst of a
      battle, because she had learned the hard way that flaunting his authority for
      the hell of it usually landed her in situations that defined the word "bad".

      Rogue slid from her stool, mischievously rubbing her body against Scott's as she
      did so. He stood very stiffly, tension and anger radiating off him like waves
      of heat. She knew she'd probably regret it later, but the temptation to tease
      him was too strong to resist. Rogue caressed his cheek and jaw slowly, and
      through the thin silk of her glove, she felt the muscles underneath his skin
      jump. She put her lips a scant distance from his ear, knowing he would feel her
      breath on his skin as she spoke in a low drawl. "Of course, sugah. Let's go
      home. I'm horny."

      She knew that she'd pushed Scott too far when he swore darkly under his breath
      and grabbed her arm in a grip that was nearly bruising in force. As he dragged
      her toward the door of the bar, she defiantly turned and blew a kiss at Dominic
      over her shoulder.

      Rogue knew she was in for the lecture of her life. For some reason she didn't
      quite grasp, it didn't matter that she was way too old to need Scott playing
      protector for her and censoring her actions. Strangely enough, she was almost
      looking forward to the upcoming rampage. She'd gotten used to these
      post-misbehavior lectures, and in a very odd twist of fate's bad sense of humor,
      she now accepted the lectures she should revolt against the way she had when she
      was younger and usually deserved them.

      It suddenly occurred to Rogue to wonder why that was -- had she regressed to the
      childish philosophy that any attention was good attention? That she had a
      deeper need for twisted masochism than she'd previously believed? She needed
      the reassurance that someone cared if she lived or died?

      As Scott towed her across the street toward the entrance of an all night parking
      garage, Rogue decided that she should probably leave philosophizing for when she
      was sober.

      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

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