FIC: Pressure by Eve (RR #28)
- Eve sent me another delightful piece of the puzzle. Send all feedback to
her or I'll forward to her from the list.
Author: Eve11 (eve11_xf@...)
Series: Unspoken RR #28
Summary: Rogue leaves the room, and...
Timeline: Set after "Trying" by Minisinoo but before Victoria P.'s
"Confessional". Go Andy! <g>
Archiving: RRindex at Indulgence. Muse's Fool
She was filthy.
Her clothes smelled like fucking algae and stagnant water. Goddamn
lake water. She couldn't breathe for the smell. Didn't take but
one breath in the hallway on the way back to her room, and it was
enough to make her gag. So she swallowed and walked faster,
because she didn't want to breathe it in.
The bright, stark lights and clean corridor walls just made things
worse, like huge spotlights following her every move. Under all of
the soggy, smelly clothes, she felt this new scrutiny on her bare
skin -- electrified, intense sensitivity. Not from him; never from
him. It was under the cloth and scarves, something Scott had never
touched, not in seven years.
She was running by the time she reached the stairwell. She lost a
might of composure with every step down.
Step. Fuck him.
Step. Fucking redhead. Fuck her too. Step.
Step. And her goddamn Canadian lapdog.
At the bottom, she was a trembling missile streaking for the guest
room door. These clothes were suffocating her. She reached the door
and threw her weight into it, barely remembering to turn the knob.
Once inside, she slammed it behind her and leaned against it, finally
let out her breath. Uncooperative fingers fumbled with the lock until
she was ready to scream at it.
Finally the mechanics gave way under her hand; the door secured her
away with an audible 'click.'
In the dim room, Marie tore at her clothes. She burst the buttons on
her blue shirt. Fell back onto the bed trying to throw her shoes off
-- no time to waste on wet, double knotted laces. Spent too long
getting out of the jeans; when she was free of them she flung them
into the corner, heard a satisfying crash as they knocked over the
standing lamp. Raked fingernails through delicate scarves and left
them where they fell, didn't matter long as they weren't touching her.
That left the bodysuit. Foul thing; it smelled less of the lake and
more of Scott. She stood up off the bed, unzipped it -- goddamn
plastic zippers always stuck, and winced as it pulled out a few
strands of hair on the way down. She peeled it off, turned it inside
out in her haste, and left it like a husk in the middle of the floor.
She took a breath, forced it out of her lungs with a snort. She
couldn't stand it in here. The air in the room was still dank with
the competing smells of proto-life and aborted sex. Naked, she
crossed the room and opened the window, resting her forehead against
the cool glass and the weight of the darkened sky beyond. Damp spots
that had nothing to do with the lake left her skin clammy and cold
against the draft. She drew the night air into her lungs and let it
out again. Her bare shoulders heaved and stuttered with the breath,
but she would not cry.
She was a fright. Her hair still stank, and her skin still crawled.
She left the window open and retreated to the private bathroom. She
ran the water hot and harsh. Sponge puffs and freesia body wash were
abandoned for a bar of Ivory soap and a worn wash cloth. She scrubbed
until her neck, shoulders, chest and thighs stung from the effort.
She used a heaping handful of Thermasilk on her hair, scrubbed it into
a huge knot on the top of her head, and trusted the tangles to another
handful of conditioner.
When she had washed it all away she stood with her eyes closed and
head up, playing splayed fingers across the separate streams from the
shower head. When she felt the first waver in temperature from hot
to lukewarm, she turned off the water. The small bathroom was heavy
with mist and warmth, but it was clean. She let herself drip dry for
as long as she could stand it, then dried off quickly and opened the
The room was dark and cold. Her skin tensed at the chill but she
wouldn't cover up. She was clean. The smell was gone, and she wasn't
going to contaminate herself again with blankets. So she lay on the
bed, let her hand wander where it would. Found herself twisting her
pubic hairs around her fingers.
Goddamn them all. She didn't need them, none of them. Her fingers
searched, played light and furtive over her skin. She was the Rogue,
she'd been years on her own. And nobody hurt her, because you
couldn't hurt what you couldn't touch. And nobody would touch her. Nobody
Nobody had touched her. Not Logan, not Jean Grey, certainly not Scott.
She took in a breath of sharp, cold air, and it hitched. Her fingers
lost their playfulness. She couldn't do any more on her own.
It was a lie. All the scarves and careful timing; it would never be
enough, not for Rogue. But it had been. For them, it had been everything
through a screen and Marie hadn't minded.
Truth was, she hadn't cared enough.
Her body was aching for the first time in seven years. Pale bare skin
tingled with the lack of touch, like bursts of light from pressure
on blind eyes.
She cried naked on the bed, and she let it ache.