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FIC: Hand and Glove (1/1, Logan, Rogue)

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  • Jordanna Morgan
    Cross-posted, XMMFF and WolverineFanfiction. Title: Hand and Glove Author: Jordanna Morgan Author s Email: librarie@jordanna.net Archive Rights: Please request
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 9, 2003
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      Cross-posted, XMMFF and WolverineFanfiction.

      Title: Hand and Glove
      Author: Jordanna Morgan
      Author's Email: librarie@...
      Archive Rights: Please request the author's consent.
      Category: Drama
      Rating/Warnings: PG, just to be safe.
      Characters: Logan and Rogue.
      Setting: Post-X2, but with Jean. Go figure.
      Summary: Logan contemplates a forbidden act of kindness.
      Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox create the characters that sell. Not me.
      Notes: This story was an experiment in a new format for me. I rarely write
      from first-person perspectives, and never before in the present tense--but
      Logan wanted to tell this story in his own words, and this was how he did it.

      Hand and Glove

      I hate shopping.

      Malls make me uncomfortable. They're too crowded, too noisy, too full of
      strange smells. (Well, the smells from around the food court ain't bad, but
      me and my hyperactive nose had better steer clear of the perfume counter.)

      So spending a Saturday afternoon at the mall isn't something I take lightly.

      I'm doing it for a good reason, though. Rogue has been feeling a little
      cooped-up at the school--something I can relate to, and who knows, maybe
      she got it from me. Anyway, she just needed to get out for a while. I'm
      sure her little boyfriend Bobby Drake would've taken her, but he's busy
      helping Summers get some big math test ready for next week. (Cyclops is
      gonna make that kid just like him, I *know* it.)

      So here I am, following Rogue around the mall with an armload of shopping

      I don't know why this girl gets to me.

      Actually, I guess I should really say, I don't know how she got to me *at
      first*. Because since I met her... it got complicated.

      And get your brain out of the gutter. I think Jean tends to exaggerate
      about the way Rogue thinks of me. She treats me like some kind of hero--or
      maybe a big brother. Funny thing is, it's kind of nice sometimes. Nice just
      to be with someone without keeping up fronts, the way I do with the rest of
      them. I gave that up with Rogue a long time ago. She knows me too well.

      Rogue. I still don't know how she came up with that name, and I don't think
      it fits, but she seems to prefer it over Marie. (I guess I can't blame her
      on that one.) And maybe she thinks she stopped really being Marie, once she
      started collecting bits and pieces of other people inside her head.

      Me among them.

      I vaguely wonder, now and then, whether you might call it some kind of
      mind-rape. Doesn't feel that way to me. I suppose you could make that
      argument for the first time--but since I'd just put my claws through her
      chest, I've really got no right to complain about an act of self-preservation.

      Let's get away from that one. Last thing I needed was yet another nightmare.

      But the second time--that was *my* choice.

      It does bother me, sort of. Not for my sake. For hers. Last thing *she*
      needs is a little bit of me running around in her brain... not to mention
      Magneto. And yeah, he's the part that worries me the most--maybe because
      she's still got those white streaks in her hair to remind me. Of what he
      did, of what I did, of that whole lousy night. When I get to thinking about
      it too much, sometimes I wish Rogue would get her hair colored, but she
      tells me it looks *cool*.

      It reminds me of him, but, God forbid... I think it reminds her of *me*.

      When I get past that, she does look cute, though. Getting taken care of at
      the school has filled her out--she was scrawny when we met. I think she's
      also gotten a few weird fashion ideas from the other girls there, but
      today, it's black jeans and a bright pink T-shirt. Probably on purpose,
      just for going out with me. They're simple clothes, like I wear. Except for
      the pink part.

      And of course, those long white satin gloves.

      Off she goes into a store throbbing with rave music and strobe lights.
      Creepy. If she ever goes in for that Goth stuff, so help me, I'll take her
      over my knee myself.

      So I'm sitting out this one, on a bench outside. Nice enough place, for a
      mall. Skylighted, airy, lots of indoor greenery. Might be an interesting
      place for some fight training, if it were empty.

      A herd of about a dozen girls even younger than Rogue stampedes by,
      yammering about clothes and boys. Somehow, all I can think is the same
      thing the kids at the school make me think:

      =Where are these kids' parents?=

      There's a difference, though. People who let their kids run around loose
      annoy me. But people who hand off their kids to strangers, or worse, even
      reject them completely, just because they're different--that makes me
      outright angry.

      Don't tell anyone I said that. They'll think I've actually been paying
      attention to Professor Xavier.

      Here comes Rogue, and we're off again. I think of Jean's upcoming birthday,
      and actually dare to follow her into the next store. There's some
      provocative things along one wall--fun things to imagine Jean wearing. It'd
      be a riot to slip one of them in with the rest of her presents, if only to
      see the look on old One-Eye's face. Rogue's presence keeps me honest, though.

      I ask her to help me pick something for Jean, and everything she suggests
      is red. Jean is overly fond of red, thanks to her loverboy with the literal
      rose-colored glasses. We settle on a long red skirt with blue flowers down
      one side, and I manage to make the purchase without feeling *too*

      Just in case Jean has her doubts about my motives, Rogue's name will go
      above mine on the card. We'll pretend it was her idea.

      This mall is just fancy enough to have an indoor ice rink in the center.
      Now, hockey I can appreciate--after all, I'm Canadian--but I don't see much
      point to this plodding in boring laps around the overcrowded ice. Rogue
      must get the appeal of it though, because she turns to me and asks if I'd
      like to skate. I hate to burst her bubble, but I shake my head. I had a
      nasty experience on the ice once, up north. Took a bad step on a frozen
      lake, and fell through.

      You'd have to get me drunk before I'll tell that story--and I don't get
      drunk easy. Unless I want to.

      I already have all the blades I can handle, anyway.

      I wouldn't mind if Rogue wanted to skate by herself, but she takes it all
      in stride, dropping the idea in favor of something more appealing. We take
      the escalator up to the second level, where the food court overlooks the
      ice rink. The smells from up here have been nagging at my stomach for the
      better part of an hour, so I'm only too glad to break for lunch.

      As we sit at a table by the railing with cheesesteak sandwiches and fries,
      Rogue takes off her gloves to eat, and we talk about nothing special. Her
      classes, her plot with Storm for Jean's surprise birthday party, meeting
      the newest kid at the school. It's all so very *normal* that, for a little
      while, I almost forget that she's not.

      And I almost forget that *I'm* not.

      Then the meal is done--and the gloves come on again, killing off those nice
      illusions of normality. I feel a twinge of frustration as I head off to the
      nearest trash can with our trays. It isn't fair.

      On my way back to the table where Rogue is sitting with the bags, I see her
      looking away with an expression I don't like. I follow her gaze to a corner
      table, where two junior lovebirds sit cuddling. It's not like they're
      making a spectacle of themselves--nothing I wouldn't do in public, anyway.
      It's just the fact that they're touching each other. Freely. Unafraid.

      For a moment, I'm not sure how to handle this. Rogue needs distracting
      *now*, but something tells me I'll only make things worse if I do anything
      obvious. So I do the best I can. As I move around the table to pick up the
      bags, I plant myself squarely between her line of sight and that
      dreamy-eyed pair, pretending not to have noticed a thing. I ask if she's
      ready to move on.

      She shakes herself slightly. Her smile is gone, but she tries to come up
      with a new one that looks as empty as I know it is. Grabbing her purse, she
      turns and starts for the escalator at a tellingly quick pace. I hurry to
      keep up.

      Downstairs, we go on moseying down the length of the mall, but Rogue's
      interest isn't nearly as keen as it was before. Bitter truths have invaded
      the perfect day I tried to give her. Walking beside her, I try to think of
      what I can do or say to make it better.

      Don't think I don't understand--because I do. As a general rule, I don't
      care to be touched; it has a way of being tangled up with a whole lot of
      sticky issues about feelings and relationships that I could do without. But

      *Sometimes*, it's important.

      When I was healing after that little blowout on top of the Statue of
      Liberty, Jean sat beside me through the night with her hand on mine--and I
      *knew*. I knew there was someone out there, waiting to see me open my eyes
      again. Without that simple sense of a presence to tell me I wasn't alone in
      the dark, I'm not entirely sure I would have made it back to the land of
      the living that time.

      I'm not even sure I would have wanted to.

      Professor Xavier and the others do what they can to help Rogue feel that
      kind of connection, too. Even the other kids, understanding more than they
      should have to about the problems that can come with their so-called
      *gifts*, have been pretty ingenious about finding ways to let Rogue be
      close and involved. But it isn't the same; it isn't enough.

      Walking beside Rogue and half a step behind, I consider two inches of
      exposed skin between the bottom of a short sleeve and the top of a long glove.

      I've never seen what Rogue's power could do to a normal person, but I know
      twice over what it does to me. With my durability, I'm sure the effect
      isn't so sudden that just one instant of contact would drop me. It could
      hit me, alright, but I'm willing to bet there's a margin. Maybe just enough
      to let her feel the briefest touch of another living person--enough to let
      her know she isn't alone, either.

      =I can touch her. Just for a moment. It won't hurt me.=

      My fingers tremble a little as I reach for her arm; maybe not visibly, but
      I know. She's staring down at the floor tiles now, unaware of the act I'm
      about to commit. She'd refuse it if she knew.

      She won't know until it's done, the risk explored.

      Nearly close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, my fingers stop. I
      stop, frozen solid where I stand by a sudden realization. It isn't the
      effect on me I should worry about--it's the effect it would have on *her*.

      She's been subjected to more than enough of my screwed-up psyche already.

      Noticing I've fallen out of step with her, Rogue stops walking and turns
      around. Now she's worried about me instead of herself, and while I'm
      standing there like an idiot, I see her give me that look I *really* hate
      to see--the one that makes me think she knows exactly what I'm feeling.
      Especially disturbing in this moment, when *I* don't even know what it is I

      She steps back to me and asks what's wrong. I tell her there's
      nothing--even though it's everything. The whole world is wrong, when it can
      refuse to let a simple touch be received, or even freely given.

      My touch would hurt her more than hers could ever hurt me.

      I told you I gave up pretenses with Rogue, and this is exactly why. She
      doesn't believe me for a second.

      She's also seen enough inside me to know when I won't let her see further.

      A tilt of the head, a doubting frown... and Rogue lets the matter go.
      Shrugging, she gives me a smile that's so sympathetic, it's almost funny.
      In a bitterly ironic way, at least.

      All I have left, then, are small gestures with big meanings, the little
      things between what I've done and what I wanted to do. Forcing a cocky
      smile in return, I reach out--and for the first time I can remember in
      public, I openly take her gloved hand in my bare one.

      Her eyes go wide, but her fingers tighten around mine, accepting without
      question the best I can do to bridge the gap. No sentiment offered, and
      none required. Just the comfort of a solid presence, a squeeze of the hand
      through a layer of white satin. Less than I wanted to give, but still more
      than I ever really have before now.

      She turns my hand over in hers, studying it; her thumb brushes against the
      hollows between the knuckles, where the claws come. Simple and trusting,
      this veiled touch suddenly means as much to me as the touch of my bare hand
      ever could have to her.

      When we first met, I thought she was afraid of my hands. I learned better.

      I'm still learning.

      With a smile, she nods her head toward the far end of the mall. The day is
      perfect again, and we walk on, her gloved hand in mine reminding me that
      there are other ways to touch-and to *be* touched.

      (c) 2003 Jordanna Morgan
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