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Fic/ Secret of the Bottle (R/L) PG

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  • sweptawaybayou2
    This is my first R/L Shipper, so be nice! I have read so many good ones, I had to try it out. I don t own anyone but my kids, and that s only until they are
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 30, 2003
      This is my first R/L Shipper, so be nice! I have read so many good
      ones, I had to try it out.

      I don't own anyone but my kids, and that's only until they are 18.
      Everyone else is owned by Marvel, etc. etc.
      The song is `Secret of the Bottle' by Jackyl.


      For Mike, Always. As is everything I do.


      Secret of the Bottle



      Rogue


      I feel better when I'm drinking,
      It just seems to ease my mind.
      And all my worries and troubles,
      They just seem to fade behind.




      No one asked Rogue about her nightly trips to the nearby
      town, to the bars. Did they notice? Did she care if they did?

      No.

      Was it her painful break-up with Bobby? The loneliness of her
      particularly cruel mutation? Logan's leaving again; presumably
      searching for more answers to his lost past? The ever-present voices
      in her head? Erik, Logan, anyone and everyone else?

      Did she even know?

      But every night, she was in the local tavern drinking
      whiskey, neat, no ice. Smoking Marlboros, one after, perched on a bar
      stool. Drinking until she was in a comfortable haze. Drinking until
      nothing hurt inside anymore.
      Not noticing the admiring, lustful stares she constantly
      received, the leers drinking in her slim, shapely body, her curves
      poured into blue jeans and t-shirts. Her long gloves covering her
      hands and arms, keeping the fools around her safe. Her brown eyes
      not seeing anything but the scarred, dark wood of the bar, her brain
      not registering anything but when her glass was empty.


      Oh, the secret of the bottle,
      It may never be known.
      So I'll raise my glass and propose a toast,
      And this one baby, is for you.


      She had finished at the school, wasn't sure about college,
      didn't want to get a job. She felt her life was in a complete state
      of limbo.
      Charles was trying to help her control her skin, but
      remained, as usual, ambiguous about offering any advice. Scott, the
      new, unsmiling, stern, humorless Scott, had his toys; his cars and
      motorcycles, his endless electronic gadgets. Ororo spent her days in
      the greenhouses, planting and repotting, growing things from far away
      countries that had never seen the cold New York winters or the muggy,
      sticky summers. Kurt's days were devoted to the chapel he was
      building near the mansion, a miniature replica of the Vatican, his
      nights for prayers and scarring and Storm. Bobby had left for the
      University, taking Jubilee and Kitty with him, a giggling, carefree
      group, not even pausing in their excitement to say good-bye.
      And Logan, well, Logan had left not long after Jean's
      funeral. It was almost a relief for everyone, to have him out of the
      house, his brooding, dark, angry temperament had kept nerves on edge.

      A relief for everyone but Rogue.

      She missed him. Missed him with a nearly palpable ache.
      Missed him so much she would look for him in dark corners, in the
      shadows of the woods that circled the school, on the seat of every
      motorcycle she passed when she drove away from the school with no
      where to go.
      She would listen for his steps, the scuff of his boots on the
      wood floors that would wake her as he walked past her door when he
      came in late at night from missions with the X-men, working out in
      the gym, running through the forests, skulking in bars.
      Oh, yes, Rogue knew his habits. Knew his sounds. As stealthy,
      as animalistic as Logan could act, Rogue had him in her head, in her
      soul. She knew his body language like it was a verbal communication
      all it's own. She could read his subtle and, well, not-so-subtle
      expressions, she could hear inflections in his speaking voice that
      even a telepath wouldn't pick up.
      And she hungered for him, she grieved for him.


      Logan


      I start to laugh when I'm drinking,
      I may even tell a joke or two.
      Sometimes I even pretend
      That I'm still in love with you.



      Logan had left the mansion, but not to search for anything.
      He'd really run away this time and not for all the reasons everyone
      thought. Not to look for his past. Not because of Jean's death. Not
      because of his `wandering ways'. He'd left because of Marie.

      There.

      He'd said it to himself, if no one else, finally.

      She haunted his nights, she crept into his day dreams. The
      older she got, the more beautiful she was, the way her eyes warmed
      him when she smiled. He had to get away from her.
      She needed someone her age, someone from her generation.
      Someone with a future.
      Not him.
      Not his tortured past.
      Not his uncertain present.
      He found himself circling around the school. Far enough away
      that he wouldn't run into anyone he knew, but close enough that he
      could reach Westchester in a day.
      If he needed to.
      If he wanted to.
      He couldn't make himself go any further away or move any
      closer.


      And you ask me if I've felt pain,
      After all that I've been through.
      I've paid more than just my dues,
      I've felt the pain of you.


      He spent every evening in bars, drinking whiskey, neat, no
      ice. Smoking cigars, on after another, slouched on a bar stool.
      Trying to drink himself into that comfortable haze, until nothing
      hurt inside anymore.
      Not noticing the admiring, lustful stares he constantly
      received, the leers drinking in his muscular, strong body, poured
      into worn blue jeans and tight t-shirts. His depression damping his
      rage, his bestiality, keeping the fools around him safe. His brown
      eyes not seeing anything but the scarred, dark wood of the bar, his
      brain not registering anything but when his glass was empty.


      I feel the pain when I'm drinking,
      It just don't seem to cut as deep.
      And when I lay down without you,
      It makes it easier to go to sleep.





      The End
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