Skin And Bones (Self-Delusion Mix)
Remix of "Skin And Bones" by Random
The skin on her back was pale, nearly translucent. A ray of moonlight shivered on it, made it glow. Logan stared at it, memorized its contour, thought about the many times he'd been in the same position he was in that very moment. They had been different women, their backs slightly rounder or thinner or darker, smooth as silk or spotted with moles - it didn't matter; they were all the same.
She was asleep. He knew because of the slight snoring, because of the perfect uniformity in exhalation and inhalation. Her sleep was blessed with dreams. There was no tossing about the bed or whimpering in her throat. She was still as he watched.
Her skin, a curse and a wonder of evolution at once, invited him. In her unconscious state he knew there was no holding back its deadly power. It would consume him, take everything from him - his life, his power, his memories, all of it. The thought ran through his head: an image of himself stroking her naked, unknowing flesh and letting her take him. It wouldn't be such a terrible thing; and she would finally know the truth. The miraculous control she had gained one terrible night was not her every dream fulfilled, not in any way she believed it to be.
He blamed himself for the beginning of it, for the absorption that had brought her mutation under control, finally after so many years and so much heartache. He had been fighting Mystique. It had been his fight. But Rogue, half in love and wanting to help -wanting to be useful for once, she had later explained - stepped in, grabbed the shape-shifter with bare hands. Logan watched as she held on, held on far too long. Watched as Rogue's brown eyes turned an unearthly shade of yellow, as a grimace turned into a twisted smile he recognized was not her own. As Mystique's eyes became vacant they surged again in Rogue's body. But they faded before long, and everyone assumed they were gone forever. Besides, there was celebration to be had. Rogue had control. Somehow, and without warning, she had control. A survey of the events that had transpired in her life and it was concluded that the only reasonable explanation lay in her absorption of Mystique's powers. No one thought anything else about it. Everyone was happy for Rogue. Logan was happy, too.
Before long, the tentative relationship they had forged before the incident blossomed into more. Rogue's newfound control over her deadly skin gave her a confidence he had never seen in her. One night, after a meal and a drink, as he was preparing to leave her to her room, she surprised him with a kiss. It was hungry, and awkward. Later, as he thought back on it, he was glad of that awkwardness. It meant it had been her; Rogue had kissed him. And he had kissed her back, because as much as he had denied it - decided it was impossibility because of her youth, her mutation - it was something he had desired more than anything he could remember.
They began a relationship of sorts, and it was happy for a time. Then, one evening, he watched as she left the mansion alone. There was nothing special or suspicious in that. Or there shouldn't have been. But there was something about the way she was dressed, about the way she walked, that made his eyes narrow. He followed her into the city, watched as she drove to a nightclub in Manhattan. She was seemingly unaware of his presence as she made her way inside. All Logan could think was that the woman sauntering into the club couldn't be Rogue, not his Rogue. Rogue had never worn a dress so short, had never painted her lips such a shade of red. She had never stood quite so tall, or seemed so elegant. This woman was not his girl, his Rogue.
Inside, his eyes followed as she went to the bar, ordered a drink. She drank, she danced with strange men and women; she laughed and danced and exposed her body as Rogue had never done. Never, thought Logan, in her wildest dreams.
There was no awkwardness about the girl. There was only a surety of movement and a force of will unparalleled by any of the other women in the club. Men's eyes naturally gravitated to her figure, whether she was dancing or standing regally by the bar. More than one woman offered to dance with her, and Logan saw no hesitation when Rogue picked the prettiest of the bunch and headed for the dance floor. Sweat was pouring from her and she looked like a goddess, drenched in the heat of desire.
And Logan desired her. She was strange, not his Rogue, but he desired her. As she swayed to the music, loosely holding another woman's waist, eyes closed and happy, he desired her all the more. When she dipped down and pressed her lips against the woman's, drank from her as if those lips were ambrosia from some Grecian heaven, Logan thought she'd never looked more beautiful.
He left before she did, filled with suspicion and lust.
That night, when he heard her arrive - smelled the liquor, the perfume, the cologne, the perspiration, her scent - he went to her bedroom. He didn't knock, didn't bother with formalities. She was in her bed, lipstick smudged, bright eyed and smiling. Her clothing was intact save her shoes. It didn't take long for him to remove it; he took her silence for approval, though he didn't care about her approval then. He was too far gone. And even when he saw the difference in her eyes (the color wasn't quite right, was it?) or the slightly sinister twist of her smile, he didn't stop himself. Buried deep inside, moving within her the way he'd wanted to, right then in that club, he thought of nothing.
After that, he followed her every night. There was no confusion as to what he was doing. He knew, almost from the beginning, though he wouldn't admit it even to himself, that the woman he was after wasn't Rogue. Oh, she wore her body. Wore it well, almost discreetly but for her nightly outings into the city. Those he kept special tabs on. Not a night would pass when he didn't find himself following her, carefully at first, into some nightclub or bar. It would always be the same: she danced wildly, with anyone, until she determined whom she would leave with. And when she did, Logan kept following. He followed her to her car, or a restroom, or a dimly lit hallway, and watched. Watched as she got down on her knees and serviced strange men. Watched as they hitched her dress up and fucked her into delirium. Watched the smile on her face. Rogue's face.
And when she got home, he'd be waiting for her. He smelled it all; the semen, the saliva, her desire. When she crawled into their bed, repulsion threatened to make him sick. But the repulsion wasn't enough. The smell wasn't enough. When he felt himself grow hard, he knew none of it would be enough. He pulled himself over her roughly, without care, twisting a breast in one hand and tonguing the other viciously, no reprieve. There were none of the pleasantries of lovemaking. No soft kisses or caresses. They were both like animals, and Logan liked it. He used his teeth and she scratched and he was dizzy by the time he pushed inside of her. And she liked it too. She was moaning and thrashing. Rogue's face was smiling; her eyes were glistening. Her body shook. Rogue's body. Rogue's legs clamped tightly around his hips. Rogue.
When they woke up the next morning she looked confused. As if she had no idea what had happened to her, where she'd been. A blush of embarrassment suffused her cheeks when she saw the marks on herself - teeth marks and tiny bruises in the shape of his fingers. He recognized her then as his Rogue and felt a sharp pang of regret. When she crawled inside his embrace and kissed him sweetly, the repulsion was back, the smells stronger then than ever, leaving him ill. Pushing her away, leaving her bewildered and lost, he ran into the shower to wash it all away.
Eventually she went to him and told him, told him she was having memory lapses, that she'd forgotten long periods of time. She didn't know what she did then, and it frightened her. Together they went to Jean and the professor. An aftereffect, they suggested, of Rogue's absorption of Mystique perhaps. She should be monitored, they concluded, and Logan volunteered. He would keep on eye on her, he said. He would protect her.
The next time she left the mansion he followed her to a new place. Instead of going to the usual Manhattan dives she drove north, to a seedy little bar he doubted had a jukebox, let alone a dance floor. When he walked in and looked for her, she was sitting at a table staring back at him. She motioned him to her.
"Hi," she said.
Surprised - they had never uttered a word to each other during her outings, even though he was sure she was aware of his following her - he sat down next to her, silent.
"Well," she murmured, inching her body close to his, "fancy seeing you here." Her normal accent was gone, replaced by a mock-Southern that made him cringe.
"You can cut that shit out," he replied sourly, motioning to the bartender. "Beer."
She arched a smooth brow. "Not interested in talking?"
"Not to you."
"Then why are you here?"
"I came to stop you from hurting her."
"Who?"
He frowned, unsure now. "Rogue."
She smiled and took a sip of her drink. "I am Rogue. Can't you see?"
Logan shook his head. "You're not my Rogue. You're her."
That made her laugh, a husky chuckle. "If you can't bring yourself to say it, then you must not believe it, Logan."
"Fuck you, bitch."
"Clever," she said silkily, and like a snake she wound herself around him, arms about his neck, mouth close to the side of his neck. "But you have, lover. So many times."
He stood so abruptly that she nearly fell off her chair. Amused, she righted herself gracefully and looked at his discomposure with glee. "What did you think you were doing?" she asked.
The claws itched to pop and he felt like gutting her. Everything inside him felt of revulsion and self-loathing. Logan stared at her, saw Rogue's features etched into a mask of disdain. "What did you do, Logan?" she asked again, and this time he swore it was Rogue.
"God," he whispered, as he turned and ran out of the bar.
The next morning, she was back in his bed. The serenity on her features taunted him and he wondered how long it would be before he could leave. But he couldn't leave. She held him there. Rogue held him there.