Title: East and a Little South
Author: Diebin
Email: diebin@hotmail.com
Fandom: X-Men (Movie)
Rating: PG-13
Setting: One year after the movie
Category: POV Logan/Rogue
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Go away, bad lawyer men.
Archive: Any list is welcome to it, if they like

They all know that Rogue still carries a bit of me in her head. It's the nature of her gift--and even if they hadn't known that, she made it clear when she picked up my quirks and made them her own. Those faded in time--but we all know that part of me is still there.

What they don't know is that part of her is still with me.

From what I understand, it wasn't supposed to work that way. Jean brushed it off at first--she didn't quite believe I was lucid. Maybe she just didn't want to--I know I was saying some things that made her pretty uncomfortable.

Xavier knows though. He touched my mind and felt her clear as I do--there, waiting. He was surprised at first--but he promised not to tell anyone else. It would be my little secret. My guilty secret. I had a piece of this girl wrapped up inside me. Xavier told me not to get too attatched--that it would probably fade soon.

He was wrong.

I can think of a hundred reasons why. A thousand. I was the first mutant to touch her. I was the first mutant to hold on. She connected to me twice--that second time so long that I almost merged with her and /became/her.

She told me about the first boy she ever kissed, once. I wonder if he still has her in his head. Probably not.

And I envy him. Almost.

It's a delicious kind of torture. Having her there in my head, a soft, sweet little patch of light. My mind is a dark place--so dark I hardly dare venture there. And yet now I do--more often than I should--because there is someone there who eases my passage. Thanks to the courage her warmth gives me, I have unearthed memories I thought lost forever. I understand myself better than I ever thought I would.

And she's still here.

It's been a year now. I even think about going back, sometimes. I know I changed in my time there. Something inside me changed. Some little switch got flipped--and I started caring again. Caring about the world, caring about people. Caring about something other than where I was going to lay my head at night.

I'm not fooling anyone, though. Especially not myself. I know what changed. I know when that switch got flipped. When I pulled over by the side of the road and found a little girl, tired and cold . . . half starved and afraid. She got me, without even meaning to.

I think I knew it. Right then and there I knew that if I let her near me--things wouldn't be the same. I tried to pull away. Slammed my foot right down on the gas . . .

And couldn't. She'd flipped the switch, that bewitching little angel. Probably wrapped her claws around my heart in that bar, staring at me with those wide eyes of hers.

Claws. I'm one to talk.

It's been a year, and she's still in my head. There are a lot of things I know about her now--it's like she's been with me all this time. She's learned about me while I've learned about her.

I know that she likes strawberries. I used to hate them--but I bought a carton at the store a few weeks back without even thinking about it. Like I was going to bring them home to share with her. I tried to laugh it off. I ended up eating them.

And I liked them.

I catch myself doing it more and more often. Singing along to that horrible music on the radio that a man my age should be ashamed to listen to. Sleeping on my left side curled in a ball, when before I couldn't sleep a wink if I wasn't on my back. It should be fading . . . but it's not. Day after day goes by, and I feel her more and more inside me.

There's so much more I could learn about myself out here . . . but it doesn't seem to mean much now. Some days I discover something new, and my first thought is how excited she'll be to hear . . .

She hasn't heard from me in a year. She doesn't know anything about me, really. She certainly doesn't know what a dirty old man I am, spending my days and nights thinking about her.

Or thinking like her, if I'm not careful.

And as the days go by, I grow more and more tired of being careful. I enjoy having her in my mind. Maybe I'm clinging to it, not wanting her to be gone. She's smooth where I'm rough and warm where I'm cold. She knows how to give and love . . . maybe I can learn it from her.

A few years ago, the thought would sicken me. Now all I feel is gentle longing. She has changed me. More than I'll ever know, probably. More than I want to.

As I stand under the night sky, my gaze turns to the East, and a little South. Where she is. I can feel her there--I could close my eyes and spin myself like a top, and I'd still come up facing the direction she's in.

Maybe it's time I started walking that way too.