Title: Yester Life: This Prison Of Skin II
Author: Kia Mira
Email: kia_mira@bellsouth.net
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: Might go into NC-17 just so you know. I might just stay in a nice comfortable R.
Summary: See part one. I'm not a Doctor and the drug/ gas I name is not real.
Series: #5 in the "Yester Life" series
Category: Wolverine/Rogue non-brotherly/sisterly love. Which means that I might explore feelings of a sexual nature so...
Disclaimer: If I owned them I wouldn't be posting here. LOL so just keep that in mind.
FEEDBACK!!!!: at kia_mira@bellsouth.net

They stood out side of a white room staring in through a window hidded in the wall. The room was about 12 foot by 12 foot. The walls, ceiling and floor were covered in a thick white padding. The only color in that room was the occasional smear of dark brownish-red. In the center of the room was a figure still dressed in the same cloths as she was wearing in the video. She sat huddled her knees up under her chin. Her arms wrapped protectivally around them. She rocked gentle back and forth.

"It took all of Jean's power to contain her. She faught every inch of the way."

"You didn't bandage her cuts."

"No, we thought it best to let her believe she had not been disturbed. After she had settled down we sent a small amount of Deracetamen through the air vent. Which caused her to sleep. Jean then went in and removed the glass and cortarized the remaining open wounds. That way when she awoke she wouldn't feel violated."

"Dera-what?" Logan asked.

"Deracetamen. It is a gas developed here at the school which works to hamper a mutant's power and induce sleep."

"How can we help her?" Logan asked his eyes never leaving the rocking figure. He felt like this was his fault. He had vowed to protect her and he had screwed up. Majorly twice.

"Well, to do that you must read this file. It is all the information that we were able to gather about Marie Woolf." Charles handed Logan the file and then pushed his maneuvered his chair backward. "Come I'll show you to your room."


"Logan there isn't anything you can do for her tonight. You must read that file and Jean tell's me that Rogue made audio recordings after each session. Listen to them."

"Those are her private thoughts." Logan said his eyes shooting darts at the older man.

"No, she said that she wanted them for when you returned that they were so you could know the things she found out." Jean cut in. "Come on. You'll be using her room."

"What? Why?" confussion written over his face.

"Shortly after you left Rogue began to suffer recurring nightmares. From which she would awake in a state of panic and once nearly killed one of the young girls who tried to awaken her. If she hadn't awakened in time she would have drained all the girls life force. She asked to be given your old room and that the walls be rendered sound proof. We abliged her."

With that Charles Xavier turned and left. Leaving Jean and Wolverine to make their own way.

"So, where is Scott?"

"He's still in class."

"Still using your special gift?"

"Of putting up with Scott?" Jean asked a small smile on her face. "Yeah, we are still together." She said as they stepped off the elevator on the dormitory floor. "I think you can find your way from here."

"uh, yeah. Thanks." He said. Then he moved purposefully down the carpeted hall until he stood in front of her door. His door. With a trepidation he didn't understand he reached out with one hand and gripped the door handle. Closing his eyes and taking a never before needed fortifying breath. Feeling like a world class whimp he turned the knob and walked inside.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" He muttered as he kicked the door shut. "It's just a bedroom."

Lifting his jacket ready to toss it on the bed he stopped at the pristinily made bed. The tidy bedside table and the neatly lined up cosmetics on the dresser infront of the mirror. Uncomfortablly he clutched it with both hands before stepping over to the closet and opening it. It also was perfectly organized. With a beleagured sigh also not part of his usual mannerisms, he yanked a hanger from the rack and hung up his jacket. He was starting to feel more and more at odds with himself.

Stepping away from the closet he kicked its door shut as well. Then he turned back toward the room and froze. There on the wall next to the bathroom door was a drawing. An incrediblly detailed drawing. The subject had his back to the artist and was naked from the waist down. His face hidden and pressed to the metal cage he grasped with his raised left hand. The drawing was eerily familiar as it should be. Moving closer he stopped within inches of the charcohl drawing. At the bottom were the words, His Iron Cage.

Shocked that she had been able to draw that scene with only her memory to guide her. He had felt their souls collide that day, but had thought it was his whiskey ladden brain sopping his cognitive activities and processes. Had she two felt the same soulful joining? She had certainly gotten the caption right. He always felt as though he were a prisoner locked in a cage. Stumbling backward he sat heavily on the bed. His eye's staring at the portrait.

"That can't be the only one." He muttered as he clutched the crumpled file in his hands. Before tossing it on the dresser and looked for the sketch pad. It was as though he was being driven to find the other pictures. He ripped all the drawer's open and fumbled through them. He hesitated upon finding her under things. His finger's gently shifting them back and forth to see if the tablet might be there. Then he slowly closed it back. His next field of attack was her closet. He pulled the hanger's to and frow. Then searched the shelf above the rack. Still nothing. The next victim of his zeal was the bedside table. wrenching the drawer open her stopped. It was there. With finger's as gentle as though he were handling fine chrystal he slipped the pad from the drawer. Sinking to the bed he took another deep breath and opened it.

The first few pages were nothing but half eecked out faces, eyes, and lips. The next finished drawing was also of him. As he had looked sitting at the bar. The likeness a perfect mirror of his thoughts as he sat there. Trying to ignore the pull this woman child. It was titled, 'The Struggle'. He had to laugh though admittedly it was a sickly imitaion of his normal robustness.

Flipping to the next page he nearly dropped the pad. There on the page was a rendering she had done of herself. His eyes ate up the page. Taking in every last line. Each and every curve. It was a delicate drawing of her naked body. It depicted her in a reclining position her hands in her hair and a sweet smile on her face. The only thing on her entire body was a chain about her neck that held the simple metal tablet which lay between her young breasts. It was titled, 'Sun On My Skin.' He felt his body reacting as he studied the glint in her eyes. And the unnatural thickness of her lips. They looked like the lips of a woman who had just been kissed. Passionately, he thought.

"Very!" he said aloud as jeolousy began to prick the edges of his conscious mind. Who the hell had made her that way. Surely not that ice kid, Bobby. "If so he better get ready because I'm going to tear him apart."

Controling himself and determined to find out who the mystery lover was he flipped to the next scetch. It was of Rogue one hand crossed low on her body hiding herself the other crossed high across her breasts. Her eyes closed. It seemed like loneliness was hovering above her. And he knew why when he read her chosen title, 'This Prison Of Skin'.

Running his finger over her face in the picture he sat the tablet aside. He felt guilty. And he didn't like it at all.

Scrubbing his hand hard over his face he picked up the file and opened it to the first page. Then moved to the small table and chair beside the terrace door. Setting it down and preparing himself for what he would read inside.

The next part will be, Yester Life: Glimpse's Of The Past.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Man, I think child birth just might have been easier. Okay, I guess this section is going to take longer than I thought. As I often get bogged down in discription and my storylines slither by at a snail's pace. Don't worry It will end sometime. Everything has got to end sometime.