A series by November

Chapter 5: Not Waiting

On the cool October days she went into the woods, curled up on the swing and watched the manic golden-green flutter of sun on leaves. Falling leaves, shaking leaves, moving shadows, texture behind her eyelids when she closed her eyes. She would read, or smoke cigars, blues deep and sorrowful in her discman, and think about her life. Think about things she needed, things she wanted.

She was able to touch and be touched. The mirror told her that she had become lushly, darkly beautiful. She ached to be held by a lover, for the sweet brush of a kiss.

His kiss. She hated herself for remembering him. For wanting him. For having loved him, three years ago when his senses and life force coursed through her, heightening her, making her experience the world with a new sharpness, making her pulse run a little faster.

Still no letter, or postcard, or call. He had allowed himself to flow into her, then he left. When she thought about it anger filled her.

Sometimes shen she turned and the wind was just so, and the smoke was wafting a certain way, she was sure she could smell him. But he was never there.

It had been almost two years since she had last begged Xavier to use Cerebro to make sure Logan was still alive. She had only asked him three times, went to him full of shame when the fear consumed her, and each time it cost her something more.

At some time the benefit of knowing that he was alive was outweighed by the cost of coming to Xavier and begging, of waiting outside the pneumatic doors with her hands in a knot, and she stopped asking.

On occasion when using Cerebro he would come across Logan by accident. Every time he did he told Rogue that he was alive, and nothing more. There was a point when this only made her angry. He was alive, yet he couldn't be bothered to pick up a damn phone and call her.

She listened to the blues and looked up at the stars and her whole being resonated with the ache.

She wasn’t waiting. She had refused to from the beginning. Of course, that didn’t make the longing and the ache and the raw hurt any less, but she was moving on. And she was mostly happy with her life.

She wasn’t the only one resonating with lust. Carter was stupefied the first time he laid eyes on Kitty. Rogue felt guilty because on occasion she and Kitty had done an experimental and light dance down that road. Rogue hated to be the one to break it to him that Kitty didn’t like boys. So she didn’t. It was Jubilee who told him, in her usual blunt way, that Kitty played for the other team.

With the arrogance of the attractive and the optimism of the young, Carter calmly waited and assumed that he would eventually win her.

One night at three in the morning Rogue returned from getting a snack and heard music from Carter’s room. She knocked.

He came to the door, looking exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and he seemed paler than usual. "Carter, when was the last time you slept?"

"Dunno. Fuckin' ironic, huh? I can make anyone sleep but me."

"I can help you if you want. If you trust me."

He shrugged.

"Lift up your hand." He obeyed. It had been some months since she had done this, but she was confident in her ability.

She narrowed her eyes and flipped a switch in her mind. She touched her index finger to his upturned one, the animation of Adam in reverse, and touched his fingertip to hers, feather light. Taking only his power, no life force, no memories. His eyes fluttered but otherwise there was no change.

"You okay?" she asked. He nodded.

She pushed ever so slightly with her mind. His eyes closed. "Sleepy?"

"Yeah. Hit me again, a little more."

She did, just a bit stronger, and Carter began to breathe slow and even.

This became a nightly habit. She was glad to help him fight his demons in this small way and he was glad to get sleep. She soon learned just the right amount of power to hit him with. Sometimes the power exchange made her sleepy and she fell asleep in his bed. Soon they were sleeping together, more often than not.

Rogue was having a very erotic dream. There was a hot man pressed to her. Hands moving over her body, snaking under her pajamas, breath on her shoulder, lips moving lazily on her neck. Her eyes opened.

"Carter?" she whispered.

She turned to face him.

He stirred awake, his eyes fluttered open. "Roguey?"

She had seen his eyes on her in the gym, as she worked out in her lycra. She knew he wanted her. He was eighteen. He wanted everybody.

"I want you," she murmured.

She pressed her hand to his naked chest, trailed down lightly.

"You want me, don’t you?"

He nodded, eyes narrowing.

He gasped as her hand moved over his pajama-clad erection.

"I can tell you want me. I can feel it." She squeezed. He moaned.

"Kiss me already," she said.

He licked his lips and kissed her. She moaned, soaring. Skyrockets in her head. Touch, after so long. So sweet. It didn’t matter who. It was her.

His hands were all over her, uncharted territory. She didn’t feel as if she were a virgin being deflowered. She had been deprived for years and now she absorbed touch like a flower takes in sunlight. She felt as if a thirst were being quenched.

When she had her fill she pushed him down and moved slow above him. She wasn’t a virgin, not really. Not with all the men in her head. But she was tight and it was good.

After, her heart pounding, he whispered "what brought this on?"

"I wanted to." It was that simple to her. And it held her over for quite a while.