Downtime
by
Misty


DISCLAIMER: Not mine. No really.

DEDICATION: for Jenn and Shaz, cause I owe them Darkness and Need, and have yet to deliver. I'm sorry.

---

I haven't been myself these days
According to friends
I tend to lose a part of me
When my heart is one the mend
I'll be alright, it's safe to say
Cause just like your love
This is only a phase

Well I've been down this road a time or two
It's nothing new
Well I'll get on my feet and over you
I tell myself that everything will be just fine
I'm just going through a little downtime

Some might think I've gotten caught up
In a heartache's aftermath
But your memory's taking second place to a good book
And a nice long bath

I must admit it threw me at first
But I'm convinced I'm over the worst

Well I've been down this road a time or two
Well I'll get on my feet and over you
I tell myself that everything will be just fine
I'm just going through a little downtime

- Downtime, Jo Dee Messina

~*~

It's a little more than ironic, I think, that the world's most untouchable mutant was borne with the heart of an incurable romantic.

Mutation lends itself to change, I know. For four years, I've watched the mutations take their ramifications on society, their change causing shifting, rumblings in a society that's never coped well with it.

As a girl, barely more than a child, I wasn't ready for that change. Shit, I don't even know if I'm ready for it now.

Twenty-One years old, with rosy cheeks, teeth that are still a little buck toothed, hair now cut to my chin, straight and whispy. The streaks are still there, white bolts that fascinates some people, like a neon sign, an arrow stating ëmutant!'.

I didn't understand then, why I kept the streaks, why I didn't try to hide them, keep the same dark brown I've always had. I know Ororo didn't understand when I cut my hair, just up and chopped it off one day, blow dried it straight and walked tall and proud through the halls, ignoring the looks and telling Jubes that no, she couldn't hold a funeral for my long dark tresses.

Honestly, I think only Jean has seen the pattern. Her eyes watch everything, the scientist who's got a million different things goin' on in her head is kinda funny, in the fact that she can know everything and anything about you, but can be so completely screwed in the way she runs her life.

Jean's got a serious mothering complex, and she's latched it on to me big time. Her eyes linger on me just a second longer, always have. Ever since the day Logan's left, she's been looking, taking a moment out of every day to stop by my room, talk to me, ask me questions.

It makes me wonder if Logan made her promise, if that's what they talk about when he calls, and she spends hours in her office speaking with him.

Because she notices the patterns.

The day I bought my first pair of leather pants, she noticed why. The day I cut my hair, she had also happened to be there, giving me the small, tight smile.

She noticed the day I stopped wearing the long opera gloves, in favor of short, kid skin ones, long sleeved shirts that hugged my body, the sliver of skin showing between the gloves and the cuffs just so apparent.

People worry about me, you know.

Bein' ëblessed' with my certain mutation lends a girl a certain ability that other people don't have. Like Jean, I can get into heads, and although I don't have the discipline to sit there and delineate, that there's his personality, and that there is hers, you get a pretty good concept of what's a foreign perception, or memory. It took work at first, you know. Like when I sat down to watch hockey and remembered that one time I was in that ice storm in Alaska and then of course I realized I had never BEEN to Alaska and I had also never had sex with a woman in a wood shed, and of course that had to have been Logan's memories. . .

Kinda creepy at first.

So they worry, ëcause they don't understand. They don't get how I can have someone like Logan inside of me, how I can have some one like Carol and still be so. . . Marie.

People see the leather and they see the short hair and the short gloves and they get a glance at Rogue.

Every day, they think, one day, she's gonna really be Rogue. It's like a time bomb, you know? They're waiting.

Today should really freak them the hell out.

Funny that only one of them has figured it out.

Jean's the only one not worried. And damn, that teacher has good reason.

Change is a funny thing.

Mutation lends itself to change.

But honestly, and this is something I've always believed, and any history nut will tell you, we live in patterns, circles.

People always return to the familiar after a certain abrupt change.

The cycle is there, if people look hard enough, if they study the motions and look, really look.

I keep wondering why no one else has figured it out, why Jean keeps that secret, and why when I catch her eye and smile during these downtimes, she smiles back, and doesn't say a word.

They don't realize, none of them do, that I'm not becoming Rogue at the end of every cycle. The short hair, the streaks. . . they're all outward manifestations of Marie.

Weird, huh? The dark lipstick, the dark eye shadow, the brown leather jacket and the leather pants, the short kid gloves and the mischievous smile that plays across my lips are really just the Marie who's finally coming out, yearning for the familiar.

See. . . remember what I said about the whole incurable romantic bit?

I'm not exactly. . . immune to men. And being . . . well. . . me, with my untouchable skin and newly acquired strength and ability to fly and all. . . well I have issues.

But it's nothing a little creativity can't solve.

So, just like any other red blooded American girl, I've had my share of romantic follies. . . There was . . . Bobby, and Remy. . . and St. John before the whole. . . I really think he's gay issues. . . and. . . at one point I even think I almost got into something with that older guy Warren but-

They all ended.

Getting your heart broken is a curious thing, and it's . . . kinda fun to have a guy's perspective inside of you because you understand why it happens, and some times you think the guy's scum, and sometimes you just. . . well you understand. I have to be the coolest ex-girlfriend on the history of this earth.

The post break up period is what I call my downtime. There's aching, a little difficult to breathe, and sometimes I cry into my pillow and other times the Danger room takes quite a lot of pounding cause I can pack a helluva punch for a little girl from the South.

And I look in the mirror, at myself, and I wonder about what I am, who I am. . . and why this time, it didn't work out. Not exactly myself. Jubes and Kitty say I'm not all there, and I think they're right. When my hearts mending I tend to lose. . . something. . . I don't know what it is. Subdued and a little tired, eyes glittering and Jean notices and gives her little sad smile and everyone else worries.

It's the beginning of the cycle that Jean notices, that I noticed only after I noticed she noticed.

When I look into the mirror and decide I need something- that I'm hiding something or somethin's not me anymore.

So I cut my hair after Bobby. I bought the leather after St. John, the gloves came after Remy, and now. . . with Warren. . .

Sitting at this bench, I finally decided I wasn't going to do this ritual alone anymore.

It's not helping me any and anyway, it was time me and Jean got to break the silence.

I was curious, why she kept silent, why I perceived her as my very best friend and yet knew nothing about her, other than the fact that she quite possibly knew me better than anyone alive.

When she came down the pathway, in that red outfit Scott loves so much, I smiled, motioned with my hands as she came forward, a little hesitantly.

"Hey, Jean."

"Rogue." She smiled tightly, and it occurred to me that I didn't think I'd ever seen Jean smile, really smile, like a mega watt smile with all blinkers off, ever.

I'm sure she must have, maybe with Scott in their room, maybe with Ororo, but. . . even Scott smiled in public.

Jean never did.

"Was there something you wanted to talk about?" she began, hands pressed against the edge of the bench as she craned her head to look at me, the good doctor in her expensive clothes.

We must have been quiet the pair. Me in my black leather and chin length hair with streaks, lookin' like some wannabe punk and her, in her red dress, looking like she stepped off a runway for Vogue.

"Actually, Jean, Ah wanted to ask you a favor."

Funny how the accent has become thicker lately. Usually it's the other way, ya know? But not with me. With every absorption, it's like my body just holds on tight to it and says, hell no, Marie, you ain't losin' that part of ya.

Hell, I've even started using ësugar'.

The word favor stood out, because Jean immediately looked concerned, offering me that tight smile and leaning forward, hands folded together, staring at me. "Of course, Rogue. I'd do anything I can to help you, you know that."

"Yeah, I do." I flashed her a smile, and took a breath, letting the pause between us stay comfortable just long enough before I announced, "I want to get a tattoo."

She gave me that perplexed look of hers, and I tell ya, you haven't lived until you get the perplexed look from Jean. It's really cute, and yes, I know half of this ëI think Jean is God' crap probably comes from Logan and his stupid hormones, but hell, they ARE my memories, and I do think she looks all perplexed like she's doin' now. Her forehead wrinkles up, and her mouth just puckers open slightly, and you can almost see the wheels turning in her head, examining every word that just came out of your mouth, and how it sounded and what it could possibly mean, and. . .

"I . . . see."

"So is that somethin' I need permission for?"

She gave me another trademark Jean ëperplexed' look. "What?"

"You know, me bein' one of the X-Men and everything. Do I need like, a permit or something?"

That got a smile.

"Well, as long as you're not planning on tattooing half your face over, I think we're fine."

I couldn't help but smile. "I think we're safe."

"Good to know."

She fell quiet again, and I found myself looking away, at a little bird that was singing on the corner of the cobblestone walkway.

"So. . . where'd you do yours?"

She gave me a startled look, and I could only give her a sheepish grin.

"You're not quite sure how to talk to me, are you?"

"How do you mean?" she asked, her voice slow, careful.

"Well, it's like. . . okay, it's like. . . you ever had a crush on someone, right? And you spend your whole time. . . like. . . imagining what they're like so you know everything about them, and in your head it's like you've known them all your life, but then you like, really talk to them and it's . . . you're not in control anymore, you can't filter everything they say and you. . . just. . . feel awkward. I'm not saying you have a crush on me," I said hastily, "but you do . . . watch me an awful lot."

She smiled, this little smile that I hadn't seen from her, as she looked down at her feet, and they were nice shoes, and when she looked at me, there was no more awkwardness, and her tone was even, not patronizing, just completely. . . even.

"I have a feeling you watch me an awful lot too, Rogue," she said breezily. "Though to be honest I've attributed most of the ass watching to Logan."

I felt the laughter bubble up before I could stop it, as she only cocked an eyebrow and waited for me to finish.

"Yeah," I finally managed, "Blame the ass watching on Logan, Jean. Though Ah should say that I'd rather be watching your ass, than say. . . Hank's. Though I do wish sometimes Logan was gay. Would have given me a really good excuse to watch Scott's ass."

Great. . . I came out here for a heart to heart with Jean and wind up almost hitting on her. And I'm not even gay.

Well. . . not technically, but you absorb a sex maniac like Logan and remember having sex with all these different women and YOU try to come out of it completely. . . you know. . . hetero.

Go ahead. I dare you.

"There is a major difference in those memories," I finally said out loud, musing to myself and a bit to Jean. "Logan had something that . . . I don't have . . . it kind of puts off the whole. . . women thing for me. So I think you're safe."

"He ñ oh. A package." I grinned, winking and this time she chuckled, shaking her head, shoulders shaking slightly in mirth. "God, Rogue, you are something else."

"So seriously, where'd you get your tattoo?"

"How did you even know I had one?"

"You seem the type."

She was hesitant, and then gave a ëto hell with it' shrug, and turned, carefully lifting up the back of her shirt and showing me the small of her back.

There it was, painted almost delicately, a small phoenix entangled with what appeared to be a griffin.

"Nice."

"It's not too big." Jean craned her neck, attempting to shift her back to view it properly. "It was. . . a college thing."

"Who was it?"

Jean offered a grim smile. "Warren."

I blinked, that I hadn't been expecting.

"Warren. MY Warren?"

"Umm. . . more like my Warren back then," she answered, shrugging slightly, pulling her shirt down and turning to face me. "Or rather. . . no longer my Warren."

Despite the fact that I was toting a little bruised heart, I still found myself meeting her eyes with a look of completely bewildered surprise.

There was a beat, and I finally snorted, falling back into the bench and moving to push the bangs out of my face. "Is this like, some mutation we didn't know about? Warren inspiring tattoo binges?"

"It's a long story," she said, her face almost lost in the memory, eyes taking a distant faraway look that told me she wasn't quite with me there for a second. Then she shifted, and her eyes were clear and she smiled at me, "But one that has a relatively happy ending. I got my tattoo, a couple months later, I got my Scott."

"He wasn't jailbait back then?"

"Oh, he was. At least as far as I was concerned. Didn't quite stop him." She shrugged, and then shifted back onto the bench, making herself more comfortable as she looked at me frankly. "So, Rogue. A tattoo is a very permanent thing, may I ask. . . what and where?"

"Well the phoenix is out." She conceded with a smile as I grinned. "But umm. . . I don't know. . . something small on my shoulder blade, maybe. . . I'm not sure."

"Are you sure about this? It's a drastic change."

Her eyes were so clear, watching me with this look that told me that it wasn't just the telepathic part of her that understood. Jean knew the pattern, knew the circle, and even now it had never occurred to me that she was never worried about the cycle and patterns because she had been through them herself.

What was it like, I wondered, to see this kid doing the exact same thing?

Even Jean had her patterns.

Interesting thing to realize.

"It's not a change, Jean. Ah have a feeling that whatever it is, that I get. . . it's already there, branded on my heart."

"Mmm. . . " she looked distracted, like she was thinking, her mouth set in a thin line, before she took a breath, looked at me. "You realize, Rogue that in losing Warren you're not really . . . losing anything. . . more like. . . gaining a part of yourself back."

"Why is everyone so worried about me?"

"Because they don't understand. They think you're doing these things because you're trying to be something you're not."

"And what do you think?" I asked, honestly interested in her answer.

"I think you're finally realizing that you don't have to be what others perceive you as. Staying true to yourself is something quite important, Rogue. Honestly? I believe they pegged you wrong. They didn't know that the sassy spitfire we all know and love had that personality embedded inside of her even before the Logans and the Carols and the Magnetos." She shrugged, giving me a tilt of her head.

"Well in mah defense I was being hunted, and had been a runaway for three weeks, gives me points for my personality shift."

She chuckled and fell silent.

"Jean?"

"Yes?"

"Can you come with me?"

"Is that the favor?"

"Yes."

"Of course. As a matter of fact, if you're ready now, we won't have to go very far."

"Huh?"

--

Ororo has a very serene room.

I find that odd.

I mean, we as mutants know that change is inevitable, it's the very constant that lets us exist you know?

But Ororo's room is very disciplined. I felt like I had to take off my shoes just stepping into it. And I think that's weird, but I can see why.

We all live in circles and patterns, and if you watch Ororo's circles then you notice that she's got quite a few fears, a hell of a wry personality, and an obsession with control.

Until you go on a mission with her, you don't realize why.

See, Ororo's mutation, the ability to control and manipulate the weather, can be well. . . dangerous, and if she even loses her temper she kinda. . . well. . . loses it completely. Tornados and storms and winds and I think I once heard this urban legend where she almost killed this guy who was cheating on her accidentally-

So. Control issues.

And of course, people see Storm and think she's all quiet and passive when she's . . . well Storm.

I mean, that should be an indicator right there, right?

Storm! Tumultuous! Hello!

"Hello?" I blinked, as the door opened, and Jean smiled, leading me inside to find Storm sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, a book in her hand, looking comfy and at home.

"Jean."

"Ororo," she returned, as I closed the door, moving forward as Jean motioned for me to sit with her on the bed. "Rogue wants to get a tattoo."

She was quiet for a second, those cool dark eyes went over me, and suddenly a mischievous grin slid onto her face as she asked point blank, "Warren?"

I shot Jean a shocked look, and Jean suddenly cracked up, making me laugh in disbelief and leaving Ororo to sit there verily amused at the whole thing.

"Oh, please, Ororo, don't tell me-"

She shuffled, arched her back and lifted her shirt to expose her midriff.

Sure enough, there was a tattoo.

"Well, damn! Here Ah thought I was bein' all original and shit."

"Not when it comes to Warren," Ororo said, giving me a small nod. "But you have come to the right place." She snapped her book shut, leaning forward.

I couldn't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. "You do tattoos?"

"Tribal markings," Jean explained, tucking her feet under her as she moved back on the bed, getting herself comfortable. "I had a feeling you might be up for those."

Hmm. . . the thought had. . . appeal. "They're permanent?"

"Completely," Ororo confirmed.

There was a bond, sisterly and otherwise, that existed between these two women that suddenly enveloped me. Ororo, with her white strands and Jean with her dark ones made a pretty picture, my old teachers who were now smiling at me, though if it was because they accepted me for who I was, or I had just joined their little "I was Warren's love slave" clique I had no idea.

But it was kinda nice.

"Bring it on, sugar."

"I have been meaning to ask you about that," Ororo said, shifting off the chair and moving to her dresser, opening various compartments. "The endearment, it's new, is it not?"

"What. . . the sugar thing?"

"Yes."

"Actually it's old. My mother used it."

"Ah. I like it." She shot me a smile and I gave one back, before the stupid memory I had of Logan checking out her butt made me cough and look away.

I swear from now on, no more absorbing men. It just gets- and thank GOD I had managed to repress most of his breast fantasies.

Geez.

"This sounds like a bonding moment," Jean announced suddenly, bounding to her feet. "And that means. . . alcohol."

"Uh-uh, sugar, not going to let ëRo paint on me if she's tipsy."

"Oh." Jean actually looked put out, and I had to smile. I liked seeing this side of her.

"You'll have to forgive Jean," Ororo said breezily, gathering a tray of things and coming to the bed, setting them down on the desk resting against it. "I believe she's regressing into her wilder, college days."

"Wilder?"

"Well. . . as wild as I got." Jean said, sitting in the empty chair and watching the scene, resting her chin on her hand. "Which was. . . pretty boring. The tattoo was literally the most rebellious thing I ever did."

"But, oh did she love to drink," Ororo said, sending a smirk Jean's way as she winked at me. "Gave the fraternity boys quite a run for their money."

"Yes, well it wasn't as if you weren't the picture perfect definition of wild and free, Ororo," Jean said pointedly. She looked at me, gave me a knowing grin and said, "Our little Kenyan here is quite the free spirit. Especially on wet t-shirt night."

I snorted, a kinda of unlady-like snort, but neither of them really seemed to mind, as Ororo only shrugged innocently and picked up the paint and the brush.

"I'm from Africa. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it." To me, she asked, "Where were you thinking of getting this tattoo?"

"Uhh. . . here, shoulder blade." I pulled the neck of my shirt down, revealing the area I wanted painted.

"I will not do wings."

I laughed, despite myself. Damn. These ladies were damn fun.

"No, I think. . . she hadn't quite decided yet, had you, Rogue?"

I took a breath, and let my breath out, eyes connecting first with Ororo, and then to Jean, both waiting patiently as I shifted images in my mind.

I licked my lips, and hesitantly began, "A . . . cross?"

The room got quiet, as Jean traded glances with Storm and they both looked at me. "Interesting choice," she said after a minute.

"It's wrong?"

"On the contrary." Ororo gave me a smile, cleaning her brush with a towel as she went on to explain, "A cross is a symbol of hope. It bridges the gap for salvation, it is strong and sturdy and yet frail, in a unique way."

"I agree. I think it would suit you, Rogue," Jean offered.

I took a breath, and then looked at Ororo, who stood ready with her ink and her brushes. "Let's do it."

"The advantage of this, I might add," Storm said, as the cold paint hit my skin, and I hissed in at the contact, "Is that this paint, while permanent, does not hurt."

The advantage to hanging with these women was pretty clear. In missions, I had counted on them for my life, they had saved my ass more than once, and I think it showed now, as Storm calmly, collectively, painted a small, elaborate cross on my shoulder blade, never once missing a mark, coming clean, and. . . beautiful.

"We'll just let that dry and you should be all set," she said after a second, blowing on it, and then moving to put her brushed away, leaving Jean to come and inspect.

"Nice, Ororo." Jean said, looking at it, and then staring at me. "What do you think?"

Ororo paused, as I stood, moving to the mirror, holding the shirt down as I looked at the dark brown image now permanently etched on my skin.

There it was. . . the next closure of my cycles. . . of my patterns. . .

I smiled, turning to them. "I like it."

"I am glad, because it is there now whether you like it or not," Storm offered.

There I was, in the mirror, and I found myself looking back at the two women who had been there on my first day of coming into this mansion, lost and scared, and fitting to my name of little Marie.

But they had only known me as Rogue, and now here, I was, in black leather, and short sexy black gloves, and short sexy streaked hair, and pale, smooth skin, and I was still the untouchable heroine.

But instead of being alone, with it, came the change.

Two women were watching behind me, both older, but both smiling, looking at me with this acceptance that made me wonder if all we really shared was Warren.

God. That was almost icky to even think about.

"For future reference," I began, letting go of my shirt, letting it cover the tattoo, turning back to the pair. "Are there any other tattoo binging men I should know about? Cause. . . I think I'm planning on just keeping this one."

"Well no, I pretty much have Scott... and that's pretty much it for now," Jean said, settling back into the chair, taking off her glasses, and folding them carefully. "Storm?"

Ororo just smiled, shaking her head. "Hank and Gambit are the only two available men I have yet to. . . who are not taken, and I would rather not persue that avenue with either of them."

"Oh, honey, Remy's not that bad." Storm gave me a cocked eyebrow, and I felt myself blush. "But that's another story."

"We have time," Jean said, and Ororo settled down on the side of the armchair, also looking curious.

Huh. Girltalk.

Not really used to girltalk, and with these two. . . ex-teachers. . . not really somethin' I was sure I wanted to . . . get into.

But I sat down, twiddling my thumbs, and my eyes roved to the clock and I found myself screeching triumphantly, "CLASS! I have class!"

Jean leaned over, and grimaced. "Oh. So do I."

Sighing, she stood, running a hand through her hair, before whirling on me and pointing a finger, "but don't you dare think you're getting away without telling us the Remy story, Rogue."

"Likewise," Storm said, settling back into the chair herself, picking up the discarded book. "Perhaps tonight, after dinner?"

"I'll bring the wine!" Jean said, looking almost excited.

I found myself pausing, as I stood, as both Ororo Munroe and Jean Grey looked at me with open invitation on their faces.

What were they offerin' exactly?

And me, with Logan in my personality and Carol in my mind, just had to go and blurt out, "Are ya'll tryin' to like, bond or somethin'?"

Storm cocked an eyebrow, but Jean actually laughed, an actual, real laugh that I had never seen come from her.

"If you're willing," Jean said after a moment, taking a breath to calm down, coming forward and squeezing my shoulder.

"You already have the tattoo," Storm said with mock sincerity. "And the preliminary screwing of Warren as the initiation rite."

"Any one else I have to screw to get in?" I asked, grinning, crossing my arms. "Like, Scott for instance?"

"Not unless you want Jean to go dark on you," Storm informed me, as Jean colored up. "But this Gambit story DOES sound intriguing-"

"Okay, that's it, naughty thinking, gotta go-"

Storm chuckled as Jean got her purse, moving toward the door, and pulling it open.

She paused at the doorway, and looked at me, a gentle smile suddenly on her face. "Thanks for the talk, Rogue. I had fun."

I gave her a grin, and answered honestly, "Me too."

When she was gone, Storm's voice broke the stillness. "So we will see you tonight, Rogue?"

I paused, and then nodded, running my gloved fingers through my short tousled hair and heading to the doorway. "Yeah, sugar, I'll be there."

"Very nice. There is only so much ëScott and his library sex fantasies' I can stand," Storm said, a beat before I closed the door.

Leaning against the door, I couldn't help but burst into laughter, shaking against the doorway, my eyes shining with my new tattoo and old heart, and old soul.

And there, leaning against Storm's doorway, almost brought to tears by the wry Miss Munroe and the silly Ms. Jean Grey, was where Logan found me.

"Rogue?"

The voice was familiar, and I hadn't heard it in real life for three years, so I was completely frozen as I turned, half smiling, to find the Wolverine standing uncertainly about ten feet away.

He hadn't changed one bit.

It was good to see him, and so I smiled, grinned like an idiot, and just came forward, clasped his hands with mine.

"Logan, it's GREAT to see you. I have to go to a class right now, but can I talk to you later? We'll completely catch up, sugar, I promise-"

"Mari-"

"Oh, shoot, no wait, I can't. I promised the girls we'd bond- oh I'll figure somethin' out. Maybe we could do breakfast?"

"Uh, I gue-"

"Oh, crap, I'm late!" I shot up, pressed a kiss against his whiskers, and then moved around him, waving as I ran down the hallway. "Later, sugar!"

The girls. I had said the girls. I found myself grinning, as I sprinted down the hallway, looking back at my long lost friend, and waving as I ran to my next class, completely and totally unprepared for it, but not caring one whit or another.

I was even mature enough not to laugh out loud when I heard Logan's puzzled voice waft down the hallway after me.

"Did the kid just call me sugar?"



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