Title: Turn
Author: Sandra
Email: ArcThalia@aol.comStatus: Completed
Category: S, R, J, L, maybe a beginning of a series. Maybe.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Nonsensical ramblings poorly (and quite unfairly) accredited to
Rogue. Set at the very end of the movie.
Disclaimer: I own only 11 brushes, and 7 sketch pads. Trying to sue a student is like trying to milk a dead rooster. If I owned any of the characters, I'd probably have 12 brushes and a rooster who I could milk.
Author's Notes: Why People Don't Write After Midnight by Sandra. (Works on the same principle as the Gremlins.) If you don't get most of this stuff, that's probably because I've been preparing for field school too much. I do apologize, but you could look into quite a number of mythologies, if interested.
Archive: Don't make me send my trusty Sabertooth after you. I'd like to be asked so I know who to contact when I'm bored, and feel like getting a beta. Unbeta'd, written while pink bunnies around me danced and sang German lullabies, etc. Excuse the ramble. Most of the incoherent stuff in here is on purpose. Most of it.
Feedback: Well, duh.
Etc: Thanks to Randa, who probably thinks I'm the pushiest person in the world. Zach! Zach! Apologies to my brother, whose shirt ("I used to be a schizophrenic, but we're okay now") inspired this. For my Rach, because she's not pissed at me.
There are people who want to love you.
Then there are those that just do. There are those that turn around and change from one kind to the other. There are people who want to leave, and those that just pack a dirty jacket and go. He knows this. He does. You know he does. Then why does he hesitate? Why doesn't he just turn and go?
No, don't look at him, Rogue. Dammit, what's wrong with you? Don't you remember? There once was a man named Orpheus...
Oooh, you're a mean one, Mr. Grinch. Where ya goin', Logan? What'cha holdin'? (essentials, essentials, must accessorize, Kid. Beer, condoms, shoes, must have shoes, Canada's got thorny forests) He's going somewhere again, isn't he? Gonna leave little ol' you with them geeks who couldn't keep you safe in the first place. Part-time (who needs legalities?) guardianship, also known as ditching a kid.
He was gonna sneak out the back, say nothing and just go, huh, wasn't he? That's okay, Wolverine, it's okay. Really. You know him. Yes, you do. You know he probably can't spell the name, but he's just like him. Ueuecoyotl. See, maybe if he could remember, he'd know some Aztec history. Ha, it would suit him well, too. God of sex and irresponsible gaiety. (I like women, Kid,don'tcha be saying stuff like that.) Old, old coyote, aooo. Take that, little furry wolverine. What a pitiful little animal. Road Runner, now there's an animal. Always outsmarts those deathtraps.
"You runnin', again?" you ask, and, oh uh, what's that? Beep-beep. Nonono, it's something else. Shiny and cold and squiggly like a snake, and, hmm, Wolvie, where'd ya get 'em? (You never had tags before, have you?) Bet he wouldn't tell *her* either, that red temptation. But she has other ways of finding out. ("Telepathy, what's telepathy?")
That's okay, bye-bye, Logan. Why not let him run? You're a big girl. (Respectfully requesting that you stop calling me Kid, Sir) You can take it. Bobby can help you take it. Where? To the bedroom? Nono, what would you do in a bedroom? Can't touch the untouchable.
Hmm, ice, ice everywhere, and not a boy to warm.
You stop looking at him, really, you're not looking at him anymore, there's just a very interesting spot on those closed doors. And, no, those aren't tears, (get-out-of-my-head-Professor-pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top) the breeze, the breeze touched your face and your eyes (Aww, look at it Roguie, look how bright that Statue of Liberty is shining tonight) are still sensitive.
And her, Jean, yes, her, that redheaded little Amazon, what is she looking at? Has she been eating your porridge again? Or is that "Have you been eating hers?" Won't be sleeping in your uncomfortable little -- you-know-what-they-say-big-claws-big -- bed, will you, Miss Grey? Why, no one would try to lay in her bed, and settle for yours. Lumpy. Soft. Hard. Hot. Cold. Just right.
And she's been doing her research, haven't you, Doctor? Been role-playing late at night with Scooter -- pretty-little-what-color-are-your-eyes? -- Cyke. Has Chuck dubbed her the Mutant version of Svalin yet, valiantly shielding the earth from the full intensity of sun's heat? Yes, that's her alright, that cold, frigid, selfish -- "Random shifts in the genetic code, Professor."
Step in front of a car, why don't you? Oh, no. Didn't mean that, nonono, Erik, that was very mean of you. David, you too. We can watch NASCAR later, and we won't plan out all the ways we could hide her decapitated body. We won't.
He could be a brother, you muse. He could be. Wouldn't that make it better? Wouldn't you cry easier if you were losing a brother? Sorta like Achall, huh,hmm, maybe you'd even eventually die of sorrow, but you're not Irish, so, no, big bad Wolverine could never be your brother.
(Oh, have you really been to all these places, Erik?) Scandinavian places are the best. When you want to run, that is. (Sweden!Denmark!Norway!Iceland) We've been there, Marie, don't you remember?
And, you know what? Erik still won't shut up,(why-won't-you-shut-up-shut-up-shut-up-go-away), and you don't want to know. (It's not *you* who's running) He's bad, he's evil, he occupies too much space up there, in your pretty little head, and no, Erik, who cares what dirt and sweat and orders taste like on enemy skin? You are Modi, Erik, is what you are. (does that make Charles Magni? Nonono, that is not brotherly love, but we love you, Charles, we do) What of your followers, Erik, what of the archetypal berserks so cleverly dubbed the Brotherhood? Were you going to make little innocent Marie Sif if she survived, were you, you old bastard?
The Rogue you turned into would have survived, you know. Haven't you survived a lifetime of pain anyway? Several lifetimes, but why count, there's other people up there to do it. You liked math, didn't you, David?
Nine worlds, nine gates, nine seconds of silence. Coincidence, you're certain. Yet, it's there, that similarity (coincidence, Marie, coincidence) and it tugs and pulls and asks why that last world, that last gate (there's only one gate, silly, and he's blocking it so he could run alone), that last second of silence, why does it enter the circle of the dead? Six circles, (what did Dante know anyway?) whatever, it always ends in death. No, it always ends. Just ends. Simple, really. Don't think about it. Divine Comedy ends with Paradisio, after all.
Really, you don't say, Mr. Summers? What's Elysium? Elysian Fields? Logan doesn't know, and Erik doesn't believe in it. Someone needs to explain it to you now, don't they? And he (Mr. Star Trek) looks like he could. Maybe when Riding Hood goes to bed, maybe then he can try, whaddaya say? The abode of the blessed, the paradise, the end of the world for those chosen by God. (what was She thinking anyway, creating mutants after The Fly 2?). Can he show you all of that without touching you? Skin is so overrated anyway.
And you're sure those eyes (Haven't you seen them somewhere before?) are blue. The brightest, warmest (cold, cold, blue means cold) shade of blue there is. Not hazel, not brown, not green, but blue. Yes, they surely must be blue. How can Red compete with that? She can't.
Although...does that mean he (Call me Scott) has to compete with The Wolverine? (What-Of-Love-Versus-Ecstasy-Rough-Innocence-No-Ecstasy) Well, Wolverine is God, isn't he? Son of God? You kill him and he comes back. Pierce his heart ("Who's that?" "None of your business, Kid." "She's pretty...") with a silver smile, crown him with blood and power, and let pretty (Sun! Sin!) Jean take care of him for three days. See? Good as new, boys. Let's get ready to rumble.
But Scooter.
He's a saint, isn't he? He loves his girl (or she wouldn't be his girl) and he just wants to help his newest student. You're a good student. You don't set things on fire, you don't leave ice on the steps (oh, my, Bobby, how dangerous) and you don't shift through walls to check exam results in advance. You're a good Kid. That's why Mr. Summers smiles at you so often.
He oughta smile more at Jean, perhaps, and then her head wouldn't turn so much. (Oh! Exorcist. Will he take little ol' you to see that? Full Technicolor, surround sound, re-mastered, optimized, and why would the devil be scary when he only wants your sympathy? You do understand, don't you, little girl?)
What do you think, Cyke, how long before Miss Telepathy slips up and screams Logan's name?
You're not a gambler, though, no, siree. No bets on this. Not proper for a Southern Belle. (What to do for a dollar? You know how kids are. They can make money on the streets.)
Maybe you should compensate. Yes, that sounds good. Why should you keep these cold, cold (shiny, warm, mine, all mine) dogtags (snakes, snakes!) like they were special? It's not a promise, is it now? Not very thoughtful, but that's Wolvie for ya. Spontaneity at its best. Improvise when cornered.
Oh, and you, Mr. Summers. What's that smile about? Student!Marie's okay, no need to play nursemaid. ("These feelings you have for him, Rogue, well... it's cute, this crush of yours.") Why, thank you, Jeannie. Yes, of course, she's right. A nap sounds good. What will she be doing? Good, that's right, let her walk away, leave Mr. Summers to deal with you.
So. That smile. You like it. How can you not? It holds no promise, does it? No, it's very real. Fearless Leader smile. Suck it up, Soldier. Grab your books and follow me. It's time to learn all about the birds and the bees and an occasional orphan. We'll tough you up, but he (Fearless Leaders don't dance, do they?) may bring you warm milk tonight because you'll have nightmares again. Maybe he'll talk to you. About anything really. Talking's good. (Don't-die-don't-die-c'mon-Kid-hold-on doesn't count as conversation, you know.)
And that hand. How did it end up on your little shoulder (Whassa matter, Roguie? Never felt a boy before? Cooties!) and why does it seem to mean so much? There's whispering too, all business and compassion and curiosity. You don't know him so well just yet, but, hey, there's something about that hand.
Yes, they have to be blue. That smile doesn't suit hazel eyes. Or brown eyes. Only blue eyes. What would it hurt to take a peek? Maybe later. When he brings you warm milk tonight. And then you'll tell him, and watch him choke. ("He sped off on *your* bike, Mr. Summers. I'm real, honest to God sorry, I am.") But really, why are you wondering what Cyke'll say when he can't find his precious little bike? Great going, Logan. Couldn't take Jean, so ya took the bike. Interesting, Dr. Freud. Shall we plant the purple chrysanthemums now?
He'll swallow it up, though. Right? Right. See, that's why he's so different from anyone else in this house. Not a whiny kid, bub. No promises, no dogtags, no turning his head. Nothing do to with turn-turn-turn in every direction until he can turn no more routine.
Maybe that's why you like him. He doesn't make weak, vague promises because no one ever promises anything to him.
You know what?
Maybe you can change that.
Will you try?
That's a good girl.
The End