Like Bobby's Kisses
by Brianna Aisling

Rogue stood in the yard, arms wrapped around her body, watching. Like Bobby's kisses, fat, round drops of rain left icy trails of numbness on her skin.


The chill rainfall had left the mansion too muggy for Rogue to stay downstairs and be with her friends. Sweat had gathered in the folds of her clothes and left her feeling sticky and unclean. Now, in a short sleeved, lightweight shirt, she sat on her windowsill, gloves laid across her thigh, absently watching the rain fall.

She couldn't hear the loud music playing downstairs, or her friends' laughter, the staccato beat of the rain dampening all sound, and Rogue was grateful for it. It let her pretend she was in her room, alone, because she wanted to be. She could be the only person in the mansion, or the last one awake. It could be any reason except the truth.

In the distance, a light broke through the darkness, and Rogue leaned forward to watch it move up the driveway and stop in front of the mansion. She sat for a moment, watching the light die as the motorcycle was shut off, before standing and heading down the stairs.

Rogue paused on the first floor and looked down at the gloves she clutched tightly in her hands. For a painful moment, Rogue wished she could go as she was, wished she didn't need the gloves, wished she didn't need to see him.

She turned and headed toward the kitchen, slipping out the back door into the rain.

Night and the storm obscured her from view, but Rogue was still grateful that light would render any windows into one-way mirrors. Rogue made her way to the side of the mansion and stood out on the lawn, and wrapped her arms around her body. She stared at Jean through the library's window. The older woman sat comfortably on one of the leather couches, elbow sitting on the arm rest, her hand curled against her neck, head angled down as she read. She was relaxed, the couch molded around her body, but in an instant, she tensed. Slowly, Jean looked up.

Then, it wasn't just Jean Rogue watched, but Logan and Jean. Even from a distance, Rogue could see the desperation in the kiss, Logan's hands cupping Jean's face, his weight braced on the couch with a knee. Rogue watched Jean's hands come up. She watched them settle into Logan's hair briefly before sliding down over his shoulders and on his chest to push him away, but it was too late.

Jean had chosen her second time around what she had not chosen her first.


Rogue stood in the rain, eyes closed, face lifted to the starless sky, skin kissed by Bobby's ghosts, and wondered if her tears felt as hot to her as Logan's kiss did to Jean.


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