As for me, I am more and more grateful for the companionship of my friends: Storm, Elisabeth, Logan, and the rest. Storm in particular helps me to get through each day. She is so ... serene, in an almost otherworldly fashion, and that serenity has a way of rubbing off onto those around her. I’ve seen her calm Wolverine down from one of his rages with only a few words, and there are few people who can claim a talent for taming that beast. Rogue would do well to be more open with Storm, more trusting. Storm is used to being an outsider, and if approached the right way, just might take Rogue under her wing, given time. But ever since the events of Inferno (and believe me, I am thankful I didn’t have to bear the brunt of that trauma), Rogue has been so raw, so wounded... I can only hope she starts the healing process soon, before someone gets hurt.
Monday
Well I blew it, again. Got into a tangle with Dazzler and everyone took her side, of course. It started out innocent enough—I told Longshot I was keeping a diary and he’d never even heard the word before, can you believe that? So I was having a grand old time explaining it to him when Alison showed up and gave me a hard time. Things went from bad to worse real fast after that. Can’t she leave him alone for one minute? You’d think I was bouncing on his lap the way she got her back up like a polecat in heat. Like I could seduce him even if I wanted to.
(Hell, maybe I do want to. But nobody has to know that but me. And I guess Carol will know if she reads this but so what. I’ll put down my secrets and she’ll put down hers and we’ll both be just as unhappy as when we started. Together but alone, as usual.)
I wonder how long it’ll be before Storm kicks me off the team and makes me fend for myself. Heck, I wonder why I don’t just beat her to the punch and have Gateway send me somewhere far away from here.
But where would I go? Mutants aren’t safe anywhere, especially when they’re on their own. Besides, I bet as soon as Carol took control of my body again she’d come right back to Australia.
I’m just so tired of them hating me.
Thursday
I can’t believe that cold-blooded snake in the grass. She went shopping with Dazzler and Betsy yesterday and brought back some of the ugliest clothes I’ve ever seen—pleated skirts, boring blouses, frilly dresses ... I can’t stand the thought of my body in those rags! Ugh! I’m tempted to burn them.
Guess I’ll have to accidentally on purpose forget to do the dishes this week. I know how that makes her nuts.
June 3
I am continually appalled at the slovenly mess of Rogue's (our) living quarters. I cleaned the place from top to bottom today, although I almost gave up when 1 discovered that she’d torn up my new clothes and threw them in the garbage. But I do live here, too, and 1 just couldn’t deal with the filth anymore. This is supposed to be a home, not a zoo.
One good thing about being able to fly—you can even wipe the cobwebs out of the corners of the ceiling! Now if I can just get Alison to take me shopping again—not that I think that will be a problem. Alison Blaire? Shopping?
It feels so good to laugh ...
Tuesday
The place is so clean I don’t even recognize it. Does she expect me to thank her? She’s gonna have a long wait.
Thursday
Longshot and me went for a walk today. Somehow I managed to get him by his lonesome and we wandered around the outskirts of town for a while. I tried to talk him into taking his motorcycle for a spin but he didn’t want to, guess he needs things to be quiet sometimes. I can understand that better than anyone. He was in one of his moods, where he’s thinking about something serious and nobody can figure out what’s the matter and he won’t tell nobody what’s wrong. So I thought maybe he’d talk to me if we got away from the others. Heck, I got through to Gateway, once. Longshot should be a snap compared to that old aborigine, right?
Even though I tried my best to draw Longshot out he didn’t say
much, but it was nice keeping company with him anyway. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Are you feeling okay, sugar?
Him: Fine. Thanks.
Me: Sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about?
Him: I’m sure. Thanks.
Me: The sky sure is a great color green today, isn’t it?
Him: Yeah. Thanks.
Oh well, can’t blame me for trying. On our way back to town we found some pretty wildflowers that he put in my hair for me, careful not to touch my skin of course. The reds and blues and purples stood out real nice against my brown and white mop. Longshot must’ve thought so too because he kept staling at me. I was in a real good mood about it until we got back and I saw Alison scowling at us. Kept the smile on my face though and didn’t say anything nasty. Waited until I could come back here and write about it instead.
She can touch him. I can’t. So why is she jealous? It’s not like she would want to trade places with little ol’ me, is it? Hah. That’s almost funny. Almost.
June 10
Poor Rogue. I know that she has a crush on Longshot, but she must realize by now that crushes are fruitless for someone with her (our) cursed power. Besides, it is obvious to anyone who takes the time to look that Longshot and Dazzler are desperately in love, even if they aren’t yet aware of it themselves.
I wonder if Rogue will ever find someone who will look past her skin and love the woman on the inside. And if HI still be trapped in here when she does.
To be honest, I don’t know how she’s lived this way for so long. I want to be touched. Is that horribly selfish of me, to have these moments of weakness, when I block out the constant danger around us and daydream instead, dream of a strong hand touching me in the dark, of warm, soft lips touching mine, of hot fingertips caressing my bare skin? Am I a horrible person just because whenever I do see Dazzler and Longshot together I envy them so much that my vision turns red?
I need, I want... I want to feel hardened chest muscles beneath my fingers. I want to touch the firm planes of a man's abdomen, the soft down of his hair. I want to smell that indefinable ... maleness, that musky yet sweet scent that drives me just a little mad. I want to breathe it in and out and feel it course through me. I want to feel the heat between our bodies when a man hovers over me, his forearms guarding my chest, his legs framing mine.
In a way I pity Rogue, who has never known the touch of a man, who has never surrendered to the oblivion that love can bring. But in another way I think she has it easy, since she doesn't know what she’s missing. I find myself getting lost in remembrance sometimes, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming in frustration. Is it truly better, to have these memories, knowing that I won’t be able to experience those feelings ever again? Perhaps Rogue has the better end of the deal on this one.
Friday
I haven’t been reading what Carol writes in here for a while because I don’t really care, but today I peeked and I wish 1 hadn’t. Going on and on about love, like that’s all she can think about. She doesn’t know the half of it. The only time I ever kissed a boy because I wanted to he went into a coma, and she thinks she has problems? Spare me the “poor little Carol” act.
At least she knows how it feels, to have someone touch you like that. I’ve seen movies and read books and stuff but I can only imagine what it’s really like to ... to ... I can’t even write it down! It’s too embarrassing, since I’ll never be doing it.
Sunday
You know what? I’m used to being alone. I’ve been doing it for so long that I don’t even think about it anymore, it’s like breathing or not touching people, it’s just second nature to me. People try to talk to me or be nice and I snap at them or bite their heads off or tell them to get lost. And then I sit here wondering what I did to get them all hot and bothered. What the hell is the matter with me? Am I that afraid of someone getting too close to me that I push everyone in the opposite direction? Is it my own fault that I can’t really call any of the X-Men my friends? Carol always seems so confident when she talks about her frie
nds, or her old lovers. I wonder what it’s like, to be so sure of who you are and where you came from and who will be in your comer when things get tight. I don’t have Mystique anymore, I don’t even have the Professor. How does she lean on people so easily? Who do I have to lean on?
June 19
Rogue is apparently jealous of my confidence—I wish I could tell her face to face that there’s no reason for her to feel this way. She holds all the cards, and has ever since that day on the bridge in San Francisco when she stole everything from me. Self-confidence? Please. I'm not even sure of who I am anymore.
Perhaps I should explain. I've been feeling, well, incomplete lately, even when I am the one in full control of this body. The other day I tried to remember the last time I saw my brother Steven, and came up empty. I remember him, and our relationship, and the fact that he died in Vietnam, but that final meeting with him is no longer within my grasp. What does it mean? Did Rogue perhaps take some of my memories into herself, never to return them? Does she even now have a mental catalogue of the significant events of my life that are lost to me forever? Or is this some personal failing on my part, an inability to keep close all the memories that I hold so dear? Or maybe, just maybe, it is the beginning of the end—the first step down a road toward becoming completely submerged in the depths of Rogue’s psyche, never to resurface.
It’s a riddle I am loath to answer. I don’t know if it’s a result of the psychic transference I experienced when Rogue absorbed my essence into herself, or if maybe I have had a hole inside of me all along, a hole that needed to be filled, and now never will be.
Maybe a trip to New York would help clear my head. I’ll see if Storm could spare me for a day or so in the near future.
June 22
God, I’m so depressed today. Sad and lost. I’m not sure why, but it’s smothering me.
Well, Raven, you have finally gotten your revenge on me, haven’t you? It was your own foster daughter who trapped me in this hell. Congratulations; the victory is yours.
I hope you choke on it.
Sunday
I had a talk with Storm today. I’m not sure what brought it on. Maybe it’s because I saw what Carol wrote a couple weeks ago about how I should try giving Storm a chance. Maybe it’s because I’ve been feeling even more down than usual lately, and I know that Carol has too. I don’t know. But Storm and I talked, and no one’s more surprised than me, but it went well. Storm said something really smart, and let me make sure I get this right:
You can’t love other people until you love yourself.
I’ve heard it before, of course, but somehow when Storm says it there’s more wisdom in the words. Must be a holdover from that weather goddess racket she had going on in Africa.
I thought about what she said for a while, and then I went and sat with Gateway for a couple of hours. The quiet company was just what I needed. When he started playing his flute I imagined that the music was making all my problems go away.
The problems are still there, of course. But for those precious moments, they didn’t exist. I’ll take what I can get.
July 3
I guess Rogue isn’t the only one willing to take advice these days. I went to visit Gateway myself, this evening. I sat there with him on his plateau and watched as the sun sank below the horizon, flooding the sky with purples and pinks and harsh streaks of orange. The sunsets out here are unlike anything I have seen—wild and untamed, just like the terrain they shadow. They are aweinspiring and humbling all at once.
Gateway, of course, took it all in with impassivity. He has seen similar sunsets hundreds of times and will most likely see hundreds more. I wonder if he truly has become accustomed to the sight or if his placid countenance masks a continuing reverence. I suspect and hope it’s the latter.
There's nothing quite like a sunset to put yourself and your problems into perspective. Even after we have all come and gone the sun will continue to rise and set. The thought didn't make me sad, as it once might have, but instead infused me with an unaccustomed sort of peace. There is comfort in the eternal, I suppose.
Monday
Something funny happened today.
I took my body back from Carol during dinner a few hours ago. I was tired of being shut out and so with one giant push, bam! I was back in control. The only thing is, Carol was in the middle of eating pea soup, and I hate pea soup, and I spit it all over the place and almost choked on it and wound up covering poor Petey with green goop.
I guess it doesn’t sound funny when I just write it down like that, but the thing was that everyone started laughing, even Petey. Not laughing at me, but along with me, and then I was laughing too, and suddenly I felt like maybe I did belong there after all.
Wednesday
I wonder if it would make Carol feel better if she knew that I would give all of her memories and her life back to her if I could. I hate her being in my head all the time, don’t get me wrong, but even so I’m not the same person who attacked her in San Francisco. If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t make the same choices. I’ve changed. I hope she realizes that.
July 8
You know what, Rogue? I do know that you’ve changed. And I understand that you’re suffering, too.
But I’m not letting you off the hook, and I never will. Your regrets don’t change the fact that this situation is your fault. It just means that we’ve all made mistakes, and this one was a doozy.
I can't promise to like you, but I can try to hate you a little less. And I hope that’s an arrangement we can finally both live with.
Thursday
I don’t think I really need to write in here as much anymore. Things are better with the X-Men, the memories of all that went down with Inferno are finally starting to fade, and as for me and Carol.. . well, I don’t think we’ll ever truly get along, but we’ll get by. For now, anyway.
I think the Professor would be proud, if he knew. Maybe, wherever he is, he does know. I hope so.
Once a Thief
Ashley McConnell
The sunlight was warm and golden in the little patio of the hotel. A lattice of wooden strips striped uncertain shade ^yl^ across the half-dozen round tables scattered over the red cobblestones. At this hour, the patio was half empty. Even the bees were considering a midmoming nap.
Remy LeBeau leaned back in his wrought-iron chair and surveyed the other occupants of the little courtyard through half-closed eyes. His fingers, long and limber, tore restlessly at a croissant, flicking crumbs at small, fat birds who chirped at his feet, complaining when the shower of largesse slowed.
He glanced down as the chirping became even more demanding, and found the croissant had been reduced to its component flakes.
The last time he had stayed here he’d been much more satisfied with his world. That was why he’d returned, after all—this place, a nameless little hotel in the little town of St. Chinien in the south of France, was one he associated with a feeling of solid satisfaction and well-being.
It was a feeling he couldn’t quite nail down this time.
“More coffee, m ’sieuT
The birds had flown away, indignant.
Part of that feeling of well-being, of course, was associated with the pert, blue-eyed Madelaine, who smiled down at him with the coffee and anything else he might desire or offer.
Madelaine was only sixteen, and he responded to her as he always did, with a lazy flirtatious grin and a knowing wink. Madelaine giggled and blushed and poured another cup of strong coffee. At least that hadn’t changed. The coffee was always strong, and Madelaine always flirted. He smiled as she turned back to the kitchen, her skirts swishing violently back and forth.
Those blue eyes—looked like Xavier’s. Bright, sharp, intelligent eyes.
Honest eyes.
Xavier.
LeBeau stretched uncomfortably.
“How d’you manage it?”
LeBeau didn’t bother to look up at the man who cast the solid shadow acros
s his table. Every ointment had its fly, and this was the fly in the St. Chinien ointment. Even this fly wasn’t all bad—the last time he’d been here he had taken great pleasure in swatting it.
Every time he came here he indulged himself, come to think of it. Heaving a sigh, he took a cigarette from a pack on the table, lighted it in a leisurely fashion, and exhaled a long stream of blue smoke before looking up. “Manage what, mon amiT
The other man moved around the table, letting the sunlight fall across LeBeau’s eyes, and scraped a chair over the cobbles to sit across from him.
“You’d think they’d look deep in your bloody eyes and run like all the devils in hell were after them. Instead they melt in your arms. Or is that another one of your mutie talents? Seduction?”
LeBeau smiled and exhaled again, deliberately directing the smoke into the other man’s face. “One cannot account for what attracts de ladies, mon ami. Other dan deir good taste, of course. I note you are unaccompanied, still?”
The other man grimaced and changed the subject. “So what are you celebrating this time, Gambit? Let’s see, the last time it was the Heil-ston jewels, wasn’t it?”
LeBeau merely lifted an eyebrow.
“Little Madelaine lost the earrings you gave her, you know. Careless little girl. Had no idea what they were worth, of course. Probably dropped them in the hay somewhere.”
LeBeau shrugged.
“Time before that it was the last will and testament of the Vicount-ess Liverakos, wasn’t it? The heirs paid a very pretty penny to have that one back.”
A line of ash drifted to the ground. LeBeau’s face remained impassive.
“But those things were quite some time ago, weren’t they?”
The other man was well dressed, his clothing of best quality. Gambit’s eyes ticked over him, noting one by one the signs of affluence: the gold Patek Phillipe watch, the bespoke tailoring, the handlasted shoes, the perfectly trimmed mustache.
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