DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters. They are all copyright... Marvel and/or Twentieth Century Fox and possibly even other places or people. Point is, not mine. I make no money from this site and I don't have any to give, so there's no point in suing.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The song is "Mercy" by Sarah McLachlan--very haunting and cool. I'm highly into soundtracking my stories, so all of you just have to suck it up and deal. The same song will also be used for "Summer: Discussion." Now read!
Mercy - pure and simple
Longing - cold and hollow
With sweet breath you'd come to warm me
But I held on too hard to only a memory
I don't know how to try. I don't know how to feel the things you're wanting me to feel. I know how to be alone, and I know how to stay alone. I know how to push everyone away but the people who are in here with me, stuck inside my damn head. I know Erik and David and even you.
I know you but I don't know the first thing about you. I know the you I wanted to keep with me, the one I held tight to and wouldn't let slip away. I'm used to it being me, alone, untouchable. I don't even know if I want to learn how to be more than just me.
I'm in love with a you that probably doesn't exist anywhere but in me. I hate pushing you away on the one hand and don't know anything else that I can do on the other. You scare me. You scare me because I know that I could get to know you, maybe get to care about you, and I could lose what's here inside of me. I could lose the person who has been keeping me sane all these years alone and untouched. I need him. Maybe I need you too.
Give me time.
Rogue's heart pounded in her chest as she made her way down the hall to Logan's room. She knew that he would know she was there, that he would probably smell her the second she came down the hallway. She just hoped he knew better than to try to talk to her. Yet.
Fighting her nervousness, Rogue slid the note under Logan's door. She wondered absently if she should have tried to find something other than the blood red pen when writing it. But somehow the color seemed appropriate, fitting. It had hurt to write the letter. It was emotional blood and the scrawled letters on the page fit that feeling with their crimson tint.
Rogue almost ran back to her room, shutting the door behind her with a surprisingly loud WHAM! sound and leaned back against the solid, comforting wood, willing her knees to solidify again and her pulse to slow. All she needed was time.
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