Something Beyond Seeing: Part 9

by MizzMarvel

Part 9: Making Connections and New Conflictions

Before going to sleep, Rogue props the picture of herself back up against the lamp like she found it, but then she feels like it's staring at her and she can't go to sleep. Even in the dark, she can feel it nearby. She finally reaches over and puts it in the side table's drawer, face down, but even then she can't sleep. She thinks about it for hours, the drawing having burned a permanent image of itself in her brain. Rogue knows each curving line by heart before she finally slips unknowingly into sleep.

***

In the morning, she awakes suddenly. The first thing on her mind is the picture, and the Russian. She's supposed to go downstairs and eat breakfast with him now. Obviously, it's not required, it never has been, but she eats breakfast with him every morning. Will he miss her if she stays where she is? Well, considering the picture, he would, apparently.

She dresses slowly and pulls the portrait out of the drawer. Quietly, she leaves her room and walks downstairs, counting each step of her descent. The paper is held carefully as not to wrinkle it; though it undoubtedly disturbs her, it's a work of art and needs to be preserved.

She's just outside the dining room, a hand placed flat against the door, debating whether to enter or not. This is her last chance to change her mind, after all. No one would blame her if she doesn't. Well, no one would if she actually were to tell someone. But she takes a breath and steps forward into the next room.

The Russian sits at the table as usual, but when he sees her enter, his face turns red and he ducks his head. He has his bowl of cereal in front of him, and manages to continue scooping food into his mouth, even though he's apparently trying to hide himself from her, like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand.

If he's embarrassed, Rogue thinks. Then why did he show up?

"Um," she says, realizing again that no one even knows his name. "Hey."

At the sound of her voice, he looks up reluctantly. He is still blushing fiercely, but his face retains the same serene expression he almost always wears. He sets his spoon in the bowl, neglecting his breakfast for at least a moment.

Rogue holds up the picture. "Ya...ya did this?" She points at him for clarification.

He stares, doing nothing, then nods slowly.

She blinks a few times before saying, "Thanks. It's...beautiful."

He continues to stare, the redness gradually leaving his face.

"Oh!" she says, and points at herself with her thumb. "Ah'm Rogue."

The Russian smiles softly and touches his big hand to his chest. "Piotr." His voice is so gentle for one so tall.

She nods. "It's nice ta meet ya."

Then Rogue goes into the kitchen and fixes her own breakfast. She comes back in and sits down to eat, like she always does.

***

"He drew this?" St. John asks later that day, staring down at the portrait.

"Yeah."

"He's talented."

"Makes ya look real pretty...for a girl, that is."

"Hey!"

"Y'know I'm only kiddin'."

"Oh, AH know...ah've seen how ya look at that photo a Michelangelo's David in that art book..."

His faces turns red. "That is only an appreciation for fine art! Not all of us can actually BE art, Rogue."

She looks down at the picture again, just as she's done a hundred times. "Ah wish ah could really talk ta him, find out why he drew me."

"Well, there aren't exactly a lot of people to draw here."

"So why me? Ah haven't been here as long as the rest a ya."

St. John snorts. "Well, THAT'S obvious. You're a girl. He thinks your cute."

She shakes her head. "Naw."

"Jeez, Rogue. You're kinda stupid sometimes, y'know?"

***

Rogue sits outside on the back doorstep, a copy of "The Metamorphosis" in her lap. While her attention is caught up in it, she glances up from time to time to watch Mr. McCoy bound across the yard, trying to expel all of his energy. Even doing this for hours, she knows he doesn't feel satisfied. Sometimes he stops and stares into the lawn carefully, studying some unseen entity, then darts off even faster than before.

Now he meanders over to her in his lumbering way, unconsciously dragging his knuckles and breathing a bit heavily. He cocks his head at her and smiles.

"'The Metamorphosis' - good choice."

"Thanks," Rogue replies. "Ah lahk it."

"You know," Mr. McCoy says, staring at the cover. "People say that when Kafka was writing about Gregor Samsa, he used himself as the model."

"Kafka was a big bug?"

He chuckles. "No, not exactly. He might have felt like one, though, a freak in a world of normals. Also, maybe he felt like he was being used, like Gregor was before he changed." He looks off into the distance and frowns slightly. "That when his literary merits were no longer pleasing to the public, he'd be seen as useless and..." He pauses. "You haven't finished, have you?"

"No."

"Well then, I'll just have to refrain from ruining the ending."

"Ya've thought a lot about it."

"Yes." He looks down at himself, his awkward blue-furred body and sighs. "Sometimes I can identify with Gregor Samsa, too."

***

She finds a note on her pillow that night before bed, a small yellow scrap of paper folded once in the middle.

This must be my day for bedroom surprises, she thinks wryly as she unfolds it.

It reads:

'Rogue - I'm sorry. Do you hate me? I understand if you do, after everything that's happened.'

She sighs shakily, closing her eyes as she does so. She doesn't want to read anymore, doesn't want to read anything bad. But of course she opens her eyes again:

'Please understand that even though you might not like this, and maybe even I don't like this, he's my father. I'm tied to him that way. I can't explain it.'

The same song he always sings. There is more:

'But I just want to write again that I AM sorry. I've been having trouble saying it. Obviously, you know that already. That's just me.'

And that is him, the classic him.

'I'm sorry for everything. Love, Pietro.'

Rogues falls asleep wondering just what he meant by 'love.'