Point of View
Pardon my French. No, really! I can't find my reference to the old Breton adage I've used, and I fear my French is tres rusty ・
It was twilight. On the stately grounds of Xavier's School, with a careful view of the front door of the mansion, a young couple cuddled at the foot of a tree. He sat on the manicured lawn, his back against the truck; she sat between his knees, her back against his chest. His arms encircled her, and their faces were side by side. It would be intimate, if not for the hooded cloak, meticulously arranged, that prevented any skin contact whatsoever.
They were talking softly, of nothing and of everything, when the boy hushed the girl, pointing to one candlelit window high in the ancient building before them. A shadowy shape had just materialized on the windowsill. It reached out and tapped on the glass, and the window opened.
The teens watched as the smiling form of their history teacher, Ms. Monroe, stepped out onto the sill, taking the shadow's hand. The indistinct form gave a muffled yelp in what sounded like German, as a sudden wind picked them both up and floated them gently to the ground. They were closer now, and the teens confirmed what they had guessed: the shadow was that new guy, the teleporter who had saved Rogue's life when she had been sucked out of the Blackbird. Rogue and Bobby exchanged a wondering glance, then their eyes snapped back to the adults.
Ms. Monroe and, what was his name?, Mr. Wagner were talking together, far too quietly for the teens to overhear. The teens wondered what they were discussing, what they would say to each other. They started walking slowly, making their wandering way toward the nearby garden, close together but not touching, although Rogue stifled a giggle and whispered to Bobby - Mr. Wagner's tail kept moving, about to caress Ms. Monroe's shoulder, then withdrawing, on the brink of encircling her waist, then withdrawing ・
At the edge of the formal gardens, the adults stopped and faced each other. The watching teens would have given a month's allowance to know what they were saying as they smiled at each other. Mr. Wagner's eyes locked with Ms. Monroe's as he sank to his knees at her feet. His eyes never left hers as his hand plucked a blossom from the flowerbed, as he rose gracefully and offered it to her. Instead of taking the flower, she placed her hands around his, and drew the bloom close to her nose. Had she kissed his hand? Without realizing they were doing it, the teens leaned forward in tandem, their attention fully absorbed.
Ms. Monroe released Mr. Wagner's hand, and he stood a moment, then vanished. This didn't seem to fool Ms. Monroe, who turned her head to look up into the tree next to her. Yes, there he was, standing on the lowest branch. He seemed to be beckoning her to join him. She, with a raised eyebrow, indicated the ground. The teens knew that look: Ms. Monroe was Being In Charge While Trying Very Hard Not To Smile. More and more, the stern look cracked, until she was laughing. At that moment, Mr. Wagner swung down to hang by his arms from the branch. Everyone watching was sure he would drop to his feet beside her; instead, he flipped over, hanging by his tail, his arms and legs tucked in and his head about level with Ms. Monroe's.
She walked forward and laid her palm against his cheek. It was hard to tell in the growing dusk - had he leaned his face into her hand? Had he taken his turn to kiss her hand? Then there was no mistaking it: she closed the gap between them, and kissed his cheek. His bright yellow eyes widened, then their lips met in a kiss without any embrace save their hands in each other's hair. After an eternal moment, he flipped to the ground, and they continued into the garden, arm in arm, his tail finally at rest around her waist. They passed out of sight.
Rogue let go of a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and whispered, "Well! Imagine that!" She turned and grinned at Bobby, then her face fell. "What's wrong?"
"That was weird." He was speaking as softly as she was.
"It was beautiful."
"No, it was weird. Ms. Monroe is beautiful; Mr. Wagner's just ・ creepy."
"He saved my life! He helped us spy on Magneto! He's cool!"
"But he's creepy. He's blue, he's got a tail, he's got weird hands ・"
Bobby trailed off as Rogue pushed away and turned to face him, angry disbelief on her face. "How can you say such things?" she hissed. "How dare you? We're all different here - his differences just show on the surface more! He seems like a really sweet guy, and Ms. Monroe wouldn't be hanging with him if he wasn't!"
Bobby looked a little shame-faced. "No, no, I'm sure he's a nice guy! And I'm grateful he saved you." At this he reached out a hand to her cloaked shoulder, but she shrugged him off. "It's just ・ why would a woman that pretty go for a guy that weird-looking?" He raised his eyebrows in genuine confusion, and it was his confusion that quenched Rogue's offended scowl.
She looked him in the eye and softly murmured, "But I'm worse than blue, and you like me ・"
"But that's different! I ・"
"No, bub, it isn't." A gruff voice spoke in normal tones right beside them. Of course, they jumped a foot. A small flame flared, replaced by the glowing end of a cigar. "Most people look at the surface. But some women look beneath the surface. I've known a lot of real lookers who hooked up with ugly guys. But those guys were often better people than the ones with leading man faces." He paused and drew on his cigar for a moment, the exhaled smoke almost invisible now in the early dark. "They have a saying in the north of France: 'Aime ce que tu ne verai jamais plus. Love that which you will never see again'. There's beauty in the unique, and it's there for the finding."
Again, the quiet puffing, the glow of the cigar.
"Getting' late, kids. Go find a movie and a Dr. Pepper."
Rogue and Bobby got to their feet. With a crooked smile, Rogue said in a casual tone, "Were you spyin' on us?"
"Depends. Were you spyin' on them?"
The kids avoided that question, mumbling their goodnights before heading for the mansion. Logan stood in the darkness, smoking and thinking, for a long time.