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I stay up at night and stare at her.

It's not because she's beautiful. I'm a girl who likes boys, lots of boys, some specific boys . . . and not even the deadly vixen could ever change that.

It's not because I love her, though I do. She's been a friend, a companion, a confident, a teammate . . . she's helped me through so much and leaned on me from time to time.

It's not because I'm afraid of her, though I'm probably one of the only ones. Logan isn't . . . and Xavier and Scott and Jean and Ororo . . . but that's it. They were the only ones secure enough in their own powers when they met her not to fear someone who could kill them with a touch.

It's not for any of those reasons that I stay up at night and stare at my roommate.

It's because I want to touch her.

Because I want to die.

Not very heroic of me, but I can't help it. So I'm not a perfect hero. Never said I was.

I fell in love with Logan the minute I saw him. He's the only man who's ever made me lose my composure like that--so fast, so crazily.

I remember when he walked into our classroom that first day . . . I'm usually very good about not using my powers too much, even when I'm just around the school. I'll never forget when I was showing off for the kids right after I got there, and I stumbled through the wall into Scott and Jean's room, and it wasn't empty . . .

So I try not to go flying through walls if I can help it. But he had me so rattled just /looking/ at me that I darted right through the door just so I could get out from under his eyes.

I was bright red when I got to the other side, and Bobby was standing there waiting for me. He laughed.

He stopped laughing at me after he fell for Rogue and she was giving Logan the same goo goo eyes that I was.

I stopped laughing at him when Logan started giving them back.

Well, that's four broken hearts right there. Well, two broken hearts and two just /waiting/ to get broken . . . after all, it's not like my deadly beautiful roommate can date around. And Logan knew it.

And then Logan left, and I think the /only/ one who came out ahead was Bobby, who lost his rival and gained a heartbroken Rogue who liked to cry on his shoulder. Oh, I know he felt guilty about it--but he was so /glad/ that Logan was gone. He used to tell me at length how glad he was.

Bobby's a nice boy, but he's not always too quick on the uptake. Guess it didn't occur to him that Logan's leaving hurt more people than just Rogue.

He left her something. She tried to pretend they don't matter, but she wore those ugly dogtags of his to bed. She always took them off in the morning and set them on the bedside table, and then sliped them over her head again before going to bed.

She came in once in the middle of the day and caught me crying with them wrapped around my fist. She looked at me for a moment, and then went back out and closed the door as if nothing had happened.

That night the dogtags were sitting next to my bed. Rogue is nothing if she's not sweet--it makes me angry because it's almost /impossible/ to hate her.

They sat there for three days, untouched.

And then she must have taken them away and put them somewhere, because I haven't seen them since.

Time went by, and we both grew. They gave us the option of getting our own rooms, but we never really talked about it. We just kind of stayed together . . . because it seemed easier somehow.

Because when one of us woke up crying, we both knew why.

And then more time went by, and I was the only one waking up crying. Bobby was smiling all the time, and Rogue was actually in a good mood, and no one seemed to remember that there had been this strange, violent man named Logan at our school at all.

I found the dogtags in the bottom of Rogue's drawer when I was looking for a shirt she'd borrowed . . . and when they were still sitting there a week later, I took them.

She walked in that night and dug through the drawer. Her brow wrinkled, but she just handed me the shirt I had been looking for and smiled. "Thanks," she whispered, and my heart hit the ground because I suddenly knew that she was over Logan, and he'd come back and love her and he'd hurt . . .

More time went by, and we were both a part of the team and we fought under code names--only Rogue is just Rogue, and has always been Rogue. I'd never call her Marie, and I don't think she'd ever call me anything but Kitty.

Kitty. I'm a grown woman and people still talk about me like I'm some kind of small housepet.

And then one day--Logan was just back. He didn't come back . . . there was no homecoming or event. He was just sitting there one day at breakfast, looking older and careworn and tired, but perfectly at home. No one rushed over and greeted him, no one pointed or stared . . .

Except me. Only I didn't rush over and greet him. The minute I saw him, I dropped my dishes and bolted in the opposite direction, the dogtags I was wearing under my shirt burning my skin. God, if he found me wearing them . . .

I found Rogue and Bobby outside. I didn't say anything, just tore them off my neck and shoved them into her hand and kept on running, and I didn't even care that it took me half the normal time to get to my room, though I'm sure I did make a scene appearing out of walls like that.

And so Logan's back, and Bobby's not smiling quite as much, and Rogue is looking confused. And if she were any other girl, we'd hate her, with Logan and Bobby and that new guy all chasing her around. But because she's Rogue, no one feels anything but pity. Poor Rogue, loved by all, unable to touch. Poor Rogue, she'll never get kissed or held or loved. Poor Rogue.

No one says poor Kitty. Just because boys can touch me. Doesn't matter that none of them seem to want to . . . all that matters is that they could. And so I watch as the men I love flock to this deadly little nymph, and I smile as Bobby pours his heart out in my ear, and I listen to Remy's endless questions about Rogue's likes and dislikes and interests . . .

And I watch the way those eyes I love so follow her around everywhere she goes. Cool, calculating, animal eyes that are forever weighing the pros and cons, forever testing the waters. Logan could never speak again, and I could understand everything he ever wanted to say just by watching his eyes.

So at night I lay awake, staring at Rogue, wanting to hate her but having to love her.

Staring at Rogue, wanting to /be/ her.

From the look in Logan's eyes, it won't be long until he's figured out a way around Rogue's lifesucking gift. And then . . . I'd give anything to be her when he wraps his arms around her and teaches her what it's like to be loved.

And sometimes, when I'm staring at her . . . I wonder what would happen if I got up and touched her. If I held on so long that I was lost in her head, merged with her and part of her. What if I was part of the body that Logan loved?

I love Rogue. She hates what her powers do, and for that reason alone I simply lay here, wanting to get up and walk towards her, wanting to lay my hand on her face and be a part of her. I won't hurt her like that . . . not yet.

I'm afraid for her . . . but not for me. No, not for me.

Death doesn't seem that bad.

~*~