Title: Yester Life: This Prison Of Skin 2
Subject: Wolverine/Rogue non-brotherly/sisterly love. Which means that I
might explore feelings of a sexual nature so...
Rating: Might go into NC-17 or I might just stay in a nice comfortable R.
Author: Kia Mira
Beta Reader: angel face
Summary: See part one. I'm not a Doctor and the drug/ gas I name is not
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Disclaimer: If I owned them I wouldn't be posting here. LOL so just keep
that in mind.
This Prison Of Skin
They stood out side of a white room, staring in through a window hidden in
the wall. The room was about 12 feet square. The walls, ceiling and
floor were covered in a thick white padding. The only color in that room was
the occasional smear of dark brownish-red. In the center of the room was a
figure still dressed in the same clothes as she was wearing in the video.
She sat huddled, her knees up under her chin. Her arms wrapped protectively
around them. She rocked gently back and forth.
"It took all of Jean's power to contain her. She fought every inch of the
"You didn't bandage her cuts."
"No, we thought it best to let her believe she had not been disturbed. After
she had settled down we sent a small amount of Deracetamen through the air
vent, which caused her to sleep. Jean then went in and removed the glass and
cauterized the remaining open wounds. That way when she awoke she wouldn't
"Dera-what?" Logan asked.
"Deracetamen. It is a gas developed here at the school which works to hamper
a mutant's power and induce sleep."
"How can we help her?" Logan asked, his eyes never leaving the rocking
figure. He felt like this was his fault. He had vowed to protect her and he
had screwed up. Majorly. Twice.
Well, to do that you must read this file. It is all the information that
we were able to gather about Marie Woolf and her husband." Charles handed
Logan the file and then maneuvered his chair backward. "Come I'll show you
to your room."
"Logan, there isn't anything you can do for her tonight. You must read that
file. And Jean tells me that Rogue made audio recordings after each
session. Listen to them."
"Those are her private thoughts." Logan said, his eyes shooting darts at the
"No, she said that she wanted them for when you returned, that they were so
you could know the things she found out."
Jean cut in. "Come on. You'll be using her room."
"What? Why?" Confusion was written over his face.
Shortly after you left, Rogue began to suffer
recurring nightmares from which she would awake in a state of panic. Once,
she nearly killed one of the young girls who tried to awaken her. If she
hadn't awakened in time she would have drained all the girls life force. She
asked to be given your old room and that the walls be rendered sound proof.
We obliged her." With that Charles Xavier turned and left, leaving Jean and
Wolverine to make their own way.
"So, where is Scott?"
"He's still in class."
"Still using your special gift?"
"Of putting up with Scott?" Jean asked a small smile on her face. "Yeah, we
are still together," she said as they stepped off the elevator on the
dormitory floor. "I think you can find your way from here."
"Uh, yeah. Thanks," he said. Then he moved purposefully down the carpeted
hall until he stood in front of her door. His door. With a trepidation he
didn't understand he reached out with one hand and gripped the door handle.
Closing his eyes and taking a never before needed fortifying breath. Feeling
like a world class wimp he turned the knob and walked inside.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" He muttered as he kicked the door shut.
"It's just a bedroom."
He lifted his jacket, but stopped short of tossing it onto the pristinely
made bed. The beside table was equally tidy, and on the dresser in
front of the mirror were neatly lined up cosmetics. Uncomfortably, he
clutched the jacket with both hands before stepping over to the closet
and opening it. It was also perfectly organized. With a beleaguered sigh, he
yanked a hanger from the rack and hung up his jacket. He was starting to
feel more and more at odds with himself.
Stepping away from the closet, he kicked its door shut as well. Then he
turned back toward the room and froze. There on the wall next to the
bathroom door was a drawing. An incredibly detailed drawing The subject had
his back to the artist and was naked from the waist up. His face was hidden
and pressed to the metal cage he grasped with his raised left hand. The
drawing was eerily familiar, as it should be.
Moving closer, he stopped within inches of the charcoal drawing. At the
bottom were the words, 'His Iron Cage'.
He was Shocked that she had been able to draw that scene with only her
memory to guide her. He had felt their souls collide that day, but had
thought it was his whiskey laden brain sopping his cognitive activities and
processes. Had she too felt the same soulful joining? She had certainly
gotten the caption right. He always felt as though he were a prisoner locked
in a cage. Stumbling backward, he sat heavily on the bed, his eyes staring
at the portrait.
"That can't be the only one." He muttered as he clutched the crumpled file
in his hands, before tossing it on the dresser and looked for the sketch
pad. It was as though he was being driven to find the other pictures. He
ripped all the drawers open and fumbled through them. He hesitated upon
finding her under things. His fingers gently shifted them back and forth to
see if the tablet might be there. Then he slowly closed it back. His next
field of attack was her closet. He pulled the hangers to and fro, then
searched the shelf above the rack. Still nothing. The next victim of his
zeal was the bedside table. Wrenching the drawer open, he stopped. It was
there. With fingers as gentle as though he were handling fine crystal he
slipped the pad from the drawer. Sinking to the bed, he took another deep
breath and opened it.
The first few pages were nothing but half eked out faces, eyes, and lips.
The next finished drawing was also of him as he had looked sitting at the
bar, the likeness a perfect mirror of his thoughts as he sat there. Trying
to ignore the pull of this woman child. It was titled, 'The Struggle'. He
had to laugh, though admittedly it was a sickly imitation of his normal
Flipping to the next page he nearly dropped the pad. There on the page was a
rendering she had done of herself. His eyes ate up the page, taking in every
last line. Each and every curve. It was a delicate drawing of her naked
body. It depicted her in a reclining position, her hands in her hair
and a sweet smile on her face. The only thing on her entire body was a chain
about her neck that held the simple metal tablet which lay between her young
breasts. It was titled, 'Sun On My Skin.' He felt his body reacting as he
studied the glint in her eyes and the unnatural thickness of her lips. They
looked like the lips of a woman who had just been kissed. Kissed
passionately, he thought.
"Very!" he said aloud as jealousy began to prick the edges of his conscious
mind. Who the hell had made her that way? Surely not that ice kid, Bobby.
"If so he better get ready, because I'm going to tear him apart."
The next drawing was a half finished face. After a moment's study his
dismissed it as another drawing of himself. Breathing a calming breath he
Controled himself. More determined to find out who the mystery lover was, he
flipped to the next sketch. It was of Rogue, one hand crossed low on her
body hiding herself the other crossed high across her breasts. Her eyes
closed. It seemed like loneliness was hovering above her. And he knew why
when he read her chosen title, 'This Prison Of Skin'.
Running his finger over her face in the picture he sat the tablet aside. He
felt guilty. And he didn't like it at all.
Scrubbing his hand hard over his face, he picked up the file and opened it
to the first page. Then he moved to the small table and chair beside the
terrace door. Setting it down, he prepared himself for what he would read
The next part will be Yester Life: Glimpses Of The Past.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Man, I think child birth just might have been easier. Okay, I
guess this section is going to take longer than I thought. As I often get
bogged down in description and my story lines slither by at a snail's pace.
Don't worry It will end sometime. Everything has got to end sometime.