Sorta.

Your fault.

From above her head, just to the left, the question began without warning: "Do you ever think there's something..."

Rogue didn't bother opening her eyes when Longshot's query trailed off. The sun was warm on her face, the light bright enough to dazzle even through closed lids, and she was far too blissfully relaxed to dream of moving.

"Speak t' me," she said instead, making serious effort to put invitation in her voice. "Do I ever think there's somethin' what?"

She heard him sigh, soft and deep, then a soft 'clink' of metal, rustling of cloth. His knives, she was willing to bet. Teeny tiny little insignificant spikes that somehow, some way, proved invaluable to the team time and again, all because of that mysterious not-quite-magic of his...

"Something that will...let me..." Another soft clink, then suddenly fabric was whispering with short, quick, steady breaths -- shush and shush and shush and shush -- while Rogue's attentive ears picked up the almost imperceptible slice of razor-keen blades through the air. "I don't have words," he finished, voice a half-note from frustrated.

Frustrated? Longshot?

She shifted reluctantly from the absolutely-perfect-must-not-move-an-inch sun-worshipping sprawl she'd only found fifteen minutes ago, rolling onto her side, heedless of the red-hued dust that puffed up at the motion. One elbow propped against hard-packed earth, the palm of that hand offering itself as a resting spot for her cheek. Eyes of a green more toward grass than emerald fixed on the hypnotic dance of knives with the air, his hands, the air, his hands... "What's stirrin' you up, sugar?"

He glanced down from his perch on the boulder without ceasing his juggling. Rogue fought back the automatic warning to 'be careful, sugar,' eyeing those knives. Not a significant nick, not a real scratch in all the time she'd known him. He knew what he was doing.

Or maybe the skill had more to do with not knowing what he was doing...

"Sometimes I feel...incomplete? Or...forgotten? Do you ever feel that way, Rogue?"

She scratched absently at her tousled hair. "'Cause we died? No big thing. Everyone does it eventually."

"No, it's..." Another two knives found their way into the collection while he shook his head, brow furrowing against his inability to express himself. "I dream sometimes. Do you dream?"

"Sure."

"I dream of worlds I've never seen, and a life I haven't lived. Or can't remember. Or shouldn't remember. Is that strange?"

Face crinkling in amused affection, she shook her head the little that the bracing palm allowed. "Not especially, no."

"Is it wrong to be...less happy, when I wake up?"

Rogue knew plenty about dreams. Plenty more about reality. Her amusement vanished. "I think that's pretty much natural. For us." But it wasn't supposed to be for him, part of her protested. He wasn't supposed to know what unhappiness was. "Don't know what t' say, hon. Reality's not always a friendly place."

"No, it's not reality, it's...it's..." A sigh, deeper than before, and the knives were suddenly flying from their dance. Rogue flicked a brief glance over her shoulder to watch the blades bury themselves in the old, scarred door they'd salvaged to use for target practice. There was no pattern she could see, but she knew him -- nothing hit where it wasn't best suited. "It's...aloneness. And forgotten-ness. And...and I hear this voice sometimes..."

Voice? He was hearing voices? Great. Power or schizophrenia? She hated having to guess. "What does the voice say?" Fair odds said 'kill kill kill' was likely schizo, whereas 'help me, good warrior' could be either. "Longshot...?"

"'I can't.'"

"Just try."

"No, that's what the voice says. 'I can't.' She sounds so confused..."

Great. Not an easily labeled disembodied voice. "She?"

"Yes."

"She say anything else?"

"'It's not fair.'"

"Huh."

"And, 'It always worked before.'"

Rogue quirked a brow. "Talkative cuss, ain't she?"

"And, 'Darn it, Longshot, do something!' Only she doesn't say 'darn it,' but the other version."

"Sugar, it sounds like you and this voice talk a li'l too much..."

"And, 'There's gotta be a trick...gotta be a key...don't you wanna schlup Dakota?' But that was just now."

Curiouser and curiouser. "Just now? She's talkin' to you now?"

He nodded and embedded a few more knives, thunkthunkthunk, into the door. "Quite a bit. She likes you 'better' here, by the way."

"What's that mean?"

"Hell if I know."

Wary now, trying to move casually, Rogue gathered her feet to move quickly. "Say that again?"

"Say what?"

"What you just said."

"Heck if I know."

"That's not what you said."

"Yeah, well, bite me."

"... Sugar..."

"I think and I think and I think, and all I can come up with is 'please, Bevvy, write for me?'... And it doesn't bloody work! It's like...like I've lost the gift...and I have to start to wonder if I EVER had a Secret Nagging Ability(tm)..."

She was on her feet now, thinking a warning in Psylocke's direction as hard as she could. ~Warn Storm, Betsy...I think we got problems...~

The remaining knives whirled. "...'cause I mean, I think some Longshot/Dakota would be a blast...but no-o-oh, the evil torturess just hints and teases and leaves me pawing at her ankles like a bloody Chihuahua, she does...days and days and days, not a glimmer of a story, not a hint, not a sparkle of an eye, nope, nada, zero, zip, zilch..."

Heart pounding, she cleared her throat and tried once more. "Longshot..."

His head whipped toward her with a snap of unconfined blond hair. Wild eyes, his-but-not, caught hers and held. "*There is no Longshot -- only KayJay.*"

Rogue stared back, calling more loudly in her head for her teammates. "Easy now...let's not get pissy here..."

His eyes widened. "'Pissy'?? I'm not getting--CRAP!"

She jumped into the air at his shout and hovered there, alert and ready...

He blinked resentfully at the knives littering the ground below the boulder, then held up a bloody thumb with an utterly miserable expression. "It bit me."

"... Longshot...?"

"It bit me and Bev won't write."

"...um..."

He glared at the knives. "And that just killed my theory about my inherent innocence and goodness right there..."

"... I..."

With a sigh much louder, deeper, and more heartfelt than any earlier, he flopped back over the boulder and gazed up at the harsh Australian sky. "That's it. Goodbye cruel world! Just make an end of me now!"

And then he stayed in that position, motionless, wordless. Giving off palpable waves of angst.

After a moment, Rogue cleared her throat. "H'lo...?"

Longshot waved a don't-bother-me-I'm-being-tragic wave.

"Um. Is there anythin'...um. I can do?"

He considered, then nodded decisively. "Stay in Australia. Avoid Cajuns and denim underwear. And never wear a dress, ever, if your life depends on it."

"..."

"But especially the Cajuns. And Antarctica."

"... gotcha."

"It bit me."

"Yeah."

"And Bev won't write."

"I'm gettin' that."

"Do you ever think there's something...out there? Watching us and pulling our strings like we're those little dancing puppet-things?"

"Sure, hon. I'll just bet there is."

"Me too. I'll bet there is. I'll bet it bites."

"Uh huh."

"Maybe if Bev will just write, things will get better... I really thimmphmph--!"

"*Phew*! Whatever you do, Petey, do not let him go. Schizophrenic. Bet my ear."

"I have him."

"Possessed, maybe."

"Likely."

"The rest on the way?"

"Momentarily."

She shook her head and eyed the struggling blond sorrowfully. "It's so sad when this happens, ain't it? A good kid in the hands of some demonic force... If only someone could get ahold of him and give him a chance at some dignity...or at least some maturity and sex..."

"MMPHMBMPH!"

"Da, I think he agrees."

"Well, who wouldn't?"

"Only the cruel, taunting, heartlessly-difficult-to-manipulate Bev."

"... Petey...?"

"... Da...?"

"Did you just say, um...?"

"... No. ... Oo, look! A, um, rainbow!"

Rogue sighed her own perplexed sigh and scratched her head again. Yes, very sad. So much pain. So much confusion. So much angst. All for what? What was this...Bev? And how was it responsible for this demonic 'KayJay' thing inflicting this horrible afternoon on them?

Her choices were clear. She'd have to wear dresses, date Cajuns, and visit Antarctica regularly until the answer became apparent. It was the only avenue she could see.

"MPHRRMPH!"

Poor Longshot. If only this mysterious Bev would write...

"MMBRUMPH!"

If only...

See? See what happens?

Do the world a favor. Write.

The children of the world will thank you.

Jaya

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