Terri's Peep Hut ~~ Fiction Archive

Summary: Sequel to Eighteen Cups of Coffee and One Bottle of Bourbon. Rogue checks her mailbox.

Author's Notes: Who knew fanfic could be inspired by excessive junk mail?

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Hmm...OK, two notes from Moonbeam, asking for more of my work. I've got to call her. I've got to get some canvases and paints, first. I think I left a brush or two somewhere around here.

One letter from David. I wonder if he missed me. I just kind of disappeared on him.

A note from my charcoal instructor. Invitation to attend his seminar class. That began in January. A little too late for that one.

Card from my Momma. Probably for my birthday. I don't know if I want to......maybe I'll open that one later.

A letter from the school with my grades, one from the registrar with my final account statement, and a catalogue. I wonder if I should start classes again or not? We're in the middle of the semester now, and I don't think I could get in until summer session. Who knows if we'll be here that long?

Six bank statements. There shouldn't be anything left in the account - you'd think they'd stop with the statements.

Upon reflection after our little chat, and upon hearing news of your survival - Vic is very impressed, but still a touch out of sorts at being pushed over that cliff - I decided that perhaps some further discussion was in order.

First off, I must say, you've made an impression on our dear Sabretooth. He's quite enamored of you. Really, if you don't want his attentions, you shouldn't lead him on with all that violent behavior. I wouldn't be surprised if he's off somewhere now, scribbling "Mr. Rogue" on his notebooks. More likely, carving it into someone's torso, but you get my meaning.

Second, I thought that, given some time, perhaps you may have more questions after all. Especially since you have still not learned how to control your skin. Pity. I thought you were a smart girl. I learned that skill before I was a teenager. It's quite simple. Really, you must try harder to better yourself, dear.

In any case, when you receive this note, you may reach me at PO Box 48675, Chicago, IL 60602. No, I am not living in Chicago (I simply detest the Midwest) and no, I will not be picking up my mail personally. I assume they are forwarding your correspondence, or that you will eventually return. Don't all of Xavier's little pets run home to papa sooner or later?

No signature. That bitch. Is this - is this supposed to be a picture of me? It looks like my baby pictures but I'm smaller, and that's not Momma - oh God, it's her. What she changed herself to look like when she had me. Fuck. It really is me, I think. Fuck.