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Title:
Rule Number One: Never Pick Up a Hitchhiker
Author:
Terri
E-mail:
xgrrl26@yahoo.com
Rating:
PG-13
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. Boo-hoo.
Archive:
Ask, and I'll say yes.
Feedback:
Please! Pretty please? Good, bad, and ugly welcome.
Summary:
Rogue picks up a hitchhiker as they both travel from Toronto to Yellowknife.
Comments:
To paraphrase Rogue in this story - yes, I have lost my mind. If this
looks like the first story of (yet another) series, that's because it is
(or could be - I haven't really decided for sure yet). This was written
ages ago, and it really sucked. But a rewrite was prompted by two recent
plot bunnies - I first started rewriting it when Autumn sent me lyrics to
Marc Cohn's Strangers in a Car. This story doesn't really follow the
song, but it made me think - what if Rogue picked up Logan? The second
plot bunny was from Sandy (stoso@satx.rr.com - I know there are multiple
Sandys) who asked for a fic that featured a freshly-released-from-experimentation
Logan that Rogue would have to teach how to read and write and drive.
I kind of went off track from the other elements Sandy suggested - I know
that's a huge surprise to you all - sorry :) Anyway, the general idea
is to see somebody break a "rule" in each episode and to see whether that
turns out badly or well. We'll see some of the other x-men and assorted
baddies along the way, but it'll be mostly just Logan and Rogue.
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I know I
probably really, really, really shouldn't do this. He looks big.
And dangerous. But he also looks wet and tired. And there isn't much
traffic along provincial highway three out this way. There's about
another 200 miles to Yellowknife, and not much in between here and there.
I shouldn't, but - well, if I was walking along in the freezing cold rain,
I'd want someone to pick me up. I'm going to pull over.
"Hey, do
you need a ride?" He looks even bigger and scarier up close.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.
"Yeah."
He looks a little surprised at that. Hmm. "Thanks." Well,
he's gotten over his surprise, he's climbing right in. "Where do ya
want this?"
There's really
no good spot for a soaking wet duffel bag, but I guess the backseat will
do. "Just back there is fine. I'm - I'm Rogue." I almost
said my real name there. I have to remember to be careful.
"Wolverine."
Now, that's an interesting yet scary name.
"Um, would
you mind putting your seat belt on?" I'm a pretty safe driver, but the
roads are pretty wet. He doesn't look like he wants to, but he is.
"Thanks."
"Where you
goin'?"
"Uh, I was
headed for Yellowknife. Where are you trying to get?"
"Farther
north."
"Oh.
Well, I can take you as far as Yellowknife, at least. Would that be
OK?" I don't really know what proper hitchhiker etiquette is.
"That's 325
kilometers." Oh yeah, the metric system. I always forget that's
what they use up here. I wonder why he's looking at me funny.
"Um, uh-huh.
Is that OK? Did you - did you want to get off somewhere sooner?"
Great, now it's the Rogue bus. Making stops along provincial highway
three, serving all hitchhikers
"Nah.
I'll go to Yellowknife. Hey - you got anything to eat?" I'm not
surprised that he's hungry. I wonder how long he's been on the road.
I'd bet it's been quite a while. He's, um, a little stinky and he's
soaked through.
"Yes, yes
I do. There's some pretzels in the back, in that big bag. There
should still be a few Pepsis back there too, if you're thirsty." Well,
this is definitely my good deed for the day. Helping out a scary, random
hitchhiker named Wolverine. Not exactly one right out of the Girl Scouts
handbook, but I bet it still counts.
"Thanks.
Hey - uh, you mind if I get outta these clothes first?" Uh, that could
be heading into some weird and possibly bad territory, but he didn't say
it lecherously or anything, and he *is* all wet.
"Uh, sure.
But - but be careful. I'm - you should probably know that I'm a mutant."
He doesn't look too shocked. I guess I should tell him. It's
for his own safety, plus, you know, just in case he *was* thinking of trying
any hanky-panky, this should deter him. "My skin - it's dangerous.
It - it hurts people if they touch it. It hurts them bad. So,
uh, don't freak out, go ahead and change if you want, but just be careful
not to touch my bare skin, all right?"
"That sucks."
Well, that was a better reaction than I expected. Succinct, but much
less freakage there than usual.
"Yeah, it
does suck. It sucks a lot." There he goes, pulling off his jacket.
God, he's got, like, nine layers of shirts on. He must've been cold
walking along there. It's June, but it's still in the fifties up here.
He's got a really muscular chest. And really well-developed arms.
And - stop it. Stop it. Eyes on the road, Rogue.
"I'm hopin'
there's somethin' in here that ain't just as soaked." I can smell him
very, very well right now. And I definitely stand by my earlier assessment
of 'stinky.' He's being careful to avoid my skin, but he is pretty
close to me, reaching for the duffel bag and sorting through it like that.
"Here we go. Jeans, at least." Oh. Oh-oh. That means
pants taking off. I mean, that means he's going to take off his pants,
not pants taking off like an airplane or - "I, uh, I'm gonna put the
seat back. I gotta take my boots off." And your pants. Don't
forget about those.
"No problem."
I'll just keep my eyes on the road. Yep. Eyes straight ahead.
Not tempted to look by that zipper sound, oh no. Eyes forward.
"There.
All done." Bare-chested Wolverine. Very nice. But I bet
very cold.
"I'll -
I'll turn up the heat a little. You've got to be frozen solid."
He's looking surprised again. I wonder what that's all about.
"And, um, help yourself, you know, to the pretzels and stuff."
"Yeah."
Suspiciously surprised - that's it, that's the look exactly. What,
does he think picking him up and feeding him is some kind of evil plot to
- to what, exactly? Steal his soaking wet bag of clothes? "How
old're you?"
"I'm - I'm
old enough." Old enough to be on my own, old enough to make it by myself,
old enough to make my own decisions, old enough to know better than to answer
that question. Also known as nineteen.
"OK."
I think that THUD was the conversation hitting a brick wall. New subject.
"Are you
- you have dogtags, are you in the army or something?"
"No." Well,
that definitely made him more uncomfortable, not less. Plus, think,
Rogue - what kind of army gives out dogtags that just say "wolverine?"
Try something else.
"How long
- how long were you walking out there before I came along?"
"Few days.
Got a ride on highway 44, but I hadta get out just before highway two.
Came from Toronto. That's the only other ride I got."
"And you
were planning on just walking the whole way to - to wherever from Toronto?
It's - it's over 3100 miles from Toronto to Yellowknife. That's not
exactly walking distance." I know, because I came through Toronto on
my way up from Mississippi. I stopped. I wanted to see Cats,
but it had closed already.
"It is if
ya got enough time."
"You - when
did you start walking?" He'd have to have been walking for months.
Even if he made thirty or forty miles a day, that's still -
"Long time
ago."
"Why?
Why - I mean, uh, why?" Maybe he's eccentric or freaky or not right
in the head or something because nobody walks three thousand miles.
"Don't have
a car."
"But - but
what about a bus or a plane or - or even a bicycle?"
"Don't have
any money."
OK, something
is clearly not right because he's looking ever-more uncomfortable with this
line of conversation. But I'm still curious. "What did you do
in Toronto?"
"Fought."
"Like, what,
a boxer?" He's definitely got the build for that. But I can't
imagine he wouldn't' be able to make a living at it. Or at least a
*little* money. Enough for a bike or a bus ticket.
"No."
"Um, well,
like what then?" A fire-fighter or something? A -
"I don't
wanna talk about it, all right? Just let me out." Whoa.
He's getting everything back into that soaked duffel bag. I didn't
mean to make him upset or anything. But, on the other hand, I can see
why he hasn't had many rides along the way.
"I'm sorry.
I - I didn't mean to pry or anything. You don't have to get out.
Unless - unless you really want to. We can just talk about something
else if you'd still like a ride." Back to suspiciously surprised.
"Sorry. I understand - there are some things that really aren't anybody
else's business. Sorry."
"OK."
Well, he's not taking off his seatbelt and he's back to eating pretzels,
so I guess it really is OK.
"Let's -
let's talk about something else. Total change of subject, all right?
Here's one - what's your favorite book? Mine's Sense and Sensibility."
That should be better. It's a nice, neutral subject that couldn't possibly
-
"I don't
have one." Or maybe it possibly could. Moving right along.
"OK, favorite
song. Do you have a favorite song?" He's thinking, so there must
be one. Whew. It's hard work to have a conversation with this
guy.
"Yeah.
Johnny Cash. Folsom Prison Blues." He looks pretty pleased with
himself for that. Well, good. At least that didn't make him want
to eject from the Jeep.
"Really?
Why that one?"
"There's
that line in it - 'I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die'. That's
badass."
"I guess
so." It's a little alarming to have that particular line cited by your
new friend the muscular hitchhiker.
"What's
yours?"
"Mine?"
Oops - still thinking about people dying in Reno. "I guess it would
have to be either 'One' by U2 or maybe 'Teen Spirit' by Nirvana."
"I don't
know those." He's making a serious dent in that pretzel bag.
It's already half gone. Oh well, that's OK. It's my good deed,
right? "You want a pretzel?" He caught me looking. And
maybe just one wouldn't hurt. I *am* getting hungry.
"Sure.
Thanks." How cute - he stuck his whole hand in the bag and grabbed
up a bunch in his fist to give to me. He's got a kind of primitive,
overly-manly charm. In a I'm-still-not-too-sure-about-his-mental-health
kind of way. "OK, favorite color? I know you have to have one
of those, everybody does."
"Yeah.
Mine's black."
"Unusual.
Mine's green." You know, it's actually kind of nice to have some company.
Now that we're both off of the touchy personal subjects and things involving
shooting, it's kind of nice. "Favorite place?"
"Not Toronto."
That sounded bad. Very bad. Come on, we were having a nice conversation,
don't go getting all broody and defensive on me again.
"We can
do least favorites later. Favorite place." Maybe trying to keep
it light will help.
"I guess
I don't know."
"Uh, well,
I think my favorite place so far would have to be Chicago. Big town
that feels like a little town. And they have the Art Institute, which
is my favorite museum ever." I think that amused him a little.
"Favorite food?"
"Right now,
pretzels." That's actually funny. I think I sort of like him.
"Mine's pizza,
with ice cream a close second." A very close second. There are
days when I'd kill for a peanut-butter chocolate ice cream sundae with hot
fudge. I mean it, kill.
"I got one.
Favorite beer?"
"Hmmm.
I'm not really a beer drinker. I don't think I've found a favorite
yet." After all, I'm not legal yet. Well, in the States.
"Mine's
anything Molson, Molson Canadian especially."
"Well, you're
in the right country then." He's laughing a little at that. That
has to be a good sign, right? You know, a sign that he doesn't want
to shoot me just to watch me die or anything like that.
"I'm one
too."
"What?"
I must've missed something while I was listening to him laugh because -
"A mutant.
I'm one too." He looks a little more serious, but not - the suspicious
edge is gone. "Don't freak out, but I got these."
Holy hell!
Those are metal - metal claws coming right out of his hands! What the
hell is that? That's not naturally occurring, it can't be. People
don't just grow metal out of their bodies. That's - shit, shit.
I bet I know what happened. I bet I know. There were rumors of
that government clinic in Toronto, the one doing experiments on mutants.
At first, everybody thought it was just some urban legend, but then those
super-mutants, the X-men, raided it and it was on the news in living color.
Oh, God, that would explain a lot if he came from there. "Can I see
one?"
He's got
the suspicious look back, but he's holding his hand closer to me. I'm
- I should pull over. There. Now I can really look at it.
"Hmmm. Does it hurt? When they come out, does it hurt?"
"Every time."
He sounds kind of sad about that. But I guess I would be too.
"That sucks."
"Yeah, it
does." He just twitched to pull them back in - interesting. And
his knuckles - they're closing right up where the claws broke through.
"I heal too, though. That ain't too bad."
"Can I ask
you something? Without, you know, you running out of the car.
You don't have to answer if you don't want, you really don't. We can
just drop it and go back to favorites if you want." Well, he's nodding,
so that has to mean yes. Take a deep breath, Rogue, and ask.
"There was a government facility in Toronto that was experimenting on mutants.
Did you come from there?"
I can already
tell by his expression that the answer to that is yes. Oh God, how
awful. No wonder he's all messed up and trying to walk three thousand
miles. No money, no car, a few clothes, and that's it. Not to
mention all the trauma he must've been through. I might just try that
too, going for a mega-long walk, just to get it all out of my system.
"It's OK, Wolverine, you don't - I mean, I shouldn't have asked. It's
OK." I feel like hugging him all of a sudden, stink factor notwithstanding.
But I don't know how he'd react to that. "We can - let's get going
again." I'll just pull back on to the road and -
"Ain't you
afraid of me?"
The honest
answer to that is yes, a little. But the good-deed answer is different.
"Not really, no."
"Why?"
"I don't
know. I guess I just - I'm just not." After all, something made
me pick him up. Something made me want him to stay in the Jeep even
after he said he wanted to get out.
"Good."
He looks like - well, if he was the kind of person who cried at times like
this, he looks like he'd be about to.
"Let's get
going."
"You're pretty.
Nothin' wrong with you." I would not have believed I'd ever have told
this guy about my romantic history, but I *really* would never have believed
he'd be trying to comfort me over it. It's - well, it's actually kind
of nice.
"Thanks.
But the whole life-sucking skin thing, it tends to put a damper on relationships."
There's the understatement of the year.
"I guess
so would metal claws."
"You guess?"
"I don't
really remember anythin' before..before Toronto." He can't even look
at me now, he's looking out the window. This has to be so hard for
him.
"Sorry."
"Ain't your
fault." Still looking out the window.
"No, but
you didn't deserve that and it's not fair that it happened. And I sympathize.
That's what I mean." Maybe that will help, at least a little.
I know I always feel better when people say things like that to me.
"Yeah?"
Still looking out the window. Well, I guess it makes sense. I
get the feeling that somebody named Wolverine wouldn't naturally be a Phil
Donahue type. I'd lay a bet that he's probably never been too open,
even before all this happened.
"Yeah.
But come on, we're almost to Yellowknife. Let's talk about something
a little lighter, OK?" About another half hour or so should get us
there. I'm really looking forward to seeing the town. I've never
been there before, and that's part of the mission of the Rogue Tour of North
America - going places I've never been, seeing things I've never seen.
Picking up hitchhikers I've never met before
"What're
you gonna do in Yellowknife?" Staring straight ahead now, at least
that's some progress.
"I'm picking
up a package that I had sent general delivery to the post office there."
My art dealer. I always have her send payments like that, to wherever
I'll be passing through. I usually tell her I send someone to pick
it up, I've never admitted that I get the packages myself. It's not
that I don't trust her, but after that run-in with Magneto a couple years
ago, well, it's just better to be careful. Even if he still is in prison.
"Package
from who?"
"From my
art dealer. I'm a painter."
"You're
some kinda artist?"
"Hey!
Don't sound so surprised."
"I thought
you'd be doin' somethin' - I dunno, like be a doctor or lawyer or some shit.
You're smart." That's - that's actually going to make me blush.
A real compliment from the Wolverine. I like it.
"Thanks.
But I'm just a painter. Besides - how many doctors and lawyers drive
around Canada's provincial highways, picking people up?" My guess -
zero.
"Why did
you pick me up?" And ladies and gentlemen, we're back to suspiciously
surprised.
"You looked
like you needed a ride."
"Hmph."
"What?"
"I did need
a ride."
"Exactly
my point." Is there something I'm not getting here? I'm not following
why he -
"But only
one other person before you offered. And they tried robbin' me."
They'd have to be some brave people to try that. Well, brave or insane,
and, you know, completely morally reprehensible. "Why'd you pick me
up?"
"Well, not
to rob you. I just - you needed a ride. I picked you up to give
you a ride and, you know, get you out of the rain for a while, and give you
pretzels and Pepsi. That was my plan." I wonder if he seriously
thinks I have some ulterior motive. He's not saying anything in response
to that. Maybe I should say something else. "I was a little lonely
and I wanted someone to talk to. You looked - you looked like you'd
be interesting." He's still not saying anything, but now he's looking
right at me. I mean, right at me, right into my eyes. "I'm glad
I did. You've been really good company." Still nothing.
"Wolverine?"
"My name's
Logan. I think. That's what I remember. Dunno if it's a
first name or a last name, but I think it's mine. They gave me the
other name." There's that urge to just hug the living daylights out
of him again, and this time it's really strong. Maybe I could - maybe
a little gesture of comfort or support would be OK. I could just squeeze
his hand, maybe really quickly.
"Hi, Logan.
I'm Marie." His eyes followed my hand the whole way over to his and
back to the steering wheel, like he was watching some kind of unnatural phenomenon
or something.
"Hi Marie."
"Look, when
we - when we get to Yellowknife, I'm going to get a motel room. You're
welcome to stay the night with me if you like." Yes, I have completely
lost my mind. "It might be nice, you know, to have a shower and a roof
over your head and a warm bed for a night." On the other hand, if he
meant me any harm, he could've done it by now.
"I don't
wanna."
"Um, it's
OK. It's OK. I understand if you don't want to. I - I just
thought I'd offer." He knows about my skin, and being in close quarters
when you need a ride and need to get out of the freezing rain is one thing,
but voluntarily sharing a room when it's not really -
"No, I wanna
do that, what you said about the shower and the roof and the bed, but I don't
wanna - I don't wanna hurt you."
"Why - why
would you hurt me?" He's not making sense. He wouldn't hurt me,
I don't think he -
"I have
nightmares about - about Toronto. Sometimes I wake up from them clawin'
things. I don't wanna claw you." That's soso touching.
Here comes the hug-urge again. Big one this time. I'm going to
take his hand and hold it a little longer.
"Hey, we'll
figure something out, OK? Don't worry." He's looking at my hand
again like it's some kind of foreign object. I wonder if he really
is afraid of my skin but just doesn't want to say.
"OK."
God, he's just mesmerized by my hand holding his and - oh! He's holding
it with his now, he turned his hand over and he's holding it with his.
"Good.
Hey - don't worry, really. We'll figure it out."
Ah, the
motel room at the end of a long drive. Is there anything better?
I absolutely love, love, love the feeling of finally getting to your destination
and being able to relax for a while. "What do you think? Doable?"
I asked for a room with two double beds instead of the room with one king-sized
bed I'd reserved, and the Explorer Hotel was very accommodating. I
figure as long as he stays in his bed, the night should be claw-free.
"I think
so." The beds are pretty far apart too. I think we'll be fine.
"Do you
want to head for the shower first?" Because you're long overdue, my
friend. I like pretty much everything I know about you so far except
for the stink factor.
"Are you
gonna?" He's looking into the bathroom like he expects something to
jump out at him or something.
"Yeah, but
I can wait."
"Do you
got any soap?" He's still standing in the doorway, not going in.
Maybe he has some bathroom issues or something.
"Uh.....there's
probably some in there. Let me look." Yes, we have soap.
And tiny shampoo and mouthwash. "There's some by the sink. I
think you're good to go."
"OK........"
"Somthing
wrong?"
"I ,uh,
I dunno what I'm gonna wear when I get out. I mean, all my clothes are
kinda wet and dirty and I don't wanna get all clean then put on dirty clothes."
He looked so unbelievably embarrassed explaining that. I'm getting the
hug-urge again.
"Oh, well,
don't worry. We can send them to the laundry and maybe - maybe you can
wear a towel or something until they're delivered in the morning. Would
that be good?" I should get some of my things done too. I'm low
on clean underwear and that's never good.
"How much
is that gonna cost?"
"Oh, I don't
know, not that much. Don't worry about it." He was all weird
when we checked in. I think he was embarrassed that he didn't have
any money to contribute, that I paid for it all. I can see how he'd
be that kind of guy.
"I'll pay
you back. As soon as I get some money, I'll pay you back for this."
That's exactly what he said when we checked in.
"OK."
I'm not going to argue about it. I mean, I know after tomorrow, he'll
probably go his own way. But I don't mind. I'm glad I could help
him out. "If you wanna take off those clothes too, you can hand them
out to me and I'll take care of it."
"OK."
Whew. Finally, he goes into the bathroom. The stinkiness is about
to be a thing of the past. Whoo-hoo!
"Here ya
go." Ick. Dirty clothes. Those Jeans he changed into in
the car actually have dirt on them.
"I'm going
to go deal with the laundry. I'll be right back."
OK, what
have we learned about our new friend Logan so far? He's a mutant, he's
been experimented on in Toronto, and he doesn't remember much about his life
before. He likes Johnny Cash, has big metal claws, and looks seriously
good in the towel he was wearing before I got in the shower. Come to
think of it, what wouldn't he look good in? He's got a phenomenal
body. Unlike, say me. I'm sure I will thrill him with my oversized
t-shirt nightie. "Hey."
"Hey."
See? Just thrilled. I see he decided to climb into bed while
I showered. "You, uh, mind me watchin' the TV?"
"No, no.
What's on?"
"Nothin'
much. No hockey." Why am I not surprised that he's a hockey fan?
"I was lookin' at this here - it's all weather."
"Oh, yeah.
The Weather Channel." I actually like watching the Weather Channel too
- it's good for when you want to wind down. There's a zen-like quality
about it. "That's good with me. I'll probably fall asleep to
it."
"What're
you doin' in the morning?" You know, I haven't really given where to
go next much thought.
"Well, I'll
probably get up, go get some breakfast, then take a look at the map and decide
where to go next." Hmm. He looks confused. Maybe nervous.
No, confused. No, no -
"Any chance
you'd be headin' north? Or maybe west?" Oh. That's it -
he's hoping I'll give him a ride a little further out. Well, I guess
I could do that. I mean, I haven't been west or north of here yet,
and that would fit in with the mission of the Rogue Tour of North America.
"Sure.
Is there anywhere in particular you're headed? Anywhere you were trying
to get to?" I know in the Jeep he just said 'farther north,' but I
would think that someone who walked thousands of miles in that direction
must have a destination in mind.
"I dunno.
I just - I just thought when I got far enough out, I'd know. I - I
dunno." Or not. Well, OK.
"You know,
I had thought of Whitehorse. It's west, which is kind of the direction
you were headed in." And it's not too far. Probably a
good 1200 miles. Three days or so driving. Maybe less if he can
help out with the driving duties. I wouldn't mind seeing it.
I don't know anything about it and I've never been there, so why not?
"We could just start driving out that way and see what you think."
"That'd
be OK with you?" I don't mind him sticking around a while at all.
I like having company, and he's good company.
"Sure.
I'm just - I'm just kind of travelling around too. Why not? We
could - we'll get the laundry in the morning, eat some breakfast, and then
get going. We can book a hotel or something in Whitehorse from the
road - I have, I have a triple-A book and a cell phone. We can just
drive out and see what it's like. It'll be fun." Gosh, he looks
like he doesn't quite know what to say. I'm beginning to really get
that this whole me-being-nice-and-helping-him-out thing is new to him, and
probably a little bit disconcerting. "It'll be nice to have some company
along."
"OK."
I'm also beginning to get that he's light on conversation. It's OK,
I don't mind.
"I'm not
going to set an alarm or anything. We'll just get up when we get up."
I'm just going to turn out the light and hunker down in bed. I'm kind
of pooped to tell the truth. Picking up hitchhikers is hard work.
"I don't mind the TV, if you want to leave it on. Good night, then."
"Good night."
Sleepytime. Ah, the soothing drone of the Weather Channel.. "Hey,
Marie?"
"Yeah?"
"I think
goin' to Whitehorse is a good idea." Hey, I think that's the Logan
seal-of-approval. Neat.
"Me too."
"Thanks,
you know, for all this." Whoa. That's a surprise. But how
sweet of him to say that.
"You're welcome.
You know, I bet you'd have done the same for me, given me a ride and helped
me out. It's no problem." And I'm not just saying that, I think
that's actually true. I think he would've helped me out, like I'm helping
him out now.
"Yeah."
I think that's the Logan I-can't-really-articulate-it-but-I'm-pretty-grateful
conclusion to the conversation. You know, I'm getting to really like
this guy.
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