De Omnibus Dubitandum
Part One: A Prima Facia

“Madness is rare in individuals—but in groups, parties, nations, and ages it is the rule.” -- Nietzsche

~*~

On the day she met him, Wolverine made Rogue blush just by looking at her.

It wasn’t just that he looked at her—it was the way he looked at her. Like his eyes missed nothing. Like he’d like to touch her everywhere with his hands, just to make damn sure he’d missed nothing. Maybe make a pass with his mouth after that, because when he did a job, he liked to do it right.

She stopped dead in her tracks, stood frozen in the middle of the room, nodded dumbly as Scott made the introductions. She wondered how he could sound so normal when this was happening right here in front of him. Wondered how Scott could remember something as complicated as etiquette when she was having a hard time remembering it was rude to stare.

But if she was going to stare, there was no better target around than Wolverine.

He was tall, imposing, and all too quiet for a man of his bulk. His dark eyes moved constantly in the way of a person who has no choice but to watch his own back. Confident, alert, and six foot plus of liquid sex poured into denim and leather. His well-used duffel hit the floor next to his equally worn boots, and she noticed a small hole in the tip of the left one, the black leather peeling away, silvery glint of the steel toe there behind the curling edges.

Long legs in blue jeans. The denim hugging his body more closely at the curve of his calf, the sleek swell of his thigh muscle. Faded and soft and worn in places—his knees, the tops of his thighs, the edges of the hip pockets, the curving bulge of fabric beneath his zipper. All of this anchored by a thick leather belt, complete with a big metal buckle. For a second she could actually hear it, the sharp brittle clink that buckle would make against her teeth.

A snort that could have been a laugh brought her back to the present and all at once she realized that she had no idea what his mutant power might be. ~Dear God, please don’t let him be a telepath.~ She reluctantly raised her eyes to his face, almost panicked, then relaxed.

He knew alright, but only because he was familiar with the appreciative gaze of a woman. And more than capable of returning the same. No mind reading involved, just plain old hormones. She hoped.

Embarrassing, but certainly less so than if he had been able to actually hear what she was thinking. That thing about the belt buckle. Good lord.

She turned away, the corner of her eye catching the way the corner of his mouth rose in a smirk as her face flushed and her blood roared in her ears.

Scott was still giving Wolverine the tour. Talking, explaining, summarizing. All those Scott Things that he was so good at, that he liked to focus on. Rogue slipped away into the kitchen, aware that the back of her neck was burning just as hot as her cheeks.

~*~

There weren’t many places she could go to get away from the stranger in the main room. Not in a place this small.

They’d been in the factory sub-cellar for two months. Scott, Rogue, Peter and Bobby. All that was left of the once formidable X-Men. Living in a cold, dripping dungeon with pilfered electricity and secret tunnels and coded knocks. All stuff that seemed right out of some book or movie. All stuff that was necessary for survival.

They’d picked up a few strays in the months since they’d gone into hiding. Warily, carefully. Suspicious as hell and justified in it.

First there was Chloe, with glossy brown skin and huge dark eyes, who could heat things with her bare hands. Came in handy when she was hurling handfuls of rocks at soldiers. Not so handy when you startled her while she was holding one of your favorite shoes. She looked so sweet. Cursed like a longshoreman.

Then they’d taken in Frankie. His baggy thrift store shirts, the kind that always had someone else’s name over the breast pocket, hid a spiny dorsal fin that tended to stand up on its own when he was angry. His teeth were tiny and sharp, and delivered a nerve-numbing toxin that could be deadly in large amounts. He had a huge crush on Chloe. He could also go for extremely long periods of time without taking a breath; Chloe had already heard all the jokes about that particular skill.

Sylvie was the oldest of their recruits, trim and gray-haired and a miracle worker when it came to deriving edible meals from a collection of canned goods, a stolen spice rack and a hot plate. She could also create electrical fields with a mere thought.

They were a tight-knit group. Relationships, life in general really, were on fast-forward these days. When the world outside your door was nothing but dread and fear and danger, the distance between a familiar face and a best friend could be a short one indeed.

Right now, one of Rogue’s best friends was amusing himself by running one iced fingertip through a candle flame.

“Hey, Bobby. Thought you were on guard duty.” Not an accusation. If he was in the kitchen there was a good reason for it. They’d all grown up fast since they’d left the mansion. Shirking could be deadly. It just didn’t happen anymore. And if it did, you were gone. No second chances. Not since the last time. Not since Kurt.

“Frankie traded with me,” Bobby answered, his eyes never leaving the flickering flame. Watching the candle’s gold tongue lick at his finger. “Wants to go to the train station with Chloe tomorrow. This way he can sleep a little before they leave.”

Chloe was incredibly adept at convincing strangers she was much younger than she actually was, which often moved them to give her money or food tickets. She would have made a wonderful actress, had the world taken a different path. Her trips to train stations and bus terminals were always especially productive, a provided a much-appreciated contribution to their small bankroll.

“The girl has talent,” Rogue muttered as she sat down opposite Bobby at the makeshift table. An old door on two sawhorses. Propped her chin in her gloved hands and just watched.

He nodded and took another swig from the cup next to his hand. Tang, probably. That was about all they got these days that wasn’t water.

His clear silvery-blue finger seemed to glow with the flame’s light. “You look like E.T.,” she said with a soft laugh.

That made him smile. Such a rare thing now, Bobby smiles. He looked so much younger, so much more Bobby. So much like the past.

The realization came to her with what could have almost been an audible click. Two concepts coming together and making a new one. It wasn’t video games and cable TV and widescreen DVDs that Bobby was trying to compensate for when he toyed with the candle flame. Because they hadn’t had any of those things in, God, it had to be almost two years now.

But until recently, they had had St. John Allerdyce.

Bobby’s best friend, partner in crime, roommate of ten years. Gone. Captured while he and Bobby were on their way home with what would have been a week’s worth of food. They’d both fought hard, taken down more than a few soldiers. They’d been separated, surrounded, chased through the rotting buildings of the marina they’d called home at the time. Bobby had been horribly wounded, had stayed in his frozen form for five whole days, repairing the damage to his body. If he had reverted to flesh, he would have died from his wounds.

St. John hadn’t been heard from since. They’d moved as soon as Bobby was able, but not before he’d screamed and cursed at Scott, sworn that he’d kill him if they made him leave. If they made him leave the one place St. John would know to find them.

In the end, he’d gone quietly. Frozen tears clattering on the scaffolding under their feet as they slipped away in the night, carrying what they could in their battered backpacks.

“Bobby. . .”

“What happened to your face?” His way of saying that he didn’t want to talk about it. Living in close quarters tended to breed a shorthand version of communication.

She’d forgotten about her face. She tugged off a glove and gently probed her left cheekbone. Tender. Puffy. Probably turning some interesting colors. She grinned.

“Zappas had oranges.”

Bobby’s face brightened and he abandoned the candle. “Oranges? Really?”

She nodded. Smiled again. “And you better enjoy yours, because I had to literally fight for them.”

He pushed his chair back from the table, spread his arms slightly. “Come here.”

Rogue replaced her glove as she rose and scooted around the table, settling sideways in Bobby’s lap. He stretched to retrieve a thin dishtowel from the filing cabinet that served as their kitchen cupboard, which she helped him wrap around his iced hand.

“Our little hunter-gatherer,” he teased as he cupped his hand over her cheek.

She shifted and put her head on his shoulder, careful to keep her face well away from his. “Don’t move,” she said softly.

“I won’t.”

They sat silently for a few minutes, letting the cold sink into her swollen cheek. Finally, numbness began to set in and the towel was wet with melted Iceman. She jerked her chin just enough to let him know she wanted him to take his hand away.

“Good for now?”

She nodded against his chest, let him get rid of the towel and get settled before she moved. When she sat up, the hand around her waist tightened instead of releasing her, and her eyes snapped to his, found them looking thoughtful and sad.

His hand, still iced, came back to her face and he ran his thumb gently across her lower lip. Safe. Something they had discovered during heated teenage groping sessions, when they’d been young and giggly and crushing on each other. Before Remy.

She opened her mouth slightly, recognizing the cold slick feel of his transformed hand. Felt cold water trickle into her mouth and down her chin as her body heat melted the ice slightly.

Her tongue slid forward, scooped the pooling moisture from behind her lower lip and she swallowed hard, watched Bobby watch his thumb glide over the wet pink flesh of her lip. His face held a look that she hadn’t seen directed at her in years. Hadn’t seen directed at her in this exact form ever. This was the look of an adult, not a teenager. An adult who was feeling desire and despair at the same time.

She swept her tongue over the tip of his thumb and heard that distinctive crackle, felt her eyes go painfully dry for a second as Bobby stole the moisture from the surrounding air, used it to turn his entire body to ice. She shivered as her warm comfy perch suddenly turned cold and hard, couldn’t help the way she squeaked when his hand found the back of her neck, steered her toward his mouth.

A cold, wet Bobby kiss. So familiar, but with a new edge. One that had been borne out of the years and events that had passed since the last time they had done this. Frozen, solid hands running over her upper body, making her shake with more than the cold. Tugging on her hips, maneuvering her to straddle him, pulling her closer, pushing her down. His cheek sliding against hers, her wet hair sticking to her face. Frosty breath in her ear. “Do you want to?”

Nothing but a nod, because she was trying to keep her teeth from chattering. A skill she’d perfected years ago, then lost from lack of use. He slid his hands under her thighs and stood, sending cold water droplets in all directions as they disappeared into the passageway that led to his room.

On the table, the candle sputtered and went out.

End Part One

De Omnibus Dubitandum
Part Two: Post Factum

~*~

Bobby got up at midnight to take his turn at watch. Rogue watched him get dressed, and was happy to see that he looked a little less tense, a little more like the Bobby she remembered from Before. His control over the ice was much more finely tuned than the Bobby she’d known as a teenager. Amazingly so. She’d been impressed.

He sat on the damp bed to tie his boots, smiling at her as he tugged on the laces. His hair was messy and sticking up in odd places. He looked cute. Younger. He leaned over and pressed her down into his bed with his upper body. “See you at breakfast?” He captured a lock of her hair, ran the ends over her collarbone. An affectionate gesture, in lieu of what he couldn’t do with his own bare hands.

She nodded, returned his relaxed smile. They’d both needed this. Would both need it again. It was good to know it was there. Somehow, just knowing it was there made the needing less.

He turned and looked back at her before he closed the door and this time he grinned. He was feeling naughty, she could tell. She giggled and threw the pillow at the door, then lay there for a minute before gathering her clothes. Shower, then maybe a snack. Shower for sure, though.

They’d lucked out with the shower set-up this time, in the form of an adjacent factory that thoughtfully provided locker rooms for their employees, one for men and one for women. With production down—people in concentration camps didn't shop much—the factory only ran one shift a day, leaving the place deserted much of the time. With the fence and the dogs and the cameras, there was no need for a guard. No one could get in. Not from the outside anyway. From underneath was an entirely different story.

There was a tunnel between the two buildings, from days past when they'd been parts of the same factory. A tannery, Scott said. There were grooves in the floor of the tunnel that had once held the metal tracks for a fleet of carts that hauled the hides from one building to another. With the carts and the tracks gone, the tunnel was abandoned and forgotten. And also likely to turn your ankle, if you weren't careful.

It might have been considered a hassle to trudge through a damp tunnel and cross a factory floor the size of an airplane hangar in order to bathe. For people who had relied on buckets of water warmed on a hot plate for their personal hygiene in the past, it was no trouble at all.

Standing there under the water with her eyes closed, Rogue could almost believe that life was still normal.

~*~

Wolverine was sprawled on the ratty couch in the main room, reading in the candlelight, when she returned from her shower. His head on one arm of the sofa, feet propped on the other. His boots were on the floor next to the couch and his socks were two different colors.

“What’s so funny?” He hadn’t looked up from his book, and she wondered again about his powers. If not a telepath, an empath maybe? He certainly seemed finely attuned to everything she was thinking.

“Your socks.” She paused in the doorway, gave in to the smile because she couldn't hold it in any longer.

He wrinkled his brow and lowered his book to look at his feet. “What?"

"One’s grey and one’s white,” she pointed out. “And please don’t say that they both started out white.”

“Nah. I’m just too lazy to care if they match.” He gave her a lop-sided grin with just a hint of embarrassment in it. It made her heart thump as she giggled at his admission.

There was a long pause as his grin faded and she searched for something to say, not wanting to leave just yet. “You’ll ruin your eyes,” she settled on, gesturing to the book in his hands.

Now it was his turn to look amused. “I doubt it.” He cocked his head. “But I guess you don’t know that, since you ran off.” She felt a blush rise on her face for the second time that night. Her hands twisted around each other, tugging at the seams on her gloves.

He closed the book around his thumb and reached for the bottle of beer on the floor next to the couch. She hadn’t noticed it until he picked it up. “So you weren’t the least bit curious about me?” His voice was different now. Low and knowing. A small smirk on his lips just before they closed around the bottle.

She watched, riveted, as he drank, swallowed, licked his lips. Stared at her the whole time.

“Where’d you get that?” Her voice was breathy and didn’t sound right to her at all.

The grin came back, but it was different now. Like the kind of grin that was supposed to warn you about something. “I can’t tell you that, but I’ll share this one with you.”

This time she simply nodded, because she wasn’t sure exactly what her voice would sound like now in the face of that grin, but she was sure it wouldn’t be pretty.

He sat up as she made her way across the small room, held the bottle out to her. He waited until she had a firm grip on it before he deftly slid his hand around and closed his fingers on her wrist.

“What’ll you give me for it?” No grin now. No smirk. He was serious.

She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held on. “I-I can’t.” But God, she wanted to.

His thumb began to move in a slow circle on the inside of her wrist. “Can’t what? Can’t kiss me?” She felt a pang of disappointment that he wanted only a kiss, followed quickly by a ripple of fear as she noticed that he was tugging gently on her arm, pulling her toward him. One step at a time, into his lap.

She let go of the bottle. He released her wrist and snatched the bottle from the air just inches from the floor. Quick reflexes. Too quick.

She turned and bolted.

~*~

Breakfast the next day was awkward, at least for Rogue.

Wolverine seemed unaffected by what had happened the night before. He didn’t look like he’d lost any sleep over it, anyway. She certainly wished she could say the same. She’d finally dozed off just before dawn, then been slow to appear at the breakfast table. Which was a stroke of bad luck, because it turned out the only seat left was next to Wolverine. He didn't look at her as she entered the kitchen, just nudged the chair next to him with his foot, pushing it out from the table.

Rogue settled into her seat and mumbled a thank you that he returned with a non-descript syllable. She focused on her plate for most of the meal, even as she listened to every single word Scott said about the newcomer. She was dying to know more about him, but equally desperate to keep that fact to herself.

Wolverine, for his part, ate his breakfast and acknowledged Scott’s comments with the occasional nod. Healing factor. Enhanced senses. Reinforced skeleton. Unbreakable claws. And enough sex appeal to choke a horse. Not that Scott mentioned that particular attribute.

But then again, Scott wasn’t sitting as close to him as she was. Scott couldn’t feel the hard rub of his flannel-clad arm every time he reached for his coffee cup. Scott couldn’t smell the cigar smoke and soap. And even if Scott could, Scott probably wouldn’t be thinking the same x-rated thoughts Rogue was.

It was the longest breakfast she could remember, and she fled into the tunnel behind their quarters as soon as it was over. It was a long maze of a walk to the rusty grate at the mouth of the huge drainage pipe that emptied into the river below. Truth be told, it was a tedious walk and a pitiful excuse for a river, but worth all the trouble when seeing sunlight was risky and rare. The concrete pipe was dry as a bone, and provided a somewhat sheltered perch from which to enjoy the view. A view that was only enhanced by the fact that she was fifty feet up and thus able to imagine the water below was not a sluggish puddle choked with trash and debris.

She was dangling her feet over the edge and wondering where she was going to find another pair of jeans when she heard the footsteps. Her hands were already in her lap, playing idly over the fraying knees of her pants, so it was easy enough to tug off her gloves and stuff them in her pockets before she turned around. Using her power was something she would do only when left with no other options, but it never hurt to be cautious.

The footsteps continued to grow louder, a relaxed and confident stride that was unmistakably headed in her direction. She didn't know it then, but that was the first and last time she would ever hear those footsteps and not know exactly who they belonged to.

A pair of eyes glowed in the gloom of the tunnel. They blinked and then there were more footsteps, and a voice. “It’s just me.”

Just him.

If she tried really, really hard, maybe she could act like it was “just” him.

Wolverine emerged from the darkness looking relaxed. Hands in his pockets, jacket open. She turned toward daylight again, scooted over to make room for him when he sat down next to her at the mouth of the pipe.

She tossed a pebble over the edge, listened to it hit the shallow water below. “Nice view we have here, huh?”

He nodded, pulled a cigar from inside his jacket, held it up with a questioning look.

“Be my guest.” How sad was it that she was already beginning to associate the smell of a cigar with him, after barely a day?

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he struck the match on the cement between them, tossed it out into the void after he lit his cigar. He exhaled slowly, the blue-gray smoke running off into the wind as he spoke. “I’m sorry about last night.”

She looked away immediately, half horrified that he brought it up and half shocked that he was apologizing. He didn’t seem the apology type. She went back to examining the wear and tear on her jeans. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t know.”

She shrugged, pulled at a loose thread. Realized she hadn’t put her gloves back on yet. A testament to just how distracting his presence was. She was normally more conscientious. She was just reaching to put them back on when he spoke again.

“You tell your boyfriend?” Boyfriend? Realizing this conversation had taken a turn she hadn’t followed, she was still trying to catch up when he spoke again. “I don’t want him to freeze my balls or anything.”

There were so many things to laugh about there that she didn’t bother to pick one. She just laughed. And then laughed more at his confused expression.

“He’s not my boyfriend, and I doubt he’ll freeze your balls.” More laughing as she pictured Wolverine gripping his ice-covered crotch.

He gave her an appraising glance before he turned back toward the sunlight. “Huh. Sure smelled like it when I walked past his room last night.”

Her laughter died quickly. “Smell? You can smell. . .” Then her jaw dropped and then she felt her cheeks begin to fill with color. Again. Three times now. Just about every time she spoke to him, in fact. Finally, she gave up and covered her face with her hands. “Oh God.”

“So what’s the deal then?”

She sighed, wondered if it was any of his business anyway. “We’ve known each other a long time, dated in high school. Things are different now, everything’s different. I guess it was just comfort or—“

“No, I meant why wouldn’t you kiss me.” He didn’t look at her, continued to stare out at the skyline. Like he didn’t really care what the answer was. But he’d cared enough to ask.

She frowned. “Didn’t Scott tell you?”

He finally looked at her then, studied her expression. For a second his face told her he was considering and discarding the possibility of a romantic connection between her and Scott. “Tell me what?”

He didn't know. How could he not know? “About my skin.”

“What about it?” He didn't know.

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. Later, she would be ashamed of herself for what she was thinking at that moment. Because she was thinking that if she didn't tell him, she could keep his interest in her going just a little longer. Eventually he would find out, and he'd back off, but for now, right now, he was interested. And it felt good. Would it hurt to enjoy it for a just a little longer? It seemed like such a small thing to want. Just a little longer.

"Well?" he prompted.

“My skin hurts people if they touch it." She made herself hurry it out, say the words before she had a chance to think about them.

"Oh. Yeah, he mentioned that this morning." He said it like it was no big deal. He evidently didn't understand. The look on his face was expectant, like there was more.

"So that's why," she said, just to clarify. Was he that dense?

He turned back to the river. "Didn't seem to stop you and the ice guy." He blew a smoke ring and watched it float away.

She wasn't going to blush again, dammit. "I can't hurt him when he's in ice form."

That got a raised eyebrow and a sideways glance. "Sounds. . .chilly." She giggled in response but otherwise did not reply. "So that's the problem? Your skin?"

Her giggle died in her throat. Christ, was he really this fucking stupid? Was he going to make her spell it out? "Yes, it is a problem. A big problem. It's bad. I can't control it, and once it gets started it can kill a person in less than a minute." There was anger creeping into her voice and she knew it, but couldn't help it. "I can't touch anyone. Ever. It's dangerous. That’s why my room is away from everyone else’s. That’s why I have to cover myself up. That's why I wear gloves all the time.”

He nodded, but seemed otherwise unfazed by her words. “You’re not wearin’ ‘em right now.” He pointed to her hands with his chin.

That made her flustered and she felt like a little kid, embarrassed and ashamed to be caught doing something she shouldn’t be. “I-I know. I took them off because I didn’t know who was in the tunnel. Just in case.” She pulled them from her pockets and began to turn them right-side-out. “I usually always wear them around other people so there won’t be any accidents, I guess I just forgot. I’m sorry if--“

His hand on her wrist stopped her. Made her jump a little with how close he was to bare skin.

“Leave ‘em off, if you want. It’s not bothering me.” He let go, went back to his cigar and the skyline.

She pulled her gloves on with unsteady hands. Didn’t look at him when she spoke. “It should.”

End Part Two

De Omnibus Dubitandum
Part Three: Arbitrum Liberum (Freedom of Will)
~*~

When Rogue set out to buy food two days later, Wolverine volunteered to go along. In these days of scarce luxuries and black market vendors, Rogue had proven herself the most capable at this task early on, and her shrewd bargaining skills had only grown sharper in the time since. The others were happy to let her have the job.

The Mutie Market, as it was affectionately known, was a noisy, crowded place, with plenty of bickering and pushing and shouting. The vendors, a hard-boiled bunch, were mostly mutants who had connections with non-mutants sympathetic or greedy enough to do business with mutants. The market moved often, each new location passed on via an intricate communication network. It was always full of people who looked perfectly human. All the obvious mutants were long gone.

Rogue normally preferred to go alone. It was faster and easier to navigate the crowded aisles by herself, but she found herself enjoying the company nonetheless. And with the glowering Wolverine standing behind her, her efforts to drive a hard bargain were even more effective.

Even better, the shopping trip provided her with plenty of opportunities to check him out when he wasn't looking, both up close and from afar. Gave her a chance to notice the smaller details, like the way he pronounced certain words. The way the chain he wore around his neck peeked out of his T-shirt when he turned his head. The way his hair curled behind his ears. The way the leather of his jacket creaked when he moved his arm. The way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he was trying to make a decision. She couldn't get enough.

He wandered off to check out a nearby stack of used books while she waited in line for a bag of potatoes, and she couldn't help but sneak glances at him. He made his choices carefully but quickly. There was something about watching him take his wallet from his pocket that was way too interesting. It was like everything he did was more intentional or more masculine or more. . .something. She was deep in those thoughts when she suddenly realized that someone had cut in front of her in line.

"Hey!" She tapped the interloper on the shoulder. "This isn't the end of the line, buddy." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wolverine's head swivel their way as her voice reached his ears. The guy in front of her looked at her over his shoulder, and her eyes narrowed when she realized who it was. The same asshole who had elbowed her in the face last week during a tussle over a bag of oranges. Same grimy baseball hat, same scar next to his nose. Same dirty smudges on his neck, too, it looked like.

Recognition hit him at the same time, and he smirked at the bruise on her cheek, now showing some interesting shades of yellow and green around the edges. "Fuck off," he shot back, before he turned his attention to the front of line once again.

Before she could respond, Wolverine ambled up, hands in his pockets, like he didn't have a care in the world. "Everything okay?"

"No. This asshole—" She accented the word with a poke to the back of The Asshole's head with her index finger. "—thinks he can skip in line."

The Asshole in question ignored her, but he couldn't ignore the big hand that landed on his shoulder and forcibly turned him around. "That true?" Wolverine asked him, sounding curious and perfectly reasonable. "Because if it is, you and I are gonna have a problem."

The Asshole looked from her to Wolverine and back again. He didn't look afraid. He just looked. . .calculating. "My mistake," he said, finally.

"That's what I thought." Wolverine tightened his grip on The Asshole's shoulder, pulled him out of the line, and moved him off down the aisle. "Nice meeting you." The Asshole shot them a dirty look over his shoulder as he strode away, which made Wolverine grin.

Rogue was not amused. She glared at his retreating form, still pissed. She could have handled it herself, and she wouldn't have let him off that easy.

Wolverine nudged the toe of her boot with his. "Hey, he's gone. Forget it."

"I hate that guy," she said, still scowling in his general direction, even as he disappeared from view. "That's the guy who. . ." She gestured toward the side of her face.

"What?" His voice made her jump a little, and when she looked up at him the grin was gone. Now he looked pissed too. His eyes kept darting to her cheek, and she resisted the urge to put her hand over the bruise.

"He's the one who—"

"Yeah, got that part," he snapped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She bristled at his tone. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess someone forgot to tell me that you're my protector now." The sarcasm slipped out before she could stop it.

"Hey, you two buyin' somethin' or not?" The impatient voice behind them brought an abrupt end to their spat. They were next.

Rogue turned to the slightly sweaty man in the produce stall. "Sorry. Ten pounds, please." After she forked over the money, she turned to hand Wolverine the bag of potatoes. In the short time her attention had wavered, he had disappeared.

~*~

He showed up at her side fifteen minutes later as she was trying to negotiate a somewhat reasonable price for a pound of butter. He was carrying a small plastic shopping bag, and she remembered that his book purchase had been interrupted. He must have circled back to them before finding her.

She greeted him coolly, still irritated. Not so much at him specifically, but he was here and The Asshole wasn't. "What'd you do to him?"

"Does it matter?" He took the bag of potatoes from her, and also a smaller bag of miscellaneous vegetables.

"Just curious."

"Gave him a taste of his own medicine." She started to add the butter to his burden as well. "Put that in the bag with the books, would ya?"

"Okay." She slipped it into the plastic bag with the paperbacks. "I could have kicked his ass, you know."

"Yeah, but this way I got to act all chivalrous and manly." And there was that damn grin again. She was pretty sure that he really shouldn't be allowed to use that grin to make her stop being mad at him.

She wasn't going to let him off that easy. "I'm still mad at you for snapping at me."

He actually looked sheepish. "Sorry 'bout that. I just got a little, ah, worked up."

She led the way to the main aisle, carefully easing past a teetering stack of shoeboxes. "I noticed." Still not giving in.

He sighed as he trudged along next to her. "I'm starting to feel like every time I hang out with you I end up apologizing," he said glumly, and it looked so cute on him that she couldn't help herself.

"Poor thing," she said, as she reached over and patted him on the butt. It was pretty satisfying, the way he jumped. She gave him one more pat, just for good measure.

It was a really nice butt.

~*~

Despite the small unpleasantness, the trip was a particularly successful one. She'd managed to snag a quart of strawberries, which she knew would be well received by the others. She was nearly giddy with happiness on the way back, both from the company and the produce. And maybe that nice butt, too. Just a little.

"I wish we had some ice cream to eat with the strawberries. Or whipped cream." God, how she missed whipped cream. She'd never thought about it much Before, but now that she hadn't seen it in over a year, she thought about it a lot.

He juggled the bags he carried, readjusting his burden. "What do you miss the most? What kind of food?"

"Chocolate," she said, without hesitation. "You?"

"Prime rib. Rare." He worked his mouth and swallowed, and she imagined he was salivating at the thought. She certainly was; even thinking about chocolate was enough to make her drool. It was hard to believe that at one time she'd been able to buy a candy bar with a handful of change, at any gas station or convenience store on any corner. Just as he'd been able to buy a dinner in any steak house, sit down and eat a meal in a public place.

Actually, some days it was hard to believe that was still not the case. Those days were becoming fewer and fewer.

They made their way back to the warehouse, talking about their favorite foods and their favorite bands and their favorite TV shows, alternately agreeing with and mocking each other's preferences.

It almost felt like a date.

~*~

The next two weeks were relatively uneventful. Scott was still trying to get fake registration papers for them all so they could get out of the country. Wolverine had a few contacts that proved to be moderately helpful, and Scott was hopeful that he'd be successful soon. They'd been close before, but not this close. This time, it actually looked like it might happen.

The others met the news with equal parts hope and sadness. The all had loved ones who were dead, missing, or captured, and the thought of fleeing, of leaving behind those loved ones, was not pleasant. At the same time, getting out was vital to their cause and to their survival. They couldn't live like this forever, and they'd already been too lucky. No one said anything, but everyone knew the clock was ticking.

Rogue spent her time trying to stay away from both Bobby and Wolverine. She tried to give Bobby his space so he wouldn't think she was expecting anything of him. She tried to beat a wide path around Wolverine because she felt guilty for wanting him when she was sleeping with Bobby. She was fully aware that her reason for avoiding Bobby should have exempted her from her guilt over Wolverine, but she couldn't help it. Casual or not, there were rules to sex, and she was trying to abide by her own.

Neither man was being particularly helpful in that regard.

Bobby was pleasant to be with, made her laugh, and enjoyed trying to ply her with teasing come-ons that made her eyes roll with their cheesiness. They'd always been good friends, starting back when they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and their compatibility was evident still. Things between them were fun and easy, and the sex was good.

Actually, the sex was great. They knew and remembered enough about each other to hit all the right buttons, and each had learned enough new stuff in the interceding years to keep things interesting. It was sex without the hassles and baggage of a relationship, but it wasn't entirely emotionless. There was still love and affection there between them, and Bobby had never been the type to hold back when showing those emotions. She always knew where she stood with him. Not like with Remy. Not like with. . .

Wolverine.

She couldn't seem to avoid him, no matter how hard she tried. If she spent too much time evading him, he simply tracked her down. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her company, and expressed interest in her rambling stories of her childhood. It was flattering to have him ask questions, try to get to know her, coax her to talk to him. Very flattering. And also very dangerous.

The harder she tried to avoid him, the less successful she was.

~*~

There was light coming from the locker room, which meant someone was in there. The showers were certainly big enough for more than one person, and more than spacious enough to alleviate any worries about accidental contact, but she couldn't help but be a little annoyed. She'd been looking forward to a quiet, relaxing shower. As she peeked around the edge of the doorway, she wished a little wish that it would be Sylvie, who would be less likely to talk incessantly. If it was Chloe, there would be no peace and quiet at all.

It wasn't Sylvie. It wasn't Chloe, either.

It was Wolverine.

He'd passed on the overhead lights in favor of the lantern, which gave the locker room a soft, shadowy aura. Softened the edges and made it seem smaller, almost cozy. He was sitting on the bench in front of an open locker, toweling his hair, wearing only a pair of jeans.

Oh, sweet holy Jesus.

If he was attractive with his shirt on, there was no way to describe just how gorgeous he was without one. His skin looked golden in the dim light, his torso and arms covered with dark hair. Something shiny caught her eye, and she saw what appeared to be a single dogtag hung from the chain around his neck. Interesting.

He looked up, smiled at her, and shook his head, like a dog after a dip in the lake. She heard the tag clink against the chain as he moved. He was facing the lockers on her left, legs in the aisle, so she took the path to the right of the bench.

She leaned against the lockers and smiled back at him. She was finding it quite difficult to tear her eyes away from his chest, but the dogtag was a handy excuse to look. She'd have to remember to ask him about it later. "This is the women's locker room, big guy. Is there something we should know?"

He rolled his eyes at the bad joke and shrugged. "Didn't know it mattered. I'll be done in a minute."

"I can go use the other one," she said, wondering why that still felt like breaking the rules, now that the rules of society had been blown all to hell.

He finished with the towel and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. "Stay. I won't peek."

She didn't even pretend to believe him. "Yes, you will."

He rubbed his jaw with his hand, probably trying to decide whether or not he needed to shave. "Yeah. I will," he admitted with a grin. Then he stood up. She didn't think it was possible, but there actually was something in this world that could distract her from that bare chest.

His jeans were open.

Her eyes automatically slid to the gap. Dark hair, and the light from the lantern glinting off the buttons of his fly. No underwear. She swallowed hard. Her backpack slid from her shoulder and landed on the bench.

He retrieved a T-shirt from the locker, tugging it over his head and down his torso, and Rogue took a second to mourn the fact that the show was over. Then he started to tuck his shirt into his pants, and she realized that he was just getting to the best part. She watched, mesmerized, as he shoved the shirt into the back of his jeans, big hands pushing and smoothing. She was about ready to faint from lack of oxygen by the time he got around to the front, tucking the shirt down into his jeans and then deftly buttoning the fly.

"You getting an eyeful there?"

God, busted again. She bent and started digging through her backpack, waited for her cheeks to begin to burn as she blushed yet again. Why break the streak now?

He turned and leaned against the lockers, crossed his arms over his chest. "My turn," he announced.

"What?" He didn't mean—

"My turn," he repeated. Lifted an eyebrow. "Unless you shower in your clothes."

"Um, no, not usually." There'd been a few with times with Remy, but she wasn't going to bring that up right now. She straightened and studied him, tried to figure out if he was kidding, if he was seeing how far she'd go.

A few seconds ticked by. He cleared his throat. "So. . ."

This was nuts. "You're kidding."

"Nope," he said cheerily.

"I'm not going to strip for you." She began to pile her things back into her bag. The men's it was then.

"Aw, c'mon," he wheedled.

She looked up at him, wondering what he thought he was doing. He had to know that nothing could happen between them. Yes, there were ways around her skin, but they required accessories, accessories that were not available to them here in the locker room.

And she barely knew him. It had taken her a year to build up that kind of trust in herself and Remy, a year they spent experimenting and exploring and being as careful as they could without killing the passion completely. A partner whose mutation did not provide a barrier—ice and fur worked, she knew that firsthand—made her nervous. Accidents happened, and she was accepting of that, but that made her no less careful. It was inconceivable that she would let Wolverine touch her, clothing or no. Not like this, not on the spur of the moment. It was a process, and one that took her partners a little longer than they usually expected to perfect. She couldn't fool around with him. Not here. Not yet.

Belatedly, and guiltily, she added Bobby to the list of reasons why.

But he hadn't said he wanted to fool around, really.

"You really want to watch me take off my clothes?" She made no attempt to hide her skepticism.

"Well. . .yeah." He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and she was perhaps a little slow for not knowing it.

"No touching." She wanted to make that clear up front. God, was she really going to do this?

He nodded. "No touching."

Well, if he was bluffing, she was calling it. She pulled off a glove and dropped it on top of her bag, then added the other glove. His eyes locked on her hands as she hesitated, trying to decide what to do next. She'd never stripped in front of anyone before. It wasn't a real popular request when you could kill with just a centimeter of exposed skin.

Well, there was a first time for everything.

Her sweatshirt was the next thing to go. Hmmm. It seemed like she should be wearing sexier clothes for this. She pulled the scrunchie out of her hair and shook it free, which he seemed to enjoy. Her running shoes got kicked off, and then she reached for the waistband of her jeans, the button sliding free of the worn denim easily. She took hold of the zipper tab and then stopped. Looked up at him.

His eyes flicked up to hers, then back down to her hands. "Keep going," he said. His tongue skated across his lower lip, like a hungry lion licking his chops in anticipation of a meal. Her stomach went suddenly hollow, and her hands were so close to shaking that she wasn't sure she could get her jeans off at all.

She inched the zipper down as slowly as she could, trying to remember what underwear she'd put on that morning. A quick glance down told her they were, thankfully, one of her better pairs. Purple, bikini, lace trim. Thank God. She got the zipper down, then changed tactics, reaching for the hem of her t-shirt, leaving her jeans open and barely hanging onto her hips. The shirt slid up and over her head, obscuring her view for a second before revealing a rather intense-looking Wolverine.

"Jesus," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair as his eyes ratcheted from her bra to the top of her panties and back again. Her skin felt hot, every inch of it. Hot and alive and like he was somehow touching it from three feet away.

He swayed forward slightly when her hands went back to her pants, and she took in the bulge growing between his legs as she pulled her jeans down and kicked them away. Her body was tingling and her heart was beating so hard she was afraid he could see it, pounding against her ribcage.

Not much left now. She reached for her bra, and his eyes locked on her breasts as she took hold of the clasp resting between them. His restraint snapped as the clasp clicked open, and he surged forward, reaching for her.

"Don't!" She stepped back so fast that she hit her head on the lockers behind her, one hand clutching her bra closed, the other held up in warning. Her reaction brought him up short and he stopped, still on the other side of the bench, looking a little like he'd been slapped.

"Don't come any closer." Her voice cracked and she could feel her eyes welling, and she suddenly wanted him gone, wanted him as far away from her as possible.

"I won't," he said quickly. She didn't believe him. He was coiled motion, ready to pounce, and his eyes were still skating over her body.

"Stay there!" She was getting too upset about this. Accidents happened, people forgot. She knew that. But she couldn't make herself calm down.

He held his hands up and backed away. "Okay. Okay. I'm moving away. You're okay. It's okay. I won't touch you." He took a couple more steps, silent on bare feet, easing away down the row of lockers. "I'm going over here. You're okay. Everything's okay." He said it like he was talking to a crazy person with a gun, which certainly didn't do much to make her feel better.

"Don't touch me," she said again, barely repressing a sob.

"I won't." He turned away, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the lockers. He didn't move a muscle as she gathered her things and fled to the showers.

It had been years since she'd cried over her mutation, but there, surrounded by the obnoxious pink tile and the needle-sharp spray of the institutional showerhead and the clean smell of his shampoo, she wept again for everything she'd never have.

~*~

He was waiting for her when she came out of the locker room, looking apologetic and worried. He didn't say anything at first, just led the way back to the tunnel, carrying the lantern. She followed quietly behind, waiting for him to apologize again. Which he did.

Or tried to. She cut him off two syllables in. "It's okay. I just—I'm not used to being around someone with that much skin showing. I just freaked out a little."

He stopped walking and turned to look at her. Her own feet came to a halt just outside the circle of lantern light on the floor of the tunnel. He took a deep breath, let it out. "I wasn't—" He paused, let out another long breath. "I don't know what I was going to do. I remembered your skin. I just wanted to. . .I don't know." He huffed and shifted his feet, frustrated.

She couldn't help but smile at his awkwardness. This was the most rattled she'd seen him in their short acquaintance, and she was tempted to let him squirm on the hook a little longer. The genuine worry in his voice wouldn't let her. As freaked as she'd been, she'd apparently freaked him almost as much. She felt guilty, and a little stupid.

"It's okay, really. Not your fault," she said, and his posture relaxed a little. "I'm better to look at than to touch, though," she added, her attempt at a joke. Lighten the mood, and hopefully forget this ever happened.

He didn't laugh. Instead, he moved closer and lifted a hand toward her face. It hung in the air next to her cheek for a second, waiting for permission. When she didn't flinch or move away, he ran a finger gently along the stray lock of hair next to her eye. His eyes glittered in the light of the lantern, hungry. "I want you really bad," he said softly.

She waited until he finished stroking her hair, until his hand was safely back at his side, before she spoke. "It's dangerous. I could hurt you."

He leaned into her and bent his head, his mouth almost touching her skin. His voice was barely a murmur, and his breath tickled the inside of her ear when he spoke.

"I heal."

Then he turned and continued down the tunnel, lantern bouncing at his side in time with his stride. She stood motionless for a few seconds, shivering in the gloom, before she hurried to catch up.


End Part Three