1. Target: Wolverine
Professor Xavier had assumed his usual air of concerned omnipotence. Brow wrinkled, eyes sad, his voice was grave as he addressed the team.

“I cannot stress how careful you must be. He is the most dangerous individual – human or mutant - you will ever face.”

The pronouncement dangled in the air before landing with a clang. Scott snorted, while Jean and Ororo made quiet noises of dissent that managed to stay respectful. The junior team didn’t even bother to do that, chorusing their confidence with all the sophistication of the playground. The X-men had faced many, many dangerous mutants, and overcome them all. They were well trained, well equipped and ran like a well-oiled machine. Could one man – working alone – disrupt their well-oiled machine?

“We know three things about The Wolverine,” Xavier cut in. “One – that’s what he looked like last week,” he gestured at the pile of photographs scattered around the table.”

“Two, he is one of the most highly paid assassins in the world. He selects his jobs very carefully, but once he agrees, that person is dead. No mercy, and no escape.”

“And three, no one knows who he is. Or what he is. Most people assume he is human,” the table tittered at the naivete, “ but his was one of the first mutant signatures I ever picked up. I was 16 at the time, and he is still the most powerful, potent force I have ever sensed.”

The Professor paused, to let his meaning sink in around the table. “There aren’t many category five mutants out there, but I suspect he is one of them, even though I can’t be sure what his gift is. And he seems to be trained in espionage and combat. That makes him a threat to us. Someone who must be stopped.”

His face was a study in regret. Compassion for his fellow mutant. “I plan to offer The Wolverine the chance to join us. He would be an excellent addition to the senior team.” Xavier smiled, glacial. “Luckily, my money is as good as anyone else’s. And I didn’t ask him to kill anyone. Tomorrow night you will rendezvous with the Wolverine, ostensibly to collect some intelligence he has collected on the FOH.”

“I need you to bring him in as well.”

“Unharmed? Or is a higher level of force permitted?” Cyclops asked, his team leader persona taking over.

Xavier’s smile would have chilled ice. “Do what you must. And I hope you escape unharmed,” he said. “You might – if he decides he wants to come with you.”

The supposition hung in the air, Xavier’s lack of faith in his team’s ability to overcome the target shaking their confidence.

Only one member of the team didn’t seem surprised.

*

The woman they called Rogue was used to the eyes that followed her. Over time, the expression behind them had changed – fear into respect, suspicion into welcome, jealousy into admiration. Lust … well, that was still lust, not that it bothered her any. Skintight black leather over fabulously honed muscles – not to mention the best rack north of Vegas – tended to do that, and it amused her they all wanted to try. Dancing with death had a seduction all of its own, it seemed.

She could smell the pheromones in the air as she warmed up for her daily assault on the punching bag. The familiar slow glide of Waves Hands Like Clouds drifted into Holding up the Heavens, pivot, Front Kick, hold, Snake Creeps Down … her breathing slowed and mind focused, Rogue could almost taste his presence. Feel his hands as he guided her through the postures, see the bead of sweat making its way down the planes of his back as he turned away from her. She had to blink to chase away the fantasy image: he wasn’t here yet. He might not want to come with them. With her. She had left him for dead, after all.

*

Six years earlier …

“So, what kinda name is Rogue?”

The stranger mighta been cute, Marie decided, but he was RUDE. Just because your butt was heaven in jeans and your chest made a girl hungry, did not mean you got to be rude!

“What kinda name is Wolverine?” she sassed him back, rolling the R around in her mouth like the sweetest of cherries. And flipping her hair and pouting a little – men liked that, she knew. They went kinda crazy when they saw the thrust and gather of red, red lips, framed by all that hair.

“Name’s Logan.” A smirk, but he looked, too. Ran those gorgeous hazel eyes over every contour of her mouth, she’d have taken bets he wasn’t annoyed or amused right then. His bored look returned in seconds, but for a moment, he’d thought it. She’d been upgraded from silly teenager to something else, even if only for a moment.

She tried to keep it short and sarcasm laden. Smart kid to his exasperated adult. “Marie.”

Fire and volley, barbs and condescension. Food offered, and vacuumed with all the delicacy a near-starving girl could manage. Naked hands, dangerous, jerked back from near disaster.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, kid.” She knew. She’d learnt to mark those men, and stay away. This one wouldn’t try, and she wondered if that was why she wanted him to. Wanted to, full stop. But all she could give him was her trust.

“It’s my skin. That’s my mutation. You can’t touch my skin. It’s dangerous.” It was the first time she had said the words. Owned the truth. She was dangerous. Death in a pretty package. One that could never be unwrapped. One speaking glance and she could tell he’d heard the sorrow and rage she’d never expressed. Eyes soft, face unconcerned, he sympathised, minimised. Lousy deal. Move on.

And they had. Small talk, uncomfortable for them both, and then, somewhere between two points on a useless map, they’d become friends. Lost souls blindly fumbling their way towards some place a little less lonely.

She’d slept in the cab, that night, while he stretched out in the back. Second night, they’d hit up a fleabag motel, where he’d stayed out all night and left the big double bed and the shower – the shower! – to her. She wondered, for a moment, if he’d abandoned her, but when he came back smelling of a bar and what she suspected was a woman, she understood. He wouldn’t use her as a convenience, even assuming her ever vigilant skin would let him. That wasn’t what this was about.

He mentioned the cabin on the fourth day. Two more fights would buy him the supplies for a full winter. It would need to, because once the snow came, there’d be no way down the mountain. Holed up like a bear in his den for January and February at least. Probably December too. She was waiting for the crack about Father Christmas, but it never came. Just a question in his eyes that made her realise it was an invitation.

“So, what? You need a cook up there, or something?” She didn’t dare hope it was anything else. She’d given up when he taken to reminding her – sometimes subtly, other times not – of the yawning gap in their ages. She pretended to take offence at the cheap shots, but she could see the sadness in his eyes: it was necessary, he thought, and begged her to respect that.

“You do good eggs, kid. Plus I wanna teach you some stuff. To help you stay safe. So you can wander off in the spring and I won’t have to worry about you so much.”

So they’d moved into the cottage, with his bed at one end and hers at the other. In between, a large cleared area centred on a punching bag, and a rug in front of the fire. Ratty couch against the opposite wall.

Tai chi, he’d said, was the body’s way of preparing for anything that could be thrown at it. You couldn’t relax without it, and you couldn’t fight without it.

She had learnt six postures before the week was out. When she had learned all 24, and was able to flow from one to the next without any conscious thought, he taped her fists and turned her towards the punching bag.

It had been her only request on arriving at the Mansion. The punching bag in the gym went up three days later.

*

The punching bag blurred red in front of her eyes as Rogue fought her way back to the present. Tears? . She refused to countenance the weakness, and tried to banish the longing that had crept over her with the sense memory. It had always been that way; pain tied to every gift he had given her. But there had been so many gifts …

Pushing aside memories of strong hands and a gaze that made her shiver with want, she snapped into her kickboxing stance and chose to exercise yet another of Logan’s legacies. Kick, punch, swivel. Cross. Jab. Kick. Lose yourself in the action, live only in the moment. Every sense focused, even your skin, kid. It’s so fuckin’ sensitive you can feel the air move across it, so you can feel an attack coming. Use everything you have. Those tits, swing ‘em for me. Show me your ass when you kick. Distract me. Seduce me.

Seduce. Now, there’s a word Logan would never use, she thought, smiling grimly at a phantom visage on the other side of the punching bag. He’d meant it, all right, but no fancy words were allowed between them. He didn’t want to pretty things up.

Distract me. Flaunt it, kid. You got a face a man needs to fuck and a body that will make ‘em do anything just to get there. He had snarled it out, between blows that could no longer be dismissed as sparring. Nothing so structured in The Wolverine’s assault: he fought hard, or he fought easy, and they’d worked for weeks to get her to the point where she could take it either way. Guns or knives, fists or fury. That day, though, the only fury had been hers, the weight of so much wanting and wishing crashing down on her in a red haze.

“Yeah, well, they’re fucked either way, aren’t they? Even if I want them to touch me, they’re dead! Why bother with distraction when all I need is a bare finger? Or even a kiss?” Even in her mind’s eye, the voice was shrill with frustration, and the underlying challenge unmistakable. “Besides, if I’m so irresistible, why haven’t you fucked me yet?”

It had hung between them, the moment pregnant with promise. Disaster. Resolution. Anything, Marie had begged the fates. Anything that would take them forward. A glance at his face had told her nothing; the crude, animalistic goads of the persona he called the Wolverine had given way to the imperturbable mask Logan often wore.

“You’re not ready,” he had said.

He refused to elaborate, and her attempts to get him to explain were as effective as the embarrassing seduction a few days later. He had been kind, stroking her hair and breathing a kiss against her uncovered lips before sending her back to the other end of the cottage.

Maybe it was the faint shadow of him in her head that finally brought the realisation. She was in training. His assistant. His companion. His lover.

She had smiled, then. Just the memory of that girl’s catlike satisfaction hurt now, the naivete an insult to the older, wiser Rogue. If only, she acknowledged, she was wise enough to stay away, get out of there.

But she knew she wasn’t.

*

2. In the Zone

She sat quietly in the jet and tried to project the same fraught tension that vibrated from her teammates. Iceman was chewing his lip like the schoolboy he was, and Colossus had a silver sheen to his skin that suggested he would be more comfortable in his metallic form. Up front, Jean and Storm were talking strategy in hushed voices. They were the official rendezvous; Cyclops, Gambit, Colossus, Iceman, and Jubilee would provide the muscle. And Rogue, of course. Rogue was always invited whenever deadly force might be required.

Their plan had the virtue of simplicity, Rogue allowed, but on every other front would have failed Logan’s critical analysis. Their reliance on that old chestnut – the hidden strike force – would trip them up when the element of surprise was lost. Logan would smell them the minute the hatch on the jet opened, and be immediately aware that the simple transaction was just a front. He would smell the tension of a team poised for violence, and grimace at the taste of the lies Jean and Storm would tell. The only real wild card, Rogue realised, would be her.

He would wonder which side she was on. Why she was with the X-men. Who she was now. Maybe he’d even find some answers to the questions she had asked so often. But first, they would fight. Master against apprentice, sensei against student. Would her new gifts tip the balance? Or the tricks she had picked up along the way?

Her smile of anticipation drew startled looks, but the poor sods had no way of knowing what she was thinking. She could see the confidence flow into them: Rogue, the angel of death, was looking forward to stretching her wings. Fear receded and arrogance took its place: the mission became a challenge, a proving ground. Jubilee shuffled through the tunes on her tiny mp3 player before finding one worthy of the moment; she pulled the plug on her earphones to let the squall of 80s rawk saturate the plane.

Danger Zone. A testosterone anthem from a decade none of them had been alive in, one of those songs that leap off movie soundtracks for a few months and then vanish. Logan had loved it, had let the animal loose to run wild with the drums and bass. Had pounded into her, driving her into the exercise mat with a force that left her bruised and staggering afterwards. (She’d begged him to do it again. Harder.)

More memories that left her squirming. He’d certainly smell her coming, Rogue mused. Would he remember? Or had she been just another acolyte in the Church of Logan? It was the one question she’d never been comfortable to ask – “So, Logan, do you make a habit of picking up teenage hitchhikers and ruining them for life?”

She was laughing at her own joke as the plane landed. Maybe today she’d ask. Maybe tomorrow she would admit she wasn’t joking.

*
She followed the plan like a good little X-woman. They’d arrived two hours early to get the strike team into position (pointless, pointless, the Greek chorus howled); she maintained her crouch in the girders when he entered the building, even as her stomach flipped at the sight of him (disloyal, disloyal, the chorus moaned).

Eyes hungry, she mapped every change. His skin was still flawless and his hair – longer! – as dark as ever, but even the ageless man changed with the years. Or was it the assignment? He looked … urbane, almost. Too dangerous to wear the label comfortably, he was still dressed in black linen pants that yelled designer, and a silk shirt that outlined the contours of his body without ever being tight. And were they loafers on his feet? Rogue realised she had made a tiny sound of shock when Bobby shot her a furious glare.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the geek; he had no idea Logan already knew they were there. None of the X-men did: even Jean, the psychic wonder girl, was outmatched by the Wolverine’s experience and cunning. He had taught her how to project a mental space that was as serene and uncomplicated as the beach on a Sunday afternoon. Mutants are as bad as the rest of ‘em, kid. Never trust someone just because you think they might be like you. She remembered the reproach in his eyes as he scolded her for accepting a ride from another mutant, more than a year after the fact.

“S’ok, sugar. I didn’t trust you. Just wanted to fuck you,” she had retorted, still pushing the boundaries. His eyes had flashed, and his scent had changed, but he’d stuck close to his line. Ruffled her hair and turned it all into a joke. “That’s OK, then. Because sex never got anyone into trouble.”

He’d been uncomfortable, though, and tempted. She might not be a telepath, or any sort of psi, but the incident in Pasadena had left her with a set of new talents, and he was training her to use them. His sight, able to discern minute flickers of expression and penetrate into the night. Healing, slower on her, but still able to cut her recovery time from half an hour to less than 10 minutes. Smell. An avalanche of sensation so intense it hurt at first, her brain reeling at the onslaught of new information. Now, it was second nature, but it had taken months of patient teaching to distinguish each shade of emotion. Another gift, she thought sourly, as she forced herself to use his skills to learn more about the man she was about to betray.

His tells were still the same: the flare of the nostrils as he counted the number of scents in the room; the barely-there flicker of his eyes into the various corners where someone was concealed. The tiniest smirk when he realised they were unaware of his ability to unravel their trap; a crease on his forehead, and the contradictory notes of puzzlement in his scent when he registered something familiar, something out of place. Her, of course. Her personal scent combined with her emotional state: knowing, confused, contradictory. Loyalty, plotting betrayal. Love, resentment, fear, anticipation. Yep, that was Rogue, alright.

As his eyes flowed over her hiding place, she felt the ridiculous urge to bow to her old sensei. She choked down a chuckle that threatened to turn into a full giggle fit. Luckily, Jean and Storm chose that moment to step into the warehouse, and the immediate leer that appeared on Logan’s face was enough to freeze her hilarity.

“Well, well, well. Xavier’s couriers are looking mighty fine, these days,” he ventured, voice rumbling deep and rich from his chest. He didn’t bother to hide his appreciation as his gaze wandered over Ororo’s lush curves and Jean’s long legs and dark red tresses. Street clothes, though, Rogue thought triumphantly. She was in the leather. She knew damn well which Logan would prefer.

“Mr Wolverine. I gather you have something for us,” Jean purred, comfortable with the game he wanted to play. Her eyes drifted across his massive shoulders and down his torso, where watered silk seemed to kiss the ridges of his abdomen. “I do hope so.”

“Always, ladies, always. And please, call me Wolverine. Mr is so formal.”

Suave, smooth talking Logan. Wonders would never cease, Rogue thought drily. Ororo, say something. Stop this ridiculous flirt fest.

“I’m Storm, and this is Dr Grey,” the African woman said, her smile warm rather than flirtatious. “We have your cash here, but we’d like to discuss another proposition first, if that’s alright with you.”

An eyebrow shot up in an achingly familiar gesture. “A proposition? Please …” he indicated for them to sit on a nearby stack of crates. “I’m all ears.”

Jean perched herself on the edge of the stack, legs delicately crossed to expose the maximum amount of long, lean thigh. Storm was more subtle, leaning decorously next to her colleague and keeping her tone businesslike.

“Our employer, Professor Xavier, would like you to join us. The Institute has had some … security problems recently, most likely connected with our political profile. We are the most visible mutant presence in the country, and the political environment, as you know, is less than positive,” she said, nodding at the dossier the Wolverine was holding.

“So, you want me to … what? Protect you? Be a security guard at the school?” Because, ostensibly, that’s all they were. A group of teachers who specialised in educating unusually gifted students. No one was meant to know of their extra-curricular activities, especially not those that verged on the para-military.

“You would be our Head of Security. Professor Xavier would like to meet with you to discuss the details, but he has assured me you will have considerable scope to invest in the technologies and other measures you see fit. And, of course, it will pay very, very well.” Jean Grey’s smile was slow and catlike, leaving little doubt about the types of payoff available. Rogue wondered just how much Cyclops could see from his vantage point. Was the stick-up-his-butt team leader so inured to his wife’s liasions that he’d allow her to invite a total stranger into their bed?

Perhaps it was her growl that did it. Or the stink of jealousy wafting through the warehouse like poison gas. His head lifted fractionally, and she saw him take a long breath, taste it, and savour its essence. Gorgeous hazel eyes, flaring to gold, found her in the darkness far above.

Once, that predatory smile meant he wanted to fuck her. Maybe it still meant that. Or maybe he wanted to kill her.

Fair’s fair, she thought, and dropped from her perch to land crouched in front of him.

“Hello, sugar.”

*

3. So fucking bad

“Hello, darlin’. Wondered when you were going to drop in.”

The others would have heard nothing but gentle amusement, she realised. A half smile on his lips, and he hadn’t so much as flickered an eyelid when she landed in front of him. Maybe women fell from the sky every day in Wolverine’s world.

The real story lay in his eyes. Their slight dilation as he studied leather-clad curves. Calculation as he eyed the insignia she wore. Anger, burning hot with this new complication, and cold with remembered agony. Desire. Fury. Desire squared. Gratifying, in a way. But Rogue had no illusions where this man was concerned. He might want to fuck her, but he’d still kill her afterwards.

Might even be worth it, she found herself thinking as her senses drank him in. She tried not to stare, or breathe too deeply, or look like a parched woman crawling towards the only water in the desert. Speak, dammit!

“Figured you might need rescuing from the happy hookers over there.” She wondered if Jean and Ororo heard. Hoped she hadn’t hurt Ro’s feelings.

His lips took on a vicious slant. “Worried they might drag me off and leave me chained to a wall somewhere?”

Her conscience howled. She told it to shut the fuck up, and focus on the now. She donned Rogue like a mask.

“Nah. The redhead’s a ‘path. She’d know you’d enjoy it too much.”

His lips quirked, and she saw him fight the urge to smile. The flash of humour hurt more than death itself. Sprawled in a sweaty heap after sparring, she had fallen on his chest in a giggling mess. His belly laugh rumbled out of him and vibrated through her, jangling her nerve endings and making her squirm closer. “Nobody makes me laugh the way you do, kid,” he said, when he could speak. And for once, instead of pushing her away, he wrapped her in his arms as they lay there, hilarity subsiding into peace.

Stupid girl. Dead girl. So weak and wanting, it made her sick. Rogue sucked in the hatred and threw it at him – a roundhouse, her steel-toed boot flying through the air like blurred death. Connecting hard with the side of his head, the numbing shock of it delaying her recovery for a moment. He grabbed for the ankle, but she knew what was coming, and pushed past his grip, forcing him to release her or fall backwards under her assault. Once, his strength and skills had been unassailable, but she had taken his memories and instincts, and begun to build. Lessons, freely given, a voice reminded her, but she ignored it to sink deeper into the red haze. Another roundhouse, a punch to his unguarded spleen, and a vicious knuckle stomp as he faltered and fell.

All hail the apprentice, she thought savagely as she knocked her ancient sensei to the ground. Pinning him with one knee on the back of his neck, she pulled her elbow back and channelled everything she had into the killing strike, because this bastard was awful hard to kill …

“ROGUE!” The shout echoed off the rooftops and Cyclops punctuated it with a blast that tore into the ground two inches from her foot. She was suddenly aware of being surrounded, the ashen faces of her teammates suggesting they might have stopped her, if only they dared.

The hatred coiled inside, demanding his death. No Logan, no feelings, it insisted. No vulnerability. She lifted her fist again, even as she felt it icing over under Bobby’s frosty glare. She threw a fireball at his face while willing some of the heat to her extremities, and even as her focus switched elsewhere, knew she had made a mistake.

Wolverine flipped her, then, pulling the half frozen arm underneath him, and rolling neatly to pin her beneath him. Blood was still dripping from his nose as he pushed it into the nape of her neck and smeared it across her skin. He tightened her arms into an agonizing cross on her lower back as he worked his way round to her ear, and bit down hard.

“If you want to kill me so fucking bad, why don’t you turn your skin on, kid? Huh?”

She pondered that question as she waited for the blades to end her life.

*
Scott Summers spent way too much time watching Rogue. He knew it, and he knew Jean knew it too. But his eyes were incapable of ignoring the way she moved, or the beauty of her body as threw herself into combat. Usually, he told himself it was professional admiration. This time, it was pure horror.

“Rogue, what the?”

She had leapt from the beam like an avenging angel, landing in front of him in a crouch. Hadn’t she read the brief? This man was dangerous and she was crouched at his fucking feet! Cyclops watched as she straightened up, her spine unfolding in a sinuous roll until she stood in front of the Wolverine, staring up into his face.

She wasn’t even in fighting stance, for God’s sake!

It was the look on Rogue’s face that told him something weird was going on. Her eyes were fixed on the stranger with an intensity he had never seen. She looked … hungry, he realised. Every line in her body was taut, as if she was desperate to throw herself into battle. With the supermutant killing machine.

Cyclops moved out into the open, readying his beam as he went. Neither of them even glanced in his direction, so the honey of her drawl nearly stopped him in his tracks.

“Hello, sugar.”

“Hello, darlin’. Wondering when you were going to drop in.”

Scott felt his jaw drop and slammed it shut in pique. They knew each other? One of his teammates KNEW the target? And hadn’t thought to tell him? He was still analysing just what that meant to the mission when Rogue attacked.

Like always, it was amazing to watch. The seamlessness of her moves, each flowing perfectly in the next. Her ability to do the unexpected. She made Wolverine look like an over-muscled ape as she kicked, whirled, pushed, and then dropped down to deliver a punch to the head.

Kill punch, his brain screamed. Killing the target wasn’t good. Even as he yelled her name, Cyclops knew it wouldn’t work, and a beam was surging from his visor to create a wave of red energy that splashed in front of her feet. She glanced up, but the dismissal on her face chilled him.

Iceman had rushed out of cover and was directing a stream of cold air at Rogue’s hand; frost clouded her leather gloves and it had to hurt like a bitch, and surely that was the only thing that made her turn on her teammate, Cyclops told himself. He hadn’t even known she could MAKE fire, even Pyro hadn’t been able to do that, but somehow, Rogue had flung a fireball at Iceman.

In that moment, Wolverine had grabbed her hand, and flipped her under him. Crushed her to the ground underneath her massive frame. And what the fuck were those? Cyclops watched, mesmerised, as three wicked blades sprung the back of each hand.

Wolverine roared and plunged one set of … knives? claws? deep into the ground beside her head, while the others hovered over her chest, ready to spear up into her heart. He was speaking to her … low, angry words that no one could hear, even from just a few feet away … and then, he moved, dragging them down the front of her uniform, slicing it open with terrifying ease.

Cyclops watched in horror, expecting blood to well from the girl’s mutilated corpse. Instead, he watched Wolverine retract the claws and stalk away, leaving Rogue sprawled on the floor, her uniform hanging open from breastbone to pubis.

Note to self: make team wear underwear, Scott found himself thinking as shock set in.

*

They sat opposite each other in the rear of the Blackbird, dried blood crusting his shirt, and her uniform in ruins. His eyes were on the pale curve of her breast as it hung free of the leather, and she could see his cock straining the integrity of those expensive linen pants.

“You are one sick fuck, Wolverine. I just tried to kill you.”

“Little something like that never stopped me before, kid. What’s your excuse?” he asked, dragging in scent with an ostentatious leer.

Marie tried to adjust herself so that her assets weren’t on display, but the custom-made shackles securing her hands to the wall behind her back allowed precious little movement. Cyclops was a dick – apparently she was ‘untrustworthy’ now. No longer capable of following orders. So she’d attacked a guy the professor wanted to parlay with. She’d try to explain it was personal, but no, they’d insisted on locking her up back here, too.

Facing him. Facing her. Facing their demons.

The urbane front was gone, and the Wolverine was prowling, sniffing for weakness. “You trying to pretend that you don’t like it? When you know I can smell you drippin’ all over that leather? Must be fucking slippery in there, girl. You stink like a fucking cathouse.” He bared his teeth at her, and raised his foot to push it in between her legs, half kicking, half probing. She twisted to avoid it, but only managed to pull her arms even further out of their sockets. She ignored the pain to push herself a little further back, out of reach of his probing foot. A dislocated shoulder seemed a small price to pay for avoiding utter humiliation.

“Don’t kid yourself, kid.” His feral grin broke wide at the unintended joke. “If you weren’t locked to that bench, you’d be right over here playing cowgirl on my cock.” He thrust his hips towards her crudely as if to underline the point. She looked away, refusing to admit that it hurt. Once, he had placed her on a pedestal so fucking white, it had blinded her.

Some women, kid, they see me as nothing but an animal. Something to get off on. Like a fucking stallion. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t want to touch you, but you don’t need that from me. He had looked away then, and when he looked back, she could see nothing but sadness in his eyes. I can’t give you what you need, Marie. What you deserve.

Had it been then that her heart began to break? She had forgiven him, at the time, choosing to believe in his nobility. His love, she had told herself. After Pasadena, she discovered the truth was more complex than that. She had lain awake that night, her body healed by his near-sacrifice, and her mind irreversibly altered. She discovered her hero was an assassin. She discovered his plan for her. She discovered the pedestal wasn’t about love, or nobility. It was about restraint, and biding his time. A plot, and she was the patsy.

You don’t shit where you eat, Marie, he’d said when she confronted him. Business is business, and pleasure is every fucking other thing. Mix the two and people get dead. What he didn’t say, what she was beginning to figure out, hurt so much more.

He was binding her to him. Ropes of desire, and knots of love, but bound all the same. Marie had been tied up, once. Her mutation freshly sprung, parents freshly spooked, they had roped her hands behind her back and left her in the basement while they figured out what to do. She had forced herself to do the unthinkable, then, and now her father’s hate rattled around inside in her head.

At least her father hadn’t pretended she was special, or cherished. He hadn’t said words of kindness, or inspired loyalty. Hate was easier than this love that scalded from the inside out. He planned to turn her into a weapon, so she would stick around, and learn. But she would hate. Hate him for choosing her. Hate him for using her. Hate him for making her love him anyway.

***

4. Demons

Scott ignored the roiling anger to land the jet as carefully as he knew how. Precision, skill, pinpoint control … they were important to him, and he refused to bounce them across the basketball court just to give everyone on board vertigo.

He ran through the full shutdown sequence, dismissed the team after reminding them of the 9pm debrief, and even kissed his wife before she left the plane, shooting him a concerned glance over her shoulder.

“Will you be right bringing them round by yourself?” Jean had asked, brow wrinkling in doubt. He had snapped at her, then, for daring to think Rogue posed any real threat. She was an X-man, learning a lesson about following orders, that was all.

He crossed to the door to the hold and slid back the peephole cover to watch the two figures on the other side. Rogue was glued to one wall, obviously staying out of reach of the man secured across from her. Her face was turned away, but the purity of her profile was marred by obvious sadness and distress, something that shook him to the very core. Rogue was arrogant, cocky, flirtatious and proud – she never apologised, and never backed down.
What the hell had this man done to Rogue?

Scott was snarling inside as he unlocked the door and moved straight to his teammate, carefully unlocking her wrists and helping her rub circulation back into them. He ignored the stranger, perfectly happy to see him suffer a few moments more.

Mr Wolverine didn’t like to be ignored, apparently. The guy was growling – growling! – and took a half-baked swipe at him with a foot that would have neutered him if it had connected.

“Get your fucking hands off her, boy!”

Scott’s jaw dropped at the possessive tone, and all of a sudden, three and three seemed to make seven. But Wolverine wasn’t finished yet.

“Your little bitch tries to kill me, and you tie ME up? I came here in good faith, with every bit of intel Xavier asks for, and I end up a fucking prisoner? What kind of business arrangement is that?” Wolverine seethed.

The reminder of the aborted mission sent Scott right back to very.fucking.angry, and not just with the abrasive stranger.

“Well, here’s the thing. Apparently the little bitch was once your little bitch, and she neglected to say a damn thing about it. Now, unless you can explain, that’s a conspiracy, and I’m not willing to let either of you wander about the place until you can convince me otherwise,” he said through gritted teeth.

Scott turned his back on an apoplectic Rogue to unlock the Wolverine; for a moment, his spine itched with the exposure.

“Little bitch? His? I … fuck you, Cyclops!” She was speechless. Good. He was too angry to say anything conciliatory now, and the last thing they needed on the X-team was all out war.

“You can explain yourselves to Professor Xavier. He’s a telepath, so the truth will come out one way or another,” Scott said coldly as he led the way out into the sublevels. The Professor would never abuse his gift in such a way, but the Wolverine had no way of knowing that. And if Rogue was pissed off at the lack of trust, well, it was time to reap what she had sown, he thought sourly.

*

“How many years has it been, now, Wolverine?”

Logan ignored the question and continued his assessment. Nice cushy office, check. Uptight prick lurking in the background, check. Sanctimonious bastard – check, check, check.

He’d tried hard to conceal how impressed he was as they emerged from the jet into the space age hangar, then caught an elevator up into the ritzy woodpanelled hall. He knew Xavier had some serious dough, but how many schools had genuine oil paintings and furniture older than he was? Seriously high end digs. But the school part seemed to be true – a hundred or so different scents, and somewhere, the faint babble of lots of young voices. Maybe two floors away? Windows told him they were up high, so somewhere pretty fuckin’ palatial given the length of the hall they had hustled down before the door had swung open as they’d approached. So someone was telekinetic as well. Useful to know.

He’d been pushed into one wing chair, and Rogue opposite him. The pissy kid they called Cyclops standing behind, probably ready to drill them with that energy beam if they even moved a muscle. It was an intimidation scenario straight out of Psychology 101, Logan smirked. And now, sure enough, Xavier was playing the “I know something you don’t know” card.

“Moving from place to place, no one ever knowing your real identity? Selling your soul with every hit? We can offer you something better, Wolverine.”

The sanctimonious fuck sat opposite him, eyes sad. Logan could feel the tiny pushes that signalled he was being read, if not invaded. Xavier was no White Queen, though. Emma Frost might have been only a middling fuck, but she was one hell of a ’path, and had not only taught him to block intrusions, but how to set a false trail.

“As our head of security, you will be helping us keep people safe. Helping us make the world a better place for mutant children. I will never ask you to kill another person, except in defence of that,” Xavier continued.

Well, where’s the fun in that, Chuckie? Logan clamped down on his mirth and conjured up sadness, and regret. Loneliness, and a fractured soul that did what he did because he saw no other options. Knew no better.

Some of it might have been true, but he was the fucking Wolverine. The best at what he did. Walk away from that, and what was left? Once, a girl had made him think about changing his life. Getting out of the game. But he’d recovered.

Logan yanked his thoughts back, and concentrated on finding a better explanation for Rogue. Maybe he should have gone easy on her, and used the trip to come up with a cover story. He smirked. Nah. Watching her pretend to ignore him had been all kinds of fun. He was still hard.

“Wolverine!” Oops. Charlie Boy must have caught that one. He concentrated on how she had looked today, a wet dream in black leather, and locked away the memories of a teenage girl, freezing by the side of the road. Rising from her bath, pink skin gleaming with temptation. Scrabbling together on the floor, thoughts of victory lost to the miracle of friction and body heat. Bedecked in blood, a predator to match him.

Think of something else. What qualified as innocent contact with a girl that young? High school teacher? Nup. Mechanic? He’d taught her to drive, after all. But how many people wanted to kill their mechanic?

Mortal enemy? Could she have been a target, his only failure? She would take it personally, and he would have been happy to let her go, because she was just a kid. Hmm. Could work.

The image formed before his eyes. A dossier, her brown eyes shining even on the dull, photocopied page. Her name. Anna Marie d’Ancanto. Age – 16. Whereabouts – unknown. Tracking her. Finding her. Pretty girl profiled in his crosshairs, and not being able to do it. Just … wrong.

He had broken out in a sweat, Logan realised. An entirely fictional scenario, and he could feel his stomach churning, and the moisture on his forehead. Fuck. He was tied in knots. Six fucking years and she still … affected him.

She’d gotten mad, of course. Found him out, hated him. Tried to kill him. Reality shaded the fiction, and the sour taste in his mouth needed to go the fuck away because regret … the Wolverine didn’t do regret. Not unless it got him something, he allowed, and pumped it into the construct. Met Xavier’s eyes with his own.

Tried not to gloat. Lock, stock and fucking barrel, baby.

Professor Charles Xavier, mutant saviour and arrogant shit, Logan thought. Just like he used to tell her, find the weakness, and that’s your way in. That’s how you’ll trap ‘em. Xavier thought he was fuckin’ omnipotent.

More fool him.

*

Logan was planning something, Marie realised. Something about his stillness suggested pieces in play, and the way his mind worked … nothing happened by accident. Had she been the rogue factor, the complication he hadn’t planned on? Or had he known where she was all along? She wondered what story he would come up with to explain how they knew each other, and tried not to care.

You hate him, she told herself firmly. You wanted to kill him. You never did get what you wanted when it came to Logan, she realised ruefully.

Professor Xavier was looking from him, to her, and back again. He’d be asking her questions soon, but Logan had taught her that people always tell you the answers they want to hear. She just had to listen properly.

“Rogue – you and Logan have been combatants in the past, I gather.”

Combatants? Well, lah di da. Guess you could call it that.

“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but … it was just too painful. I’ve been trying to forget.”

“It’s quite clear where the blame lies here, Rogue. I realise Wolverine believes he was only doing his job, but to agree to kill a child … to accept your parents’ money and track you like an animal… it was wrong. We can only be thankful that some part of him realised that in time,” Professor Xavier said sadly.

Rogue hid her vague amusement and contemplated which part of Logan might have done such a thing, if it had ever actually happened. The part that had advised her how to slip into Meridian unnoticed? Or the part that had stood behind her as she held a knife to her father’s throat, glorying in the foul stench of his fear? Or perhaps it was the part that had shown her where to cut so the kid-fiddling bastard would die slowly, smothering in the pain and humiliation?

Warm throb of the bike between her thighs, closer than she really needed to be. Normally, he made her shift back, give him some space, but she needed the comfort, tonight. She needed to do this. Black, Mississippi night dripping with promise, and familiar white clapboard, looming ahead. He let her go first, crossing silently through the yard, opening the back door with the spare key that still lived under the damn petunia pot. Up the stairs, knowing every creak and using the sign language he had drilled in to her to show him where to step.

The bedroom. Her father, may his black soul rot in hell. Lying alone in the big bed, Momma long gone. Quailing a little, her stomach writhing with hate. Stumbling back, ‘til his arms went around her, his warm bulk offering shelter and strength as her body tried to burrow inside his. His breath in her ear: “You don’t have to do this. I will”. But she did have to. All the demons inside her, screaming to be cast out. She had no choice.

The moment her father’s eyes opened, and saw her. His little Marie. Little Marie, whose skin crawled when his fingers touched her skin. Little Marie, who curled tight into the tiniest ball, so he couldn’t find her in the night. Little Marie, who had no choice. Even as her father ripped off the Winnie the Pooh panties, ripped her inside, ripped her apart.

She needed this. The fear in his eyes as he saw the jagged hunting knife, and the massive shape in the dark behind her. The stink as her father pissed himself, and shat all over his pajama pants when the pain became too much. She had asked how to make him hurt, and Logan had told her. Small cuts, here. A deep slash, there. She wanted to rip, and rip, and rip, but that would be too fast. Slow, blood-drenched death was what the demons needed.

Rogue realised she was smiling. She tried not to relive the memory too often, but the black thrill of it left the demons purring. Wolverine cast a worried glance in her direction, and she realised the look she was sending him wasn’t appropriate for combatants facing off in the Professor’s study. She cast around for a truth to mask the lie, but Professor Xavier had already taken his own meaning from her vicious smile.

Ooh, a frown. Penitence, here I come, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“That does not mean you can abuse our debt of hospitality, Rogue. This man is my guest, and I must insist you put your grievances aside. His pursuit of you was not personal, and his decision, ultimately, was to spare you.”

“Now, you must choose to do the same. While I realise it won’t be easy, Wolverine will be an asset to our staff, and the wellbeing of our children is paramount.” His eyes bored into her, and she could feel his sincerity pressing down. What would he expect from her?

Rage. Resentment. Sad, twisted acceptance. She ground her teeth and nodded her head once. Whirled on her heel, and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind her in a final touch of outrage. Sometimes, being the antisocial bitch had its advantages, she smirked as she strode up the hall to her room.

She needed … something. Bourbon wouldn’t even touch this itch. Maybe the bitty blue tablets she kept in the hollowed out heel of her favourite combat boots? Or maybe a trip to the fight bar in town. No chemical high could match old fashioned endorphins, and she and Logan were completely in agreement on one thing.

Nothing beat a hard fight, followed by an even harder fuck. She fully intended to find both.

***

5. The fight within

It always amused Rogue that she had to go to Connecticut for a good fight. Connecticut! The state of horsey women and even more expensive horses … and the home of The Pen. Two hours across the state line, in back of Eureka Lake, hidden away up a little dirt road, lay the dirtiest, freakiest, loudest, meanest fight bar in the 50 states. Rich folks like seeing blood spilt just the same way as anyone else, Rogue figured – and they were way better at keeping the law in line.

Her Harley fit right in to a line of gleaming hogs as she circled the parking lot, backing in to the row next to the door. Always keep a clear path to your exit, and have your getaway close by. And never a fuckin’ car, kid – they get parked in, towed away, stuck in traffic – cars are for freakin’ amateurs. The lessons were ingrained now, and they had saved her life more than once, and even here, where she was frigging fight bar royalty, she checked her lines of sight once more before swinging free of the lush ride.

The two giants on the door nodded respectfully as she strode past, Joe murmuring “Miss Rogue” while Jack satisfied himself with “ma’am”. She raised an eyebrow at the honorific and mouthed “later”, blowing them a double kiss with a slow intent that two sets of ears bright pink. Their discomfit made her giggle – the two former Marines were friends, so much as she had any. She’d been matched against both of them in the ring at one point, and had only managed to win through a string of execrably dirty tricks she’d since apologised for. They’d laughed and said someone had taught her those tricks for a reason, and to never apologise. Logan inside had growled his approval, and they’d been drinking buddies ever since. Sometimes, she wondered who enjoyed their company more – the former soldier that lived in her head, or whoever the hell Rogue was these days. She suspected she knew whose company they liked, though.

She felt a wide, slow smile working its way across her face at the thought, and swung her hips a little bit more than usual as she wove her way across the room to the bookie’s cage. She could see the vile little man bristling with excitement at the mere sight of her, probably already counting the money she would make him.

“Hello Toad, my love.” Sometimes, she even liked the guy, but a year of living with him had certainly taught her how to manage him. His wet, wide smile was positively gloating as he scanned her from head to toe.

“Looking hot, my babe. Looking ready to kick some serious butt. Make some serious moolah.”

“Tell me you got someone decent on the books tonight. I need a good fight, Toad. You get me? Need it.”

He got her, alright. He revolted her, but he’d seen her in this mood before, and even gotten lucky because of it. Now, they were sensible and kept things strictly business, because when Rogue channelled her frustration into the fights … any man would sell his soul to see it.

“Oh baby, I wish we had someone who could challenge you. No one I know about yet … but maybe we’ll ask the commando twins for a warm up? You game for that again?”

Rogue shot her glance to the door, where Joe and Jack were frisking a new arrival. She sucked in a breath, and traced her lips with her tongue obviously enough to draw their startled attention from the other side of the room. She smiled.

“Oh yeah. That’d be great to start. Soon. I need them soon. And then let me know if anything else comes up.”

She turned on her heel, ignoring her old housemate as she headed for the bar. Wolverine hated it when she drank before the fights, but the buzz helped her. Soothed her skin, and helped her stay loose. Loose? You don’t want to be loose – you need to be sharp! Every sense on alert! This isn’t a game, kid – it’s life and death and you never know when it’s going to come gunning for you.

Let it come, baby, she thought.

Let it come.

*

Logan fought déjà vu as he rolled into the carpark. It hadn’t been called The Pen, last time he’d been here, but not much else had changed. He wasn’t even sure how long it had been – the years slipped by so quickly, and those early years were nothing but a red haze of anger and stupidity.

He’d been King of the Cage, he remembered that. Strange how beating up on humans had helped him, then. Little by little, his own humanity had returned, and eventually, he stopped enjoying it. Stopped needing it. It was as if the blood and hate had fed the animal, fattened it ‘til bursting and left it sleeping in a corner, glutted with violence. Logan had been able to step in, then, and take control. He had his own taste for destruction, but it was tempered and shaped and put to good use against the scum of the human world. Logan’s way kept the animal controllable, and the lust for mayhem had faded, over time.

But right now, the Wolverine was sniffing around. And it was just about delirious with what it could smell.

Blood! Blood.blood.blood. Fight.Fight.Fight. Blood. blood.blood. Females. Females. Her. Her! Her! Fight.fight.fight. Rogue.Rogue.Rogue.Rogue. Rogue.

Yeah, Rogue, Logan thought sourly. He hadn’t known she’d be here, but … it figured. She was still raging. He wondered if she fought in the cage, and then dismissed the speculation. She would have no choice. Her animal would demand it.

Shit. It had all turned to shit. The kid was dying, huge gasps of air doing nothing to satisfy her damaged lungs. The bullet had gone in below her collarbone, and out under the edge of her shoulder blade, leaving two gaping holes he could only plug with fabric from his t-shirt. A shitty little gangbanger, hardly worth the money, and it had ended like this. His girl, dying, in a Pasadena back street. No. No. No! He refused to let it happen, refused! Dragged her into his lap, and pressed his hands to her bare face, begging her to take him. Lips to her forehead, praying. To her. His own goddess. Praying.

The draw came like fingertips on his skin, soft and delicious at first, and he cried with the glory of it. Take, take, take, he moaned into the pain that followed. Take it all. And she did. His healing factor, flowing into her. His animal, into her. And everything he was, every dark corner of his fractured mind, every dirty plan and back-alley fuck, every fight and every killing, every cold decision and hot nasty rage, every emotion he’d ever felt … she took it all.

And when she opened her eyes, dark chocolate had turned a molten, eerily familiar gold. Innocence had fled. “Hello, sugar,” she said.

He’d been amazed at what she’d taken in. Things he had forgotten. Things he had never known he knew. She had new mannerisms he’d never been aware he had – until he saw them reflected in the tilt of her brow, or the bored cast of her face.

He’d taken her to a bar to watch her first fight, and saw her flying high on the rush of pheromones the violence released. He’d watched her eyes narrow when she found the hottest woman in the place. Watched her meander past, and nail the woman with a hungry, hungry look. Watched them fuck, in the alley, with all the power and fury of the Wolverine. And still, he’d been shocked at the noise that ripped from her throat as she came, those long legs nearly crushing little blonde eating her out, body writhing against the chain link fence. Roars. A full Wolverine roar, one he remembered but rarely succumbed to even then.

The guilt that he’d felt then was nothing, compared to now. It was as if every year found another burden to lay on him, every one of them neatly etched with her name. And tonight’s burden was knowing that if she wanted to fight him – he would. And if she wanted to fuck him – he'd do that too. The right thing to do would be to turn around, now. Before she laid eyes on him.

But Logan pushed himself upright, sidestepped the line at the door, and headed for the bar. He told himself he wanted to see if his favourite stool still had three parallel slashes marking the wooden seat.

It did. And he still had a clear view of the cage, where a beautiful girl in black leather was in the midst of thrashing two men, brothers by the look of them.

How fucking appropriate.

*

They’d been in New York for weeks, tracking the target ceaselessly, looking for the perfect opportunity to spring the trap. Catalogued weaknesses, considered angles, and still they didn’t see it. He hadn’t seen it.

Target: Erik Lensherr. Last known locations, known associates, criminal activities … something was bothering him about this job. The intel was good, but … was it too good? Too much detail spelling out just how bad this guy was? How could the client know what sort of guns he had been buying? Or where the dirty money had come from in the first place? Who knew that stuff?

But he’d done his own investigation, and what he’d seen was ugly enough. Using kids to commit crimes. Using mutants to fight other mutants. Plotting some sort of war against humanity.

Well, humanity paid his bills, so fuck that. Lensherr was going down. Tonight.

Four years and it still hurt, Logan realised. His own arrogance. He’d known the bastard was a mutant, but hadn’t thought to find out what he could do, had he. No, the Wolverine was fucking invincible, death’s favourite horseman. Nothing to fear from no one. Except, it turned out, a mutant who could manipulate metal.

Crucified. Spreadeagled, high against the wall, adamantium stripped from his own bones used to form shackles for each wrist. Magneto had laughed as he flayed ‘that remarkable metal’ from his bones, leaving his arms shattered bags of flesh and splinters. Unable to use his claws, endlessly springing and then sheathing at the end of useless hands. Muscles and sinews and bone trying to heal, unable to make sense of the new form his skeleton was taking, but trying anyway. And then the pain really started.

There were five of them. Lensherr. The blue woman, Darkholme. Some sort of lackey they called Toad. And someone horribly, disastrously familiar. Victor. He had begun to scream, then. Because the fifth was Rogue, and the scent of her blood was rank in the air around them. A huge paw caressing her midsection as his arm crushed her neck. And then she took him by the hand. And the veins were appearing on his brother’s face and he was dying and … no. Not Sabretooth. Victor hadn’t survived Sabretooth …

He was screaming – at her, for her, for himself, he wasn’t sure. But she was quiet and collected as she turned to look at him with black, black eyes. Nothing in them except the ancient malice that had stolen his brother's soul. She walked to stand below him then, and for a moment, he thought she was trying to help. Until her hand stretched up slowly, to where his blood was trickling down the wall. It wasn’t much of a flow, but enough to coat her fingers and elicit little growls of approval as she licked them clean. Somewhere, he could hear howls of rage and sorrow, but they were growing fainter as the blackness drew closer …

He had been alone when he opened his eyes. Still chained in shackles of adamantium. Still not whole. And Rogue was gone. He had remembered those empty eyes, and tried not to believe she was gone forever.

Wasn’t 'til tonight that he actually begun to hope. Tonight, Rogue had been there, for long moments of lucidity. Even as she was giving in to Sabretooth’s black rage, Marie’s scent rose clear and pure from her body, and he’d reacted the way he always had. No wonder he’d missed the kick, Logan thought ruefully as he rubbed his sore jaw. Want had a way of doing that to a man, and he and Rogue … they had a history.

He winced as she landed a particularly nasty sidekick to one man’s knee, the crunch it made audible throughout the bar. He wouldn’t get up from that, and without the advantage of someone at his back, the brother would be short work.

Less than a minute later, she was raising one arm in a casual victory salute, her eyes raking the bar to find him. He had already ordered her whiskey and beer, and simply raised his own glass to acknowledge the win.

Future starts now, kid, he thought as she jumped from the cage to join him at the bar.

***

6. The war without

She felt the moment he entered the bar. Her skin jumped to attention, and the noise of the crowd muted to the thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat. Rogue told herself it was hate that galvanised her like that, leaving her all a-shiver inside. Her own scent told her she was lying. Suddenly, the fight wasn’t enough.

Oblivion had been close, the cocktail of alcohol and adrenalin pushing her higher every time she landed a blow – hell, even taking one helped. She’d been nearly there, where it was all blackness and fury, until he paused at the door (a roundhouse that crunched into Joe’s back), worked his way to the bar (punch, mule kick, sidearm) and slid onto the stool closest to the cage. Gestured to the barman (roundhouse, drop, roll, side kick), taken a long swig of his beer (somersault, airborne kick) then turned his back to the bar and let his eyes find her (jab, jab, hook, spring kick). The ferocity of her attack increased, her opponent dropping under the flurry, then neutralised with a kick to the knee. (Sorry, Joe.)

She waited for the rush, the payoff, but it never came. Angry, she forced her attention away from him, telling herself she owed Jack her focus for the minutes she needed to finish this. The two brothers were used to having each other’s back, and the big Marine was vulnerable now. He knew Rogue well enough to know she wouldn’t hurt him too much … but he didn’t know Rogue wasn’t always in charge.

Usually, she let Wolverine run the fights. He was raw instinct, primal power, and lots of cunning. But the past twelve hours had left the other beast rattled, and his hate and outrage was somehow seeping out of the psychic cage Marie had built for him. It had served her well, today - her energy levels were higher than usual, the blows harder, the decisions a split second faster. She’d used him, and then put him back in his box. But echoes remained.

She found herself disabling Jack with a level of malice that was disturbing. She tried not to hit around the head – no point killing a man she had no quarrel with – but she wanted to end this. Quick punch to the temple, and he’s never gonna bore you again, a black whisper taunted her. She batted it away but the strategist in her supported the idea, and before conscious thought could intervene, she had swept her friend low with a helicopter manoeuvre, and landed a double punch to the side of his head.

Jack was bleeding from the ear, she realised with horror. Unconscious. All because you can’t wait to play with the Wolverine. She didn’t even bother to refute the suggestion, but the shivers running up her spine were from fear rather than arousal. So easy. Too easy for the animal to slip its chain and take over, if she was distracted. If she was tempted.

All the while, Logan was watching. Face carefully blank, but eyes shocked, and sad. Judgement. What had she done to earn that? Why couldn’t he simply hate her? It was defiance that forced her to claim the victory, and make a show of relishing it, even as the medic organised to have her friends taken to the hospital. And it was defiance that pushed her forward, out of the cage, across the floor, to him.

Bourbon, and beer, she noted, as she drew close, willing herself to concentrate on something other than the bulk of him, and his smell, and the lines of his body as he lounged, waiting for her. He’d traded in his yuppie gear for the delicious familiarity of worn jeans, a wifebeater, and a flannel shirt that she was pretty sure she’d worn a few times herself.

Her skin prickling with goosebumps after an early morning workout, the brush of warm flannel as it enfolded her in woodsmoke, cigar and Logan. The heat in his eyes as he saw her wearing it, the hand that came out almost reflexively to smooth her sweat-soaked hair, and glide down to the collar, tracing the placket downwards with dizzying slowness as his bunched fingers traversed her neck, her breast, lingered near her yearning nipple for a long moment of temptation, then was yanked away with a curse. Watching him stomp into the woods, but cuddling that feeling to her every time she found yet another shirt strewn across chair backs, or crumpled on the sofa, or tossed on the hook in the bathroom.

She had so many of them, those memories of restraint and near-misses and combustible moments, and once, they had been a source of comfort. Now, the what-might-have-been tortured her, because she wanted to call them false and lies, but she couldn’t. Something told her no, even as the resentment coiled in her stomach, and the rage boiled her blood – something told her to treasure that. Treasure them.

Rogue shrugged. Too many voices telling her what to do, that was her problem. They could all shut up for a while and let her enjoy this – beer, bourbon, and brave talk with a man who was good enough to eat.

“Well, hello stranger. What brings you to a fine place like this, tonight?” Sweet and southern, and let’s forget he’d just watched her beat two men to a pulp in a cage. Not to mention her stab at homicide a few hours earlier.

“Just admiring the scenery, darlin’. Heard the entertainment was good out this way.” He drew hard on a fat, pungent cigar and streamed a cloud between them. A literal smokescreen, she smirked. Logan wants to play.

Her tongue flashed out. She hardly needed it to taste the air, they both knew that, but his eyes darkened anyway, and his body tilted towards hers, as she rolled the flavours of the Cubano over her tongue and licked it from her lips.

“Mmm, uno Belicoso. Como muy … tentador.” Her lips wrapped around the adjective as if sipping at temptation itself. The cigar. Or something else she wanted to wrap her tongue around and taste.

She saw the moment he reached that conclusion, and used it to step into the lazy sprawl of his body. Becoming less lazy, and more tense by the second, she noted. Good.

He reached for the glass of bourbon on the counter, and she smiled at the miniscule retreat before doing the same. Tasted it, and wanted it to be him.

“First time we’ve had a drink together, darlin’.” She wanted to remind him of countless nights of beers, and joints, and even a misadventure into hard drugs they’d taken together, but she knew what he meant. “I shouldn’t be letting you do this shit,” he’d said, uncharacteristic worry in his voice. “You’re too young. Too young for all of it. One day, we’ll have a drink in a bar together. We’ll toast each other and we’ll pretend I haven’t spent years fucking corrupting you. We’ll both be adults and we’ll be fucking civilized about it and maybe then we’ll do what consenting adults do.”

He was watching her mouth, she realised, and the strange look on his face made her wonder if he was reliving the same memory.

“What are we drinkin’ to?”

Oh, but she just had to.

“You, fucking my brains out?”

“Think that’s a good idea?”

“Excuse me? Mr “ride my cock like a cowgirl?” Bit late for playing hard to get now, sugar!” She wanted to keep it there, lewd and flirty and a just little bit nasty. She leaned close, bringing the full length of her body to brush against his. “Yee, fucking haw, cowboy. You really gonna pretend you don’t want that?” Her hand stroked down between their bodies to find him huge and hard. He couldn’t pretend that away.

“Nah. Instead I’m gonna pretend that you don’t hate me for some reason I am completely fucking oblivious to. That you didn’t leave me hanging from a fucking wall while you got off on my blood. Or, here’s a good one: that you didn’t betray your new friends and try to kill me.”

“Then I’m gonna pretend that I didn’t fuck you up in the first place, didn’t take advantage, and didn’t turn you into the mean little bitch that just nearly killed a guy for kicks.”

“Then I’m gonna pretend that you’re actually in control of your life, and not at the mercy of a bunch of freaks running around in your head, and that you are actually choosing to do this, and that Marie is still in there somewhere.”

Her hand stilled, then. That was altogether too much honesty for one night.

Rogue stepped away without a word. Spun on her heel, and crossed the floor to the cage. Climbed the stairs and stood there, until every head in the room turned to watch.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight The Pen has a real treat for you. You all know me, I am the Rogue. And no one has ever beaten me in this cage. Few men have balls enough to challenge me, and those that do … I send them home in pieces.” She blew a kiss towards the door, where another pair of sentries had taken over for Joe and Jack.

“But tonight, there is someone who can challenge me. Might even be able to beat me. Once, they called him King of the Cage. And when I was a little, bitty girl, he taught me how to fight.” She laughed, shattered glass even to her own ears. “He taught me lots of interesting things, none of them legal.” And just in case the entendre wasn’t quite clear enough, she brought a hand to her chest, and let it linger a moment before it drifted downward in a parody of a man’s caress. He growled then, a sound full of disgust and annoyance, and banged his glass onto the table before rising to his feet and pulling on the battered jacket he’d thrown on the chair next to him.

“I’m not fighting you, kid,” he told the room – if she’d been closer, he would have waggled that accusatory finger under her nose, she was sure.

“We’ve been there, done that, got the friggen’ postcard. There’s nothing to prove.”

He turned to leave.

She felt blackness sweep over her, and suddenly, her senses were screaming. Rage, pure and black. Hate. Him. Always him. Him in the big house. Him with the doting daddy. Him, with her. Him with her!

Victor’s pain. Sabretooth’s rage. And hate that obliterated every boundary that kept her sane.

The voice was a familiar, husky contralto, but it had been stripped of its Southern cadence, and the warmth that even Rogue shared.

“Yes there is, runt. You never could beat me. Out there, or in here – I’m all she needs.”

*

Logan knew their détente was over when she took her hand off his cock. He could almost hear the Wolverine howling in disgust, and it was hard not to agree with him as Marie’s exquisite ass waltzed itself back into the cage.

He snorted as she challenged him in front of the whole bar, and then proceeded to defame him. (Yeah, his conscience jeered. You were very careful not to step over the line into statutory rape. Not like you didn’t give the line a damn good nudge, though.) But he wasn’t particularly angry, just sad and disappointed. He’d been enjoying her so much, hot eyes and her slide into Spanish bringing back the month they’d spent in La Habana. “Run out of cigars, Logan?” Matter of fact, he had. And she needed to learn to speak Spanish, and this was to the place to do it. Something else she needed to learn, too, and he had a few ideas about how to teach her. And if it needed a month by the pool with her wearing next to nothing, well, he was up for that. Heh. He’d worked on Marie that month, finding out who she was and who she wanted to be. And he’d seen her again, tonight, the girl who laughed with delight as she made him climb the walls with hunger. That girl was so close to the surface, when she laughed and teased like this, and even when Rogue mouthed his own crudities back at him, she did it with Marie’s lips, and Marie’s scent, and Marie’s desire.

Then he heard Victor, speaking from her lips. Claiming her. The Wolverine screamed inside, and the tumult obliterated reason and sentiment like a giant wave. Unstoppable. Control splintered and fractured, and he barely heard his own roar as he leapt forward, tearing off his shirts as he went. He cleared the steps to the cage in one bound, and thrust his face up close to hers.

“She is mine, Victor. Mine!”

Rogue simply smiled at him, flat black eyes spitting ancient hate, and bowed slowly, a mocking parody of the respect she had once paid her sensei. Then she struck, her hand moving so fast he failed to see it. Three gouges, running parallel, from cheekbone to chin.

And she was licking his blood from her fingers. Again.

He roared and threw himself at her in a full body assault that should have knocked her to the floor beneath him. Instead, he had to drop and roll, because she had danced backwards, out of range, with inhuman speed. He swallowed his surprise and sprung to his feet, only to find her already there, attacking.

Wolverine was in the lead, kicking and thrashing and raging his way through the fight, but Logan’s consciousness lurked in the background, analysing it. Her moves were fluid and chaotic. Well, good. He’d worked hard to get her to abandon those sequences she loved. Kick, punch, stomp – she’d been so fond of it, her whole weight had fallen onto the wrong foot when he asked her to do it in reverse. Now, she could lead from either leg, and strike from any direction. Oof. Nothing like a boot in the back to remind a man to focus.

He stumbled, and suddenly she was upon him, banging his forehead into the floor, one knee behind his neck and the other pinning his arm to the ground. Well, kiddo, you forgot one thing, he thought. You are as light as feather ….

And I am not, he smirked, as he propelled himself upwards with one arm, then sprung to his feet to lift her high into the air. She was still gripping his hair, and it fucking hurt, but it was better than digging holes in the floor with his face. And he had about 2.5 seconds to grab the advantage.

He catapulted himself backwards as he felt her legs lock around his waist, slamming her into one of the uprights of the cage with a tremendous thud. He felt the air leave her body in a huff, and the spasm of shock that went through her, and used it to spin around, catching her with the front of his body before she could begin to slide. Legs, those lean, delicious legs, around his waist now, and that was better. That was really fucking good, in fact.

Logan wasn’t sure whether it was him or Wolverine that bucked a few times, but he figured it was good strategy anyway. If Marie wasn’t in charge, he had a chance with Rogue. Victor had started this fight, but he’d been damned if he’d let his sadistic bastard of a brother finish it.

He needed Rogue, and he was pretty sure he knew what Rogue needed.

The heat between them was building as he immobilised her, catching her deadly fists in one hand and using the other to pin her neck back against the netting of the cage. He lowered his head until they were forehead to forehead, and emphasised their position with another thrust that told her she was exactly where he wanted her to be.

“Got you wanted, did you Rogue? Are you so friggen’ desperate for me you have to make fight out of it, kid? Couldn’t have just waited to see where we might have ended up?”

Might have, that is, if Rogue hadn’t got scared at the thought of being honest. Being Marie, he reckoned.

“You don’t need those freaks to win, you know. Rogue has the skills, and she’s a fucking tough little bitch. She can win this all by herself. Wolverine just makes you rash and Sabretooth – well, you don’t wanna be catching that sort of stupid, darlin’.”

The growl that rose from her throat was pure, pissed off menace, classic Sabretooth, and the Wolverine in him howled at the chance to dominate his nemesis. Logan knew better, angling his head to kiss her, hard and fast and brutal, but full of want.

Their tongues tangled together, and he slid the hand at her neck into her hair to get closer to the miracle of her mouth. Inside, Rogue’s dark, spicy taste was dominant, but undertones of Marie were still there. Still unbearably, immeasurably sweet. He’d only tasted her once, and it had made him bolt for sanity, because that sweetness was so fucking seductive he knew he’d never be able to give her up if he ever kissed her again.

But that had turned out so fucking well, he reminded himself as he lifted his head. Giving her up turned out to be the biggest mistake he’d ever made. He’d always known he needed her, but maybe it was time to face the fact that she needed him as well.

In more ways than one. Needed him as an adult. Needed him to step up, and pull her out of the game they’d trapped themselves in.

“Rogue,” he moaned into her mouth. “Marie.”

She stilled, and he could feel her heartbeat galloping, her scent transmitting lust, and anger, exhilaration, and panic.

“Rogue,” he corrected, sliding his tongue down over her ear. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want her.” He pressed closer, his hardness nudging her somewhere that made her convulse and gasp. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want you either.”

He lifted his face away from hers and looked deep into her eyes. Brown, again. Dark chocolate, stippled with honey and amber. Marie’s eyes.

“But you need to get control. Whoever’s in there, you aren’t them. You sure as hell aren’t him. And until you put him away, we can’t do this.”

He rocked his hips against her once more. “Don’t make me wait too long, darlin’. I’ve waited long enough.”

Spinning away from her, Logan went into a crouch and watched Rogue drag in deep breaths on her way to equilibrium. Her way back to him - to their fight. The room was completely silent, he noted, and his mouth quirked in amusement. He’d never seen a clinch quite like that in the cage either.

***

7. Victories

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see, except for a pinprick of light so faint it looked as if it was streaming through a keyhole.

Sound came to her ears, but it was distorted, and muted, as if someone had been playing with the settings on her iPod. And something told her she desperately wanted to hear … someone was saying something, speaking to her.

Wrapped in blackness, she felt nothing, except a sense of displacement, and a nagging feeling that she needed to be somewhere else. Something was going on, and she had to get there - but she didn’t know what it was! Was she late? Had she forgotten? Where was she meant to be?

The wrongness grew. Why couldn’t she feel anything? Where was she? What was that noise, buzzing in her inner ear?

It grew louder, and louder. And suddenly, sensation returned. Fire. In her belly, and lower. A man, making her feel. Pain, as he mauled her lips with his, and bit down on her tongue, and pinned her to the side of the cage with his body. The cage? His body?

Rogue obliterated Sabretooth’s control with a blaze of fury. She refused to share this, to cede this. Wolverine was hers to fight, and this was hers too. She tasted her own blood, and retaliated, dragging his lip between her teeth and grinding, then chasing his tongue with her own to share their blood, share the pain. Tasting him deep, gulping him down, straining against his hold, but knowing she wasn’t trying to escape. She was fighting to get closer, to crawl inside him and steal his soul. To breathe his breath and score his bones and own him, just a little, the way he did her.

“Rogue,” she heard. “Marie.” Want, and need. Power, and weakness. Killer and victim. Who was he kissing? Why?

He wanted them both, he said. A scream rose, inside. Why? What did the girl have worth wanting? No hope. No choice. No power. No strength. No courage. No choice. No choice. No. Choice.

Blackness crept back, and she could no longer feel his hands on her. But then, he rocked into her, saying something, and the pleasure pulled her back, made it worth staying. His body anchoring her, eyes trapping her soul.

“… control,” he was saying. “…you aren’t them. You sure as hell aren’t him.”

They rattled in outrage. She was them, she was! A clamour of protest, that was Rogue. Marie was quiet, though. Did she have nothing to say? No thoughts on this matter? She walked from that girlish room, smiled her girlish smile, and stood on tiptoe to speak in Rogue’s ear.

“Trust you. Do this for me.”

… And he was waiting. She drew the fragments of herself together, and threw them at him. Without the beast, she felt weak, but the cage was crystalline in its clarity, and she could feel every pore in her skin, every bruise forming as her fists thumped into him, and the beautiful aches blossomed. She could see the beauty of her kick, as the foot flashed out in front of her, and knew what to do next, and next, and next after that. Her blows might not fell him, but she would dance out of his way and use the lithe beauty of her body to strike as he recovered, and do the very opposite of what he had taught her, because he wouldn’t expect that.

Waiting, was he? She saw the grin spread across his face as he was forced to move faster, to leap and dodge and then stand like an oak to take the unavoidable ones. She had no need for his blood, anymore, no need for slaughter, but submission, she’d take that. She’d like that.

But maybe that was another battle, she thought, and smiled at him when they were locked in each others arms for an ecstatic moment. Felt him rise in answer, as he pushed her backwards into the mat, and knew they’d really rather be fighting somewhere else, and if she let him finish her now … como muy tentador.

But not as tempting as winning, then winning again. She slipped out of the hold, sinuous as a snake, and turned it on him, pressing him beneath her. He swung his legs around, somehow, and she was locked between them, massive treetrunks either side of her shoulders and his groin in her face …

No rules here, after all. Nothing to say she couldn’t touch him in passing, the weight of her hand pressing down on his hardness in a swift, hidden stroke as she twisted clear of his lower body, and moved behind him to take the advantage.

And why shouldn’t she press the length of her body into his back, knowing the feel of her would be scorching into his bare skin, and it would feel so fucking good that when she slammed him forward and face down that his cock would be trapped and a stamp on his tailbone would be more effective than the most practiced mouth in the world. She saw the shudder ripple through him, and dropped down to pin him there, knees either side of him and the core of her hot and wet against the small of his back. Hands either side of his neck to pin him there, unnecessary really, but it allowed her to lean forward and trace her victory on his back with the aching points of her nipples, and to whisper in his ear.

“Fight’s over, sugar. Sure that’s the best you can do?”

He was too wired to laugh. But she could feel the amusement rising from him, and satisfaction too. Gotta love a man who liked to lose.

She waited for the count, then rose on unsteady legs. Adrenalin had made her shaky, she noted, as she watched him draw himself upright, and turn to face her. A bow, low and respectful, and she knew it wasn’t for their fight.

It was for hers. Rogue’s real victory.

Time to collect my winnings, sugar, she thought, and felt her heart leap in a way it hadn’t in years. This feeling … it was anticipation. She remembered it well, waiting, and wanting, and knowing it was going to be just. so. fucking. good when he finally, finally touched her.

*
She had hovered by the pool and wondered if she looked like a black crow against the blue sky … ominous, and out of place. It hurt to remember that poor girl, so uncomfortable in her own skin. The restful luxury of the house in Santa Maria had made her nervous, and the heart stopping beauty of the beach had left her rigid with frustration. He’d brought the girl who could kill with a touch to a house by the beach, with a pool? She stomped inside, where he had sunk onto the leather couch, already halfway through a bottle of something dark and aromatic. No shirt, no shoes, a pair of jeans hacked off above the knee in deference to the tropical humidity. She gulped. Reached for the hurt and anger to swamp those other feelings, and glowered at him.

“So, what are we are doing here, again? Besides renewing your stash of illegal drugs?”

“We, kid, are chilling. Call it a holiday. We’ll do a little training in the mornings, but the rest of the day is yours. You can hit the sights, get a tan, read a book … whatever you want.”

Cruel. Fucking. Bastard. “I don’t own a bathing suit. I burn in the sun. And in case you’ve forgotton, I have poison skin, Logan … I don’t need no fucking tourists in my head!” She stomped towards the room he’d dropped her duffle into, and threw herself on the narrow bed.

He followed, and lounged in the doorframe, still chugging on his beer. She refused to look.

“Lose the attitude, kid. Go shopping. Buy some sunscreen. Get yourself a bikini. There’s nobody here to hurt, just you and me. Hell, swim naked if you have to. Commune with fucking nature and find some zen.”

He lowered the beer bottle to look her in the eye. “Because I am fucking sick of your whinging and whining and complaining, and I need a break. We both do.” He didn’t waited for her response, disappearing out to the pool to fall asleep on a lounger.

She had been spitting with outrage, Rogue remembered. So mad, she couldn’t see straight. Wanting nothing so much as to make him take it back, to stuff his long suffering act down his throat until he gagged on it. She had stomped to the door, stripped his wallet of several hundred pesos, and clumped out into the tropical afternoon, bristling with plans for gruesome, glorious payback.

“Wuh?”

The bucket of water had done its job beautifully, Rogue smirked. He was awake, angry, and very, very wet. Water dripped off the wild points of his hair, and created an array of tantalising tracks down his bare torso. The cutoffs were soaked, making the worn denim cling even closer. She would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t been laughing so hard.

“What the FUCK, Rogue!” He leapt to his feet, and advanced on her with arms akimbo and eyes wild. Looked at her in disbelief, and then saw her. Looked again. Eyes tracking from the tiny bikini bottoms, down, down, down the length of her legs, to her bare feet, and moving up again, lingering on the ridges of muscle that bracketed her bellybutton before disappearing under the black fabric. She wondered if he’d forgotten to breath, then, and when he jerked his eyes away, she heard the tiniest moan, as if he was in pain. She smiled.

“Sorry Logan, didn’t want you to fall asleep in the sun,” she quipped, moving closer, slow enough for him to mark the sway of her hips before his eyes moved inevitably upwards, glowing hotter as they drank in the swell of her breasts, spilling out over the sides of the triangular cups. She could feel a blush threatening to rise, but willed it away. Chased it into retreat by reaching behind herself to untie the bow, and swinging the tiny top from one finger as she watched him try to swallow his own tongue in shock.

“You said ‘commune with nature’, Logan,” she told him as she sunk on to the lounger opposite his, and stretched luxuriously.

“I’m just doing as I’m told.”

She’d won, that day, she remembered. It didn’t feel like it at the time, because Logan hadn’t been able to lie beside her for long, and had vanished into the Old Town on an errand. He’d brought a woman back with him, and Marie had been devastated until she realised he was blind to Emma Frost’s hungry glances and obvious flirtation. Instead, he grilled her about trauma, and how it could manifest in a mutant. He asked about her experience with empaths, and other mutants that has psycho-physical interactions. Emma had talked, and Marie had listened, and when he shot her a significant glance during a lull in the conversation, had gathered her courage, and plunged.

“Emma?” The blonde’s eyes swung away from Logan and widened with surprise. Marie hadn’t said a word so far – by all appearances, she’d been sulking in the corner of the big couch while the grownups talked among themselves.

“Yes, dear?” Marie tried not to bristle at the condescension, and struggled to strike an even tone.

“My skin. It sucks the energy from people. I get their memories, their personalities, and if they’re mutants, their powers too. I can’t control it.” She stopped, unwilling to have her voice break in front of this woman.

“After I’ve absorbed someone, their personality is in my head. Some for a few days, if it’s just a touch. Some always.” She didn’t explain what it was like to have someone’s dying scream in your head. What it did to you to have the memories of the pain you caused, and the horror you brought, rolling through your brain like a film you couldn’t shut down.

Emma Frost’s mouth had dropped open, her forehead creased with scepticism. She shot Logan a look of disbelief, only to meet a fierce frown. His face softened as he looked at Marie, giving her the courage to continue.

“Can I learn to control it? Do you think you could teach me?”

The White Queen, as Logan called her, was more than willing to help. Daily visits with Logan seemed to be a big attraction, Marie remembered, but she had to give the woman credit – she knew her stuff, and Rogue presented quite the intellectual puzzle.

First, Emma decided, they had to help Rogue gain control of the personalities already in her head. The list wasn’t long, at that point, and the technique was simple, if arduous … a wall of brick to lock her father in solitary confinement, and a little sitting room to visit with Mama. Cody lived in a facsimile of his own bedroom back in Meridian, and Logan-in-her-head shared a recreation of the cottage with Wolverine.

It took them a week of working together to build the habitats, and another week to hone her will sufficiently to lock her guests in, and let them out, as she wished. They shared a triumphant afternoon of testing her progress, before moving on to the big one. The hungry beast that was her skin.

“I’m thinking there are two steps here, Rogue. Firstly, you have to let go of whatever it is that made your skin react the way it does in the first place, and then, you have to make it work the way it was supposed to,” Emma explained.

Marie had never shared the details of her abuse, but the woman was a mind-reader, after all. She could no more speak of what her father did than she could speak of what she had done to him … but she knew she had found her catharsis. If a block existed, it was bound up with her notions of touch. Of choice, she suspected.

Her skin ensured she could not be touched against her will, but in doing so, eliminated her right to choose. Her right to touch someone, and be touched if she wanted it. And she did. Desperately.

They sat side by side on the terrace, passing the joint companionably between them, and feeling their awareness reach out into the sultry night. A flight of birds wheeling against the setting sun seemed vastly amusing for a moment, and her giggles made him chuckle too. Suddenly, though, the sadness of the moment crept in: a picture perfect, romantic night, designed for hot kisses and slow exploration. And here he was, with her.

“Logan?”

“Yeah, kid.”

“Would you let me touch you?”

He shot her a puzzled look – he had never been afraid of her skin, and had touched her several times to share his healing, or heighten her senses prior to a job.

She dragged in a deep breath, and rushed into the abyss.

“However I want. Whereever I want.”

He was so quiet that she steeled herself for a rejection. She began to babble apologies into the silence, until he stopped her with one gloved finger sliding over her lips.

“Yeah, kid,” he said, in a hoarse, shaky voice she had never heard before.

“Whatever you want.”

***

8. Wolverine and Rogue

Jean Grey guided her Porsche into the garage, but surprised herself by rejecting her allocated space in favour of another. Her spot near the lift was so brightly lit, she told herself, but here it was darker, and quieter. It suited her mood right now. She quelled the engine and tilted the seat back a little, luxuriating in the new car smell and feeling the butter-soft leather caressing her skin. It had been her 30th birthday present, this car, and if it wasn’t as new as it once was, it was still her favourite place to sit and think.

She was thinking of him.

He was a puzzle. She had tried a little push, and had been able to identify a hot tide of honest appreciation, and the warm buzz of amusement, but nothing else. Nothing so concrete as his plans, or even stray information held in random memories. The Wolverine’s mind was locked tight, Jean realised. As tight as his delicious body, or those sinful jeans he had worn tonight.

The intelligence hadn’t quite captured that, she mused. The photographs had shown the hard planes of his face, and the solid mass of his body, but she hadn’t been prepared for those eyes, or the power of him. Five minutes in the warehouse, and she had wanted to peel the silk from his body and sink her teeth into all that muscle. Tonight, though, she had passed him in the hall, and had nearly fainted with the want. He had looked like a bum. The type of man who would fuck you into the floor and not even offer you a hand up afterwards.

She hated herself for wanting that. She hated herself for sitting here, in the dark of the garage, next to the motorcycle bay. Not waiting, exactly, but knowing that if he did come back soon, she would be forced to make a decision. She wondered how long she was willing to sit there, not waiting.

*

The throaty roar of not one, but two motorcycles pulled her into wakefulness. Jean blinked, and swiped at her eyes before checking the clock on the dash. 4am? He had brought a woman back to the Mansion at 4am? The school would be stirring in just a few hours, and he had picked up some random stranger in a bar and would no doubt plan on fucking her loudly in the room he had been assigned at the end of the hall. It was unaccept… Jean’s thought processes ground to a halt as the Wolverine swung off his motorcycle and stalked towards his companion. So focused on her, his mind was open and unguarded.

Lust boiled from his thoughts, but that wasn’t all. He knew this woman – girl, the Wolverine insisted, even as it plotted exactly what it would do to her, how she would feel inside, how it would own her and make her scream for him and beg for him to fuck her hard, and harder, and harder like he never did, never had, then …

Jean pulled back with a gasp, nerves rubbed raw by the feral bite of his passion for this girl, whoever she was. She felt … burnt. No one had felt like that before. Such chaos and ferocity, bound tightly and buried deep. Realisation knawed at her. That man, today – he had been a construct. Something else lurked underneath the smooth manners and cold efficiency – something so well guarded, so hidden, that she would have never known it was there. Fear prickled up her spine. What kind of man was he, to be able to control that? To be able to command it?

Certainly not a man who would sell himself. If he was here, he had his own agenda here at the mansion, she admitted to herself. She was pondering that, trying to divine his purpose, when the girl ripped off her helmet and shook out her long, chestnut hair. The platinum caught the light even in the half-dark of the garage, and Jean nearly choked on her astonishment as Rogue’s bare, dangerous hands reached for the man she had tried to kill just hours before.

Long, leather-clad legs locked behind his back as he lifted her clear of the motorcycle to prop her on the workbench nearby, and Jean swore she heard a clash of teeth as they mauled each other in something too violent to be called a kiss. Metal flashed, and Jean gaped as she realised what he had used those claws for. Oh my. He was bent before her, using his tongue, and her hands were scrabbling at his belt buckle, trying to undo it.

And then he was fucking her. On the bench in the garage, as she watched. And Jean Grey had to throw up her shields, because the emotion rolling off them was too thick for her, too painful. Longing, and grief, and anger. Hate, and love. Need, and resentment.

She sat, barely daring to breathe, eyes riveted.

Wolverine and Rogue. Rogue and the Wolverine. It sounded like music, and felt like a car crash. They were at terminal velocity, hurtling through the night, towards something inevitable.

She shifted in her seat and tried to focus on how hot it was. How fucking beautiful. But the sense of doom would not leave her alone, and Jean shivered.

*

One hour earlier …

Rogue splashed water on her face and stared in the mirror. The ladies washroom at the Pen wasn’t worth the name, but right now, she wanted to wash his blood from her skin. Her bruises had faded already, and his would be gone, but dark splotches on her lycra bodysuit marked the ferocity of their battle.

She needed a shower, but the facilities here didn’t stretch to that. They would have to leave, and if they left together, she knew what would happen. Hell, the way she was feeling, they’d be lucky if they made it out of the carpark. She had waited long enough.

Rogue snatched a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and wiped it over her arms and face before pitching it into the trash. Not exactly fresh, but then again, nor was he. She took a deep breath, and headed back out into the din, smiling and nodding at the roughnecks who gathered around the minute she opened the door. Even as she accepted their adulation, she searched for him. He was sitting at the bar, watching her, a hidden smile acknowledging her frustration. She wanted to be there, with him. But … he was expecting her to cross to him. To join him there, and flirt, and be that girl who had held her breath as she contemplated where to touch him, that very first time.

“Whatever you want.”

Her pulse shot into overdrive. She dragged the smoke into her lungs, and let it soothe her. Calm her. Normally it worked. This time, though, the languor seeping into her blood was punctuated by the memory of his voice, and how she had made him shake.

He’d withdrawn his hand, and busied it by rolling another joint. Took a lot to get the Wolverine high, and sometimes, she wondered if it did anything at all for him. Guess she was about to find out.

They’d been sitting side by side, backs against the wall and legs stretched out in front, an ashtray between them. She straightened up, moved it out of the way, and looking him straight in the eye, slowly climbed over him. Sat herself just above his knees, facing him.

She took off her gloves. Closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for the switch Emma had said WAS there.

She had to want it. Want to touch him enough. Want to feel his skin, and the muscle underneath it. Want him whole, and unharmed, and not flowing into her.

Her hand moved out in front of her. Pale in the glow of the rising moon, and strangely naked. She willed herself to stop it from shaking. Where? Where to touch him first?

His face? That sharp cheekbone, where the skin was pulled taut? Or perhaps the cheek below his mutton chops. Or … did she dare touch his lips? Was she that brave?

She saw her hand move towards them, as if it was making the decision all by itself. Snatched it back. She had to decide. Not her body. Marie was in charge. Marie chose this.

Marie pulled her hand back altogether. Let it fall to rest on his chest, feeling the texture of white rib over the hard swell his pectoral muscle, bunching beneath her touch. Even through the fabric, she could feel the crinkle of hair, and ached to touch it. But first things first.

She leaned forward. Eyes wide open, staring into his. Placed her bare lips on his, and froze. Waiting. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Missisippi. Nothing. Nothing, except the feel of his lips, under hers. Nothing, except the stillness between them as she perched, terrified. Nothing, except a leap away from fear, and a long, dizzying plunge into sensation. Her lips opening, and moving over his. Her tongue, flicking shyly over his top lip, and then taste of him rushing into her. In a good way.

Nothing except his tongue, still, accepting. A moan, rising from him, and then he was kissing her and they were fighting to get closer and he was biting her lips she could feel everything and it was too much, too wonderful … and the horror rising as veins spread across his face and she was assimilating another dose of Logan.

Yanking away from him, horrified.

“Do it again,” he growled. And all of a sudden, practice looked like a fine thing.

She’d been just a kid, she told herself. It hadn’t felt like that, really. It couldn’t have been that good. She was just scared – poised on the brink again, terrified of losing herself, again. But she wasn’t a kid anymore.

She smiled at the guy who was recapping the fight, tripping over himself with admiration, and stroked a hand up his arm. Control. She was in control. Bent to whisper in his ear, then took leave of her fans and began to work her way across the room.

Changed direction halfway, plucked her coat from the wall, and recovered her bag from its hideyhole. Walked out the door, kicked the Harley into life, and peeled out of the carpark, onto the road north.

The lights of Danbury were glimmering ahead of her when she heard the roar of another motorcycle, approaching fast. She sped up, ignoring the suburban speed limit in a bid to reach the highway before he caught up with her. The streets were dead this time of night, anyway, she told herself as the speedometer crept higher, pushing 60 miles an hour as she swerved gratefully onto Route 84, bound for home. She could see his lights behind her, now, so speed limit be damned. She’d always wondered how fast this thing could go, anyway.

Very fast, it appeared. So fast her body was vibrating with the wind, and her eyes could barely focus. He had the advantage, here, she knew, and pushed herself harder. The needle flew past the 90 mile mark, and she prayed no one else would be on the open road. But she didn’t slow down.

Suddenly, though, he was there, beside her, flying with her. A grin, the likes she had never seen, splitting his face in two as his hair streamed behind him. Rogue yanked her attention back to the road as the exit for Salem Center flashed past. They would loop back, she told herself. They slid into the corner together, both bikes leaning into the road the same way, at the same angle. Riders rebalancing the same way, refusing the compromise on the thrill of speed.

The mansion, looming like her future. The garage, dark and quiet.

Him. Lifting her from her bike. The cold steel bench underneath her, the taste of him and blood on her lips, and the shine of adamantium as he slit the seam of her pants, and lowered his face to her centre, to lick, and taste, and tease.

Coming. So fucking hard. Her thighs just about swallowing him because my God he had to stay there and do that again or she. would. die. And fuck, if he didn’t do it again, licking her clean and making her wet all over again. But this time she needed him inside, and why the fuck was he still wearing that crazy ass belt buckle? Grabbing at it, but she was still convulsing and her hands just wouldn’t work. His low, dirty laugh as he took pity on her and unbuckled it himself, and dropped his jeans, and pushed his way inside of her.

She wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t a kid anymore. But now that he was inside of her, stroking and pounding and shouting his pleasure into the quiet of the garage, she almost didn’t care.

***

9. Peace?

He could still taste her. 0600 hours, and he should be asleep, but instead, he was sitting in the corner of his room, thinking about a girl. Logan shook his head in disgust and dragged deep on his cigar. He had chosen his favourite from the small stash that travelled everywhere with him; a familiar, faithful friend that took him back to … Havana. And her.

And fuck it, if Marie didn’t taste better than any cigar he’d ever had. Then and now. She had been mesmerising tonight. Last night. Whatever. Dangerous and intoxicating and burning hotter than the goddamn sun. And that was before he had even laid a hand on her. When she’d finally stopped running, it had been like a supernova. He was surprised they hadn’t lit up the garage, the way the passion between them had exploded. It had been almost frightening, the level of want and need and how he would have done pretty much anything to be inside of her. His universe had shrunk to the space of one small woman, and everything else had just vanished.

It was a dangerous place to be, he realised. Something was niggling him, something about last night that wasn’t right, but damn if he could find the energy to care. He was alone, behind a locked door, no one to take advantage, and he was gonna enjoy those memories all over again. Knew he’d have to face those ugly little truths soon enough, but right now, he was gonna enjoy the fucking afterglow.

What sort of fucking pansy word was afterglow, anyway? Not a word he’d ever used before, that’s for sure – but he’d seen her eyes, as he yanked her towards him for one last kiss, and that’s what they had. He was used to sated women, satisfied women, but that had been something else. That had been fucking coming home, and she knew it.

He knew it too. Figured he’d always known, even if he had forgotten for a while.

He’d come here to do a job. Knew he would see her, thought it wouldn’t matter. Thought it’d be easy - maybe even fun, to fuck with her a little. He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the thought. How had he forgotten? Four years, and he’d forgotten who they were, for fuck’s sake.

Rogue and the Wolverine. Electron to fucking proton. Most irresistible force in the universe. Poor Logan and Marie – they just twisted in the wind, trying to fight that. He had tried to resist, especially when he saw parts of her just slipping away, but he was a weak fucking bastard when it came to this girl. Always had been. Logan dragged hard on the thick stogie, noting with disgust that his hands were shaking. What she did to him! He should fucking call it the Marie effect.

He’d been hit by a truck. Every muscle in his body was screaming, and his head felt ready to split in two, but … his hands were shaking. And not with the pain. He wanted to drag her into him and touch every single place he’d ever fantasised about and it was insane she could do that to him with just one kiss; one little, terrified, terrifying touch of her lips against his.

“Do it again,” he growled, needing to chase away the horror in her eyes. And needing a hell of a lot more, too, but clamping down on that because this was all about her, and about touch, and about what she needed.

A smile fought its way onto her face, and she lowered her lips to his again, and the taste turned him inside out, again. When she raised his hand to match her bare fingers to his, they were both shaking, and when she ran her fingers up past his elbow, lingering wonderingly over his bicep, then around onto his chest, bare nails flicking at his nipple. And he was shaking all over, and fucking aching for her, just from that, and his cock was pressing at his jeans. And she saw that, watched it rise. Sneaked a peak at him, eyes like boiling chocolate, white teeth worrying her lip with indecision. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle, but fuck it all, he prayed.

He saw the moment she decided, the flare of daring igniting in her eyes. They sought his as she lifted her weight from his thighs to slowly slide forward. She was careful, at first, most of her weight on her spread knees, and her frame tense. Even so, his cock was straining towards her, and even through her shorts and his jeans, he could feel her burning him with her warmth. And wetness, more smell than feel right now, but there. So close. He couldn’t help it, then, the long, low moan, and when she realised it was pleasure making him do that, she took a deep breath and sank right down, so deep he would have been inside of her if there hadn’t been two layers of denim between them. The world went black as he shut his eyes for a moment, and it wasn’t until he felt her tugging at his arm he realised she was taking off his wifebeater, and fuck, he couldn’t screw this up. Wanted to do this right. For her. So he sat on his hands and let her explore his chest, and if his hands crept into her hair when she bit at his nipples, he told himself he was holding on to his fucking sanity, not to her.

Because she wanted to explore everything and her hands were already stroking dangerously low in back of his jeans and the slow undulation of her hips had become sharp and jerky and she was beginning to huff with frustration. The animal was snapping at his control, yelling at him to flip her over and dive inside, but that bastard couldn’t be here, now. This was for her, and it was about her touching him. He’d fucking cut his own hand off before he broke that trust … but she was crying now. Little sobs with her eyes screwed shut as she ground down.

So he sank his hands onto her hips, and guided her. Around, and down, as he rose to meet her. Leant back, and she followed him down, gasping at the friction. Forward, around, and down, as she shuddered. Forward, around and down, as she climbed. Forward, all little gasping cries. Around, to a long, load moan. Down, and he thrust upwards into her centre, and she screamed something that sounded like his name as the convulsions took her.

He gathered her against his chest and dropped a kiss on her sweaty forehead. His cock throbbed with every aftershock that rippled through her, but he ignored it. He needed this more.

He flinched, remembering the joy on her face and the way she had nestled into him. She had trusted him, then. Maybe even loved him a little. Yet, a few months later, she had walked away without a backward glance. Given up on him. He’d spent years trying to figure out what had happened there, what had gone wrong, and never figured it out. Never even came close.

And if this didn’t make things more fucking confusing. He was used to Victor wanting to kill him, that wasn’t new, but … it hadn’t been Victor yesterday afternoon. He would’a bet good money that it had been Marie staring out of those eyes … pissed off, homicidal Marie, but still her. Still in charge.

So what had turned her into that catlike creature, basking in the afterglow? Now, that dazed, rosy girl was mostly Marie, and that bit of Rogue that obviously appreciated a damn good fucking. Logan’s lips twitched at the memory – a damn good fucking! – but it wasn’t enough to banish his trepidation. Rogue. She was a complicated creature, and things weren’t right there. The balance was off, and he needed to figure out how much of it was Sabretooth and the other personalities in her head, and how much was him. What he’d done to Marie.

Just as well they had unfinished business, really. Moth to a flame, Rogue to the Wolverine. And he wasn’t above using that. Logan contemplated the cigar in now steady fingers a little longer, before stubbing it out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the chair. He barely voiced the thought in the quiet of the pre-dawn, but it sounded like a promise anyway.

“I sure as hell ain’t giving up on you, kid. No matter what I have to do.”

Xavier’s gig would be easy, but it was the other that had him worried. Brotherhood was bad news, but double-crossing them? He knew two-dollar whores that had more honor than his client did, but he owed her, and this had been her price.

But if she thought Marie was going to be the one to pay it, she was fucking wrong.

*
Rogue breathed in the sunrise and sank deeper into the meditation. Logan had taught her tai chi, but yoga was hers. Now, when the lines between them were freshly blurred, she needed this. Mindfulness. Fully present.

Still fucking blissed out, she capitulated with a smile. High on no sleep and the best sex of her life. Meditation, schmeditation … it ain’t gonna work when you can still feel him inside of you, kid.

Long habit pushed her forward through the postures, movements smooth even as her attention fractured. The warmth of the sun as it stroked her leg … as warm as his tongue had been. The kiss of the wind on skin tender from his beard. The ache of muscles sore from the cycle of tension and release, over and over and over again.

She had been barely able to walk from their time in the garage, so he’d wrapped her around him and had carried her inside, only to stumble on the back stairs. They’d landed in a heap, struggling desperately to contain their laughter, and when their eyes met, proximity sparked a different response. He’d kissed her, slow, and it was so goddamn good she had moaned with disappointment when he stopped. So he kissed her again and that one had an edge to it, and then, somehow, they’d been fucking on the stairs, her hands gripping the guard rail for support as he slammed into her from behind, and she had no idea what it was she yelled when she came, but she reckoned it might have been his name, and they probably heard it in the next town.

Eventually, they’d made it back to her room, and this time, it had been slow. How’s your control, he’d said, and then proceeded to make her lose it. Scientific, he’d said, and kissed every inch of her skin; lips and teeth and stubble sensitising her so much that she felt like live current, a seething mass of sensation. She had been sobbing for him when he finally slid inside, and in her relief, she had let go completely, and he had seeped into her, just enough to share his awe, and tenderness, and the ferocious, hungry desire that always, always lurked beneath.

She took a deep breath, remembering that feeling, and lifted her face to the risen sun. He made her feel like that – energised, warm, safe – and it was so fucking unexpected, she laughed with the thrill of it.

“Get a grip, Marie,” she scolded herself as she bowed in final salute. And made a mental note to tell Wolverine about the security cameras when she saw him at breakfast. She smirked. Maybe they could review the footage together.

*

The image wavered hazily in the binoculars, then resolved itself into a black-clad woman. The watcher caught her breath as twin white stripes glowed in the sunrise slowly illuminating the mansion’s back lawn. It was her, then. Where was her wariness, her alertness? This woman had turned her face to the sun, to bask, and her movements lacked their usual tension. She never once sniffed the wind, or looked towards the dark line of trees where any number of enemies might have been hidden. Was hidden, if you wanted to come down to it.

She supposed they were enemies, now. Rogue had made her choices, and they had brought the girl here. It was galling, and very, very unfortunate. Because wheels were turning. Her pawn was in place, chaos crouched on his formidable shoulders. One death, one merciful, necessary killing, and this horrendous stalemate would be broken. Pain lanced through her, but she pushed it away – a sacrifice, for the greater good.

As the angle of the light changed, the Watcher sniffed and climbed higher in the tree. Took one last look at the woman moving towards the final poses of the Salute, puzzling over the changes in her.

No realisation came, so she bowed in acceptance, hands steepled over her forehead.

“Namaste, child. May we all find peace, one day.”

***

10. Morning glories

In the World According To Jubilee, breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Nothing to do with food, or even coffee, of course – it was all about information. Breakfast, Jubilee had realised, was where it all happened. So many mornings after the nights before. Breakfast was the gossip goldmine.

Today, though. Jubilee shuddered with anticipation, just thinking of the possibilities. The mansion’s woman of mystery, losing her temper like that. Losing her cool completely! There was some story there, some big-ass whopper of a story, and she, Jubilee, was on the case.

She’d have to stake out the cafeteria for hours, to make sure she caught both Rogue and the target coming in. They’d probably be avoiding each other – that was some hate-on they had going – but she needed to know what the hell was happening there.

Would he stay? Or would the Prof side with Rogue and tell the Big Bad to take a hike? Jubilee stilled for a moment, toothbrush still in her mouth, as she contemplated another possibility. It might be Rogue who was asked to leave – she had fucked up the mission, after all. She had disobeyed orders, and attacked one of her teammates. Cyclops had thrown her right in the brig with him – and everyone knew he had a secret lust for Rogue. He must have been pretty steamed to do that.

And when Rogue hadn’t turned up to the debrief, and Cyclops hadn’t even been surprised, the rumour mill really started churning. She’d thrown her torn suit at the Professor and stormed out of the mansion. She’d refused to work alongside the newcomer, who was an old lover from her days with the Brotherhood. She was still Brotherhood, and this guy had been going to expose her.

No one had told the junior team a damn thing, and that meant they were entitled to take action. Rogue was one of theirs, and they had a right to know who was an enemy and who was a friend.

What was a little minor espionage between friends anyway?

Jubilee jumped as the bedside clock shrilled 7am. Showtime.

*

Three doors between his room and hers. Forty feet of hallway. Logan stood behind his door, forehead braced on the cool, welcoming wood, and contemplated his next move. He could hear the shower running in her room, and the artificial tang of shampoo and soap was slowly diluting the mouthwatering scent of her sweat. About four seconds, he reckoned, and he could be inside. Where she was wet, and naked. He nearly shook with the need to go to her, but the part of him that was actually thinking held back.

They needed to talk. Clothes would help.

In their rush to get … reacquainted, they had forgotten to discuss the cover story. What to say, how to act. Far as everyone else knew, they were more enemies than friends. Cold, harsh acquaintances, at the very least. Who didn’t really know each other from squat.

And that, Logan realised, would be a problem. Because it had taken him ten minutes in the cage to realise her fighting style was his – refined, reworked, amped up some, but basically, his. She moved with a fluidity of her own, but she threw the same punches, used the same blocks. The old faithful to the knee that had served him so well. The roundhouse combos. Getting caught fucking on the stairs would have been easier to explain.

Logan slammed his fist against the door in frustration, appreciating for the first time the bind he had left them in. Anyone with combat chops would pick it up, real quick. It’d be obvious the first time they sparred together. Could he avoid her, in the gym? Trust these idiots enough to look after her training? Live with her without experiencing that amazing synchronicity they shared when they fought? He wondered what it said about him that he was willing to hide his relationship with her, but not to forgo that. Not being able to spar with Marie was unacceptable.

It was quiet outside his door now, and maybe she’d have her clothes on by now. Four seconds, he thought. He was through her unlocked door in three.

Marie’s room was a riot of scent on the heated air. He could smell himself on the sheets, and her, their earthy stink overlaid by the less natural smells coming from the bathroom. Steam was billowing from a part-open door, and he could hear the soft kiss of towelling on wet skin. For a moment, his feet insisted he needed to be in there – right now! – so he marched them over to the chair by her bed. He should have told her he was here, he admitted to himself as he stretched out to wait, but there was only so much masochism he could subject himself to. She might be wearing a towel. She might not. He would leave it to fate.

“Daydreaming?”

Logan looked up from the avid contemplation of his own navel to find her leaning in the doorway, smirking at him. She was fully dressed, combing out her wet hair in long, careful strokes, a sight so familiar it made his stomach clench with remembered frustration. All those months, alone, in the cottage up north. Ignoring an attraction he could barely admit. Telling himself he couldn’t be feeling this, not for a damaged teenager. And later, when she knew everything there was to know, not wanting to compromise her more. Resisting, even as she wallowed in the darkest parts of him.

He shook away the black memories, and feasted his eyes on the long, lean length of her, the hard muscles and intoxicating curves she had acquired in the years since they had parted. This woman was not the skinny teenager he had put on a pedestal, or even the feral assassin he’d begun to shape: she was her own creation, he reminded himself. Rogue. He could only hope she was taking the time to heal Marie.

“Why now?”

Logan didn’t even look up from his huevos to ask what she meant. He mumbled around his fork, hoping like hell she’d just leave it alone.

“You seemed to need that. Touch.”

“I’ve needed touch for a long time, Logan. I’ve wanted you to touch me since that first fucking night in your camper. And it’s not like you didn’t know that! What’s changed?”

He risked a glance at her, wondering if she had somehow failed to understand what was going on. What he’d done, and what she’d done. All he could see in her face was annoyance, and confusion. He wanted to fucking hide.

“You touched me, Marie. I didn’t touch you. You chose to touch me.”

“So you didn’t want it? You fucking put up with it? Is that it? You were doing me a favour?” Her voice climbed from puzzlement, to fury, to disbelief.

“Of course I wanted it, kid! That wasn’t my fucking gun that was getting you off! I wanted it, but I had no right to take it. You needed to take it – to make that choice. To choose who you wanted to touch, and not have someone choosing for you.”

He didn’t say “again”, or “like before”. But the shocked cast of her face was indication enough that she had taken his meaning, and didn’t like it. Not even a little bit. They didn’t talk about this. She didn’t think about it, and he was expected to pretend he’d never seen her as anything other than vengeful and triumphant. Every scream she had wrung from her father had been designed to scour herself of the shame, and humiliation, and terror – and, he’d begun to suspect, reality. Memory.

She liked to pretend that Rogue had dealt with this. And maybe she had. But Marie – Marie was still huddled in that corner, shaking, tormented by her memories.

Yeah, and then you gave her yours, bub. Nothing you can do will ever make that right, Logan jeered at himself. No matter how happy you think you can make her.

“Logan!” Her warm weight settled in his lap, even warmer voice calling him back. “Where did you go, sugar?” Concern shone in her eyes, and her hands were gentle as they stroked the tense muscles at the back of his neck. This, surely, was Marie. The one person who actually gave a shit about him. The one woman who wanted more than the animal. The one, he admitted, as he looked into her eyes. And wasn’t that a fucking terrifying thought.

He squashed the part of himself that wanted to spill her onto the floor and flee the building, and looped his arms around her to comb his fingers through the ends of her hair. No reason they couldn’t have this discussion like the good friends they were, as long as they stuck to talking. Maybe a little kiss, on her browbone because he loved the way the light caught her there, and there too, on the corner of the eye where the skin felt like velvet. And her mouth tasted like toothpaste and green tea, with the tiniest echo of himself, and maybe just one more of those kisses because her mouth was the nearest to heaven he’d ever been.

They were gasping for breath when they pulled apart, laughing at their own weakness.

“Talk!” Logan rasped as she bent closer for another kiss. “Need a … plan!” he moaned, as she snuggled even closer. She pouted at him when he pushed her back to reason with her, and he nearly lost his resolve when her saw her face – eyes hot, cheeks flushed, lips bruised. He shut his eyes for moment, and ignored his other senses as they went into overdrive.

“Marie. We’ve got a story to get straight. And a plan to make.” And a megaton of lust to try and hide, he thought. We’re fucking doomed.

She nodded thoughtfully, and Logan silently cheered the return of Sensible Marie. She could turn back into Sexpot Rogue later, but right now they needed to lay the ground rules.

“As far as the X-men know, I took your parents’ contract, and reneged on it. How did we meet?”

“Um. Something easy to remember.” She smiled in triumph. “You tracked me to a warehouse, of course. I was sleeping rough, and you tracked me, and found me hiding up in the rafters. I was terrified, and begged for my life. You decided to be merciful.” Marie widened her eyes in a mockery of innocence. “And yesterday, just watching you from the rafters brought it all back. A psychotic break.”

Logan wondered briefly if the real truth was equally simple, but decided to let it lie. “Yeah – that’s a good fit. What happened after I found you – we spend any time together?”

“No – I was freaking terrified of you! Why would we spend time together?”

“Because you fight like me. You talk like me. Sometimes, baby, you even walk like me.”

“Oh.” Her brow wrinkled in thought, before a smile spread across her face. “The truth, Logan! Always the best weapon, remember? I touched you, of course. You came to kill me, but you decided not to, and told me to get the hell out of there. I was pretty freaked out, so I touched you, and knocked you out while I escaped.”

“Heh. So you’ve got me in your head. That’ll work. Good thinking, kid.”

Planning was clearly over, because she was wriggling back into him and nibbling on his lips, but not before claiming the last word. “Logan? Don’t call me kid.”

“Shut up and get naked. Darlin’.”

*

Jubilee loaded herself up with a hot breakfast, cereal, a newspaper and two cups of coffee before heading to her table. Back left hand corner, away from the door – able to see everyone in the place with just the slightest glance up from her plate. Most people thought of it as the junior team’s table, but it had been Jubilee’s choice, and no one had ever thought to question her preference. Except, she thought, maybe Rogue. She had raised an eyebrow, the first time, and flicked her eyes around the room before shooting a sardonic half smile in Jubilee’s direction.

Rogue had never needed lessons in being stealthy, Jubilee remembered uncomfortably. Sometimes, her skills in that area were downright frightening. But she’d never asked, because Rogue was a friend. Sort of. The sort of friend you knew nothing about, and couldn’t really trust, but liked anyway.

Jubilee gulped down her first cup of coffee and ignored the bitterness. She refused to feel guilty for spying on Rogue … she shouldn’t have had to. Bit more sharing, bit less stealth, she could have just asked what she needed to know. Jubilee donned her brave face and wondered how long it would be before the players began to show themselves.

It was a long wait.

*

11. The bad guy

The next person to walk through that door was going to die, Jubilee resolved. Each time the swing doors screeched, her heart leapt and her pulse hammered, and then she had to tell herself to chill, chica, because, hey! False alarm. In retrospect, maybe all that coffee hadn’t been such a good idea, but really, who knew there was such a thing as too much caffeine? Had to be an urban myth. But then she had jumped out of her seat and cheered when Scott had walked in, and the whole damn dining room had stopped to stare. She’d bowed, of course, because an audience is an audience, but it kinda blew ‘stealthy’ out of the water.

So she’d waltzed over to the A-table and sat herself down next to Storm. Cyke and Jean were having a pissy little no-conversation across the table, and to her left, Beast was perusing some sort of journal. The Prof was reading too – the newspaper – so she braced herself to interrupt someone. They had a right to know!

“Can we help you, Jubilee?” Ooh, Doctor Grey had deigned to notice her. Cue delight.

“Sorry to crash your breakfast, Doc, Cyke. I just wondered … any word on what’s going on with Rogue? Haven’t seen her yet, and after yesterday…” she let the query hang in the air.

Jean’s mouth opened and closed, and a red flush crept across her cheekbones. “I have no idea, Jubilee. I haven’t seen Rogue since yesterday,” she replied, unusually flustered. Ah ha! She doesn’t know, Jubilee crowed internally. Jean just hated being out of the loop – look what it was doing to her! Scott sent his wife a surprised look, and then a raised an eyebrow towards the Professor, who was watching them silently.

“You’ll be happy to know Rogue has apologised for her behaviour yesterday, and has agreed to work with the Wolverine in future, should he accept our offer of employment,” the Professor said quietly.

“Anything else is up to Rogue to tell you herself. Please keep in mind that many of us have events in our past that we choose not to share.” It was a kind and gentle reminder, but carried the sting of a wasp. Back the fuck off, Jubilee, she translated.

The doors screeched once more, and the Wolverine had finally emerged from his lair. She wouldn’t have picked him as a man who slept in, but here it was, past ten, and his hair was still wet from the shower. His fancy clothes had not survived last night’s pickup, but he filled out the standard Xavier Institute sweats well. Really, really well, Jubilee admitted as her eyes followed him down the length of the servery. The thin sweatshirt material was outlining his pecs and abs in way that left her mouth dry, and as for those pants … Jubilee forced herself to look away. Those pants were making lurve to his miraculous ass, and truly droolworthy thighs. He and his hot self needed some privacy.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, earning a puzzled glance from Cyke. Jean was too busy pretending she wasn’t looking at the hot guy to notice anything else, Jubilee realised, and even Ororo’s eyes were riveted on the incredible view. He had weird hair, Jubilee told herself, and the nasty scowl made him downright scary, what with the claws and the deadly violence. But all that hardly detracted from his … beauty, Jubilee admitted. It simply wasn’t fair. Bad guys were meant to look bad, dammit.

Half of the room seemed to sigh as he turned around, and she could have sworn she saw his mouth twitch with amusement. Ah ha! Obviously used to lots of female attention, she thought. Thank God he doesn’t know what we’re thinking, or he’d have no respect for us at all. They needed megaphone, really. “Oestrogen alert! Oestrogen alert! X-women, fall back!” She smiled as he chose an empty table at the front – “X-women, stand down!” – and kept a wary eye on the entire room as he began to eat. Was he avoiding company, Jubilee wondered, or was he simply unconcerned by their presence?

Cyclops cleared his throat and four pairs of eyes swung to him. Beast was smiling serenely at his plate, and the Professor was rubbing his temples, clearly in pain. He excused himself from the table as Scott launched into his most familiar lecture.

“Your biology homework was unacceptable this week, Jubilee. I expect you to redraw the diagrams and make some attempt at labelling them correctly before class tomorrow,” her science teacher said. “And your calculus …”

Finished with breakfast, Wolverine had slouched back into his chair and wasn’t even bothering to hide his survey of the room. He was too many kinds of delicious, and sorry, Cyclops, but the homework lecture? So obvious. Her mouth went dry as his eyes swept their table, lingering on each face in turn. She raised an eyebrow when he got to her, and nearly choked when he did the same, before saluting her with his coffee mug.

“… you need to be concentrating more on the precision of your work, and less on ….”

Jean was twitching in her chair, and breathing hard. I’ll bet she’s trying to find an excuse to look around … yup, coffee, Jean, because that full cup simply isn’t enough for you, is it. Jubilee shook her head at the long look the school doctor gave the Wolverine as she moved in his direction. Less attention to my homework, Cyke, and more to your wife, she thought uncharitably.

But perhaps he wasn’t as clueless as she thought, because the monologue had ground to a halt, and his expression was growing thunderous as he watched Jean watch the Wolverine from the safety of the coffee station. It took Ororo’s soft voice to pull him back to them. “Scott. Scott!”

“The Professor is keen for Wolverine to join us, and he may need some help in making his decision. I’m going to outline our mission with the children, and the needs we have here. You would be the best person to talk about our security setup,” Ororo suggested with her usual diplomacy.

Cyclops glared at her. Ouch.

Ororo simply smiled sadly and nodded to Jubilee before picking up her coffee to move to where the newcomer was sitting.

“Can I join you, Wolverine?” Ororo’s tone held no judgment, and no pressure, and was coolly professional. Not that she’d expected her proud English teacher to drool on the man, but damn, she was good, Jubilee thought. He didn’t really respond – grunting doesn’t count, asshole – but Ro sat down anyway, and began to tell him about the school.

He was listening, Jubilee admitted grudgingly. Even asking questions – how many of them, what ages, about visitors – that suggested he was at least thinking of staying. What could have convinced him? This was what worried her the most, Jubilee realised. Especially with the hostile reception – why would a professional assassin have any interest in taking over security at a school? She had no doubt a huge wad of cash had been dangled – Professor X had very deep pockets – but even then … it was surprising. Even Xavier hadn’t really expected it, or he would have never sent in a strike team, she realised. Unease crept up and down her spine: why? What could he possibly want here?

She had no way of knowing. Yet. But something tugged at the back of her mind. She was missing something. Rogue.

Why had Rogue attacked him? She was unpredictable, sure, but … she wasn’t dumb. Or needlessly vicious or anything. There had to be a reason. They’d spoken, before she’d attacked, just a few words, but … she’d known him, somehow. Known him enough to want to kill him.

“Why?”

And then the answer came. Not the ultimate answer, but they couldn’t be unrelated. Wolverine was here for something. Rogue wanted him dead.

The answers had to lie with Rogue. Jubilee rolled her eyes. Piece of cake. Not.


*

Marie hesitated outside the dining hall, and reined herself in. The secretive smile dropped from her face, and she forced herself to stand straighter, and stiffer. She glowered at the doors for a moment, thinking menacing, murderous thoughts. The Rogue was pissed, and all the insects should quail before her.

She tried not to giggle.

Setting her game face with a deep breath, Rogue kicked the double doors open with a careless boot and swept the entire room with a glare before marching over to the breakfast bar. She fought the urge to find Logan as she chose her porridge and poured herself a coffee; she wasn’t sure she could manufacture what they needed, right now. Not with her body still singing his praises and all the voices fallen mute with admiration.

Rogue steeled herself as she collected her tray and swung around to face the room, eyes hardening as she looked through him, and contempt written on every line of her body as she stalked past, heading for the usual table in the back.

“Well, I guess it’s better than a knife in the guts,” Logan said to the room at large, and a few brave souls even dared to laugh. Rogue silenced one table full of teenagers with a death stare, and a second quietened as she moved past. Her senses, however, were focused on the table behind her, where Storm was making soothing noises about professionalism and personal battles. Logan, she could tell, was quietly amused, and resisting the urge to play up their act.

Meanwhile, three tables away, Cyclops looked as if someone had poisoned his granola. Rogue knew he fancied himself her protector, but she was going to have to do something about that soon. He was going to get himself in big trouble with the Wolverine if he didn’t pull back on the macho protector thing … because Logan pretty much had it covered. And they couldn’t know that.

Jean was weird, though. Cyclops’ sputtering had obviously pulled her back from somewhere else, and she started as she realised Rogue was studying her. But instead of the usual proud enquiry, she looked almost … embarrassed? Dr Grey? Rogue shook her head at the unlikely thought, before lifting her gaze to the inhabitants of the junior team’s table. Jubilee had been sitting with the teachers, she noticed absently, which meant everyone else at their usual table probably hated her. Bobby actually had a reason, Kitty had no mind of her own, and Colossus would be genuinely hurt. Pyro would be his usual unpredictable self, and Gambit … ouch. That was going to hurt.

Sometime friend, sometime lover. And right now, so angry that raw energy was sparking around those long hands as he shuffled through a pack of cards, trying to settle himself. She hesitated, standing opposite him for moment, and he didn’t even look up. Remy, minus the quips and constant come-ons, was study in quiet menace, she realised with surprise.

Oh well, thought Rogue, sliding into the chair opposite him. One wall of silence at a time.

“Gambit.” Flat, non-inflected. He would need to ask before she answered, thank you very much.

“Rogue.” The flirtatious ‘chere’ was noticeably absent, as was the seductive heat that usually characterised her exchanges with this man. Just as well, really, she thought, as she clamped down on her need to look about for Logan. In fact, extracting herself from their convenient little liaison might become a matter of priority if the possessive howls currently giving her a headache had anything to do with it.

Silence hung heavily at the table as she began to spoon porridge into her mouth. She’d drizzled it with honey and yoghurt, and heaped it high with fruit to make the sticky concoction a feast for the senses, one she was showing every indication of enjoying. She ate slowly, and delicately, and stopped periodically to take a long swig on her coffee. And still her plate was scraped clean, and he hadn’t said more than a word.

Rogue’s patience snapped.

“Gambit. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?” Her tone was sweeter than the breakfast she’d just consumed.

“No. Not really. I’ve been betrayed often enough that I’m used to it by now,” the Cajun thief replied coolly. “But the others – I think they might be expecting something. An apology, a reason – something like that.”

Embarrassed noises and half-hearted denials filled the table, but she would get to them. She returned her attention to him, and waited.

His blank face took on a sneer.

“But Remy? Non.” He leaned back in his chair, hitched his shoulder negligently, a picture of complete disinterest. “You chose the thief for a reason, Rogue. And this thief, he might have chosen you for the very same. A past you don’t talk about, skills no sweet girl ever had? I sure wasn’t expecting any happily ever afters.”

He paused, and the red-on-black eyes turned cunning.

“So I ask a few questions, call in a few favours. Turns out, you were a prisoner of the Brotherhood for a long time. Turns out, you might not have been a prisoner at all.” His tone was lazy and silken, but condemnation lurked in the offhand tone. The rest of the table stilled. She had never really spoken about her time before she came to Mansion. They had assumed, and she had let them. The truth was ugly.

“You were with them for two years. You killed for them. You weren’t just Brotherhood, you were right in there. Best buds with Mystique, so they tell me. Wasn’t ‘til Magneto decided he wanted to sacrifice you that you figured it out, and then we come in, charging to your rescue.”

Words like bullets. Something inside her wanted to plead, but the Rogue wouldn’t do that. Let them believe she had deceived them, because what had really happened was even harder to explain. She wasn’t sure she understood it herself.

“A few fights, a few drinks, a regular fuck … why would I expect your loyalty? No one escapes the Brotherhood, Rogue. When you turned on us? I wasn’t even surprised.” Utter silence fell at the table as he rose to his feet and stalked out of the dining room.

“Well, that went well.” Rogue turned to Bobby and Kitty with a shaky grin. “Next?”

*

The psychic uproar crashed into Jean’s shields like a tsunami overwhelming a breakwater. So many projections, so loud and distressed.

“Rogue’s Brotherhood!”
“She can’t be Brotherhood!”
“I always thought …”
“No, no, not the Brotherhood,”
“She’s betrayed us …”

Jean had no time to decide how she felt about the matter; instead, she writhed with the pain of those who had heard Gambit’s spiteful words. Most believed him, and hate and fear were close behind. She could feel the Professor reeling with the impact, and took a moment to explain what had happened.

“Rebuild your shields, Jean. Then we can deal with problem.”

She drew herself deep within, and thought of iron doors and insulation, and buffers. Piece by piece, element by element, they slipped into place, dulling the noise to a rumble, and then a murmur as the walls grew higher, and more complete.

She opened her eyes in relief, only to see a grim Rogue swinging her way through the dining room, and slamming the double doors back against their hinges on her way out. For once, her fractured psyche was tangible, and shrieking. Beneath the cold, angry exterior, the girl was in pain. Questions of truth, and perception, and cold, hard reality roiled in her mind, and fuck, even she didn’t know which was the truth. Logan, though - she was screaming his name with every heartbeat, longing for him to take the pain away, make it right. Like he used to do, before. Before.

Confused, Jean turned slowly to look at the man three tables away. He was still watching the door, and his face was frozen with concern. Careful, Wolverine, you’ll give yourself away, she thought. Ships passing the night, remember? One bad encounter, many years ago? Not with that look on your face, my friend. The truth might even come out.

And then shivered at the thought. Because if Rogue was Brotherhood, and he had come for Rogue, where did his loyalties lie? They had hoped to recruit a formidable new team mate, one strong enough, and mean enough to finally end this thing. Had they instead invited their own worst enemy into the Mansion?

Because no one escaped the Brotherhood. She should know.

***

12: Mixed messages

Marie was an exquisite actress, but he knew her. The flush that lay across her cheekbones, the set of her mouth, the stiffness in her back – she was hurting. For all her posturing and scorn, she had given these people the power to hurt her. That worried him. He hadn’t expected her to want to belong here.

Logan winced as the clang of the double doors resounded in his inner ear, and Rogue took her show of anger out of the room. He stared after her for a moment longer, trying to silence the primitive screaming inside. She belonged with him! This place was nothing, no one here mattered! Take her, now!

Marie mattered, though. And what Marie needed had always mattered most, Logan remembered. That’s how he ended up in this mess in the first place.

Alone. His very bones in agony, adamantium bonds pinning him like an insect. His blood drying against the wall, his faithful, dumb body desperately trying to knit the damage, to heal around the new shape of him.

Memory came dribbling back and he convulsed in a spasm of rage. Where was she? Where had they taken her? His frustration shaking the very walls with a howl of desperation and loss. Who was she? Or was she gone? Lost to the monster?

Racked with guilt, writhing in pain. Howling.

“Stop that noise. You’ll attract attention, and you really don’t want that.”

A woman, emerging from the dark with a solitary circle of yellow torchlight. Her eyes shone yellow, too, and her blue skin threw molten copper hair into sharp relief. Cunning eyes, schemer’s eyes. A scent he couldn’t fix. Too changeable, everything and nothing. He knew her.

His throat too raw to form the words, so the sound hissed out instead. “Mystique.”

“Hello, Wolverine. I’d like to say you were looking good, but …” a desultory wave of her hand made a mockery of his imprisonment, his wretchedness. He could expect no compassion from this one. He bared his teeth at her.

“You never did have any manners. But you were always useful, Wolverine. And for that … I’ll help you.” He felt hope, for a moment, then let it go. Even if she really wanted to help him, there was nothing she could do. Nothing could reshape adamantium.

“I can get you down from there, but you will owe me. Anything I ask. With utter obedience.” She stared up at him, waiting. Fool’s errand. Swear obedience? To do what? How? He would die here – at long last. The seductive dark was beckoning, again, and he wanted to go, he really did. But it meant leaving her, abandoning her. Marie.

He swore. “Yeah. I owe you. Obedience.” He let it go, that dream of nothingness, and peace. Submitted to the struggle.

Her smile was a feline thing, fat with triumph. “Well, then.” She ran the beam of the torch over him, examining the adamantium cuffs on each wrist. Pushed a button, and the wide wash of light became a thin blade, slicing up the wall. Stone tumbling down, and he was falling. Just one more piece of debris amid the disintegration.

He’d spent more time unconscious that day than any time he remembered. Mystique must have moved him, somehow, because he’d woken in a bed, whole. Her laser – stolen from the Defence Department, she’d said – melted adamantium like butter, apparently. The raw, exposed bones had rebuilt themselves to the patterns encoded deep in his cells, leaving only a terrible, phantom ache. He could feel it now, Logan realised, as he stared after Marie. So similar, that ache, to the pain he had felt when they were separated. The pain of knowing she was out there, surviving. Without him.

But maybe she hadn’t just been surviving. Maybe she had found a life. A regular fuck, the kid with the red eyes had said. He’d listened, blankly, and watched the room work itself into a lather over his accusations, but underneath the table, his fists were clenching, claws ready to spring.

Because another man had put his hands on her. They were talking betrayal, and she was losing her friends, and he wanted to put that boy in the ground. Once he would have blamed Wolverine, but he'd struggled towards some self-knowledge, and that included ugly truths. It was Logan who hated to share, Logan who couldn’t bear the thought of her with anyone other than him. Logan, who knew better than anyone else the forces that had shaped her, and drove her, and tormented her.

She had won battles here. Maybe even found peace. And he wanted to rip her away, like a plaster stuck to a half-healed wound, and thrust her back into the chaos of his life. Logan had never hated himself more.

*

Professor Xavier resisted the urge to reach out to his visitor. The Wolverine might be a feral – that much had become apparent – but his mind lacked the rawness and disinhibition mutants of that persuasion usually exhibited. Instead, an iron control locked his mind tighter than anything he had ever encountered. Totally unexpected, and completely fascinating.

He studied the man slouching in the deep chair on the other side of his desk. It was gratifying to see him in the Xavier Institute sweatsuit, but he wasn’t about to take a message from that. The temptation to read him was excruciating, but it would be very, very rude – and being rude to a dangerous man was also stupid. Even more so when he had his doubts about how effective it would be.

There was something about his mind, something in the unusually precise, crystal-clear projections he sometimes gave off that suggested some training. Not a fellow telepath, he was sure, but someone who was familiar with the idea that the mind was a tool, and could be used to shape different realities. Jean had already suggested that Wolverine and Rogue might not be what they seemed, and with the events of the morning, he had to consider the possibility that this man was an enemy.

A formidable enemy, he corrected, as warm gold eyes continued to stare into his own, in no hurry to fill the silence. They were at an impasse, really – in this, his territory, Charles could usually be expected to hold the upper hand, but the Wolverine was here at his request. The duty of hospitality duelling with the need for supremacy: a bind, indeed, he thought, and smiled.

“Wolverine, welcome. I trust you slept well?”

“Some. Nice digs, though. Nothing to complain about on that front,” his visitor offered.

“Have you been offered a tour of the premises yet? The gymnasium would be of interest to you, I’d imagine.” And the Danger Room, even more so, but that’s not for today, or even tomorrow, the Professor thought. You need to become one of us before the lower levels will give up their secrets.

“Storm offered. I wanted to see the fancy plane again. Figured that might not be on the standard tour. Might need X-tra attention,” His grin was wide and facetious, underlining the fact he knew more about them than he had been told.

“Are you a fan of planes? The Blackbird is very beautiful, even though her role is primarily functional. A glorified taxi, if you will, giving us access to mutant children all around the country. Their gifts so frequently manifest in somewhat tragic circumstances – we need to make all haste.”

“So, that’s all you do here? Collect the children in the fancy plane? Take the teachers along to save them from their ‘tragic circumstances’?” Any higher, and that eyebrow would fly off his face, the Professor thought, annoyed. His life’s work, distilled to that.

“Essentially, yes. Our teachers, and some of our senior students, are trained to assist young mutants who might find themselves in dangerous situations. On occasion, our teams might tackle other problems that occur, particularly if they have a bearing on mutant affairs. Myself and other senior staff are active lobbyists in the political arena,” he paused, willing the other man to volunteer some information, anything to indicate a familiarity with the vicious undercurrents in the mutant world. “This can draw unwelcome attention, from a range of opponents.”

“So, the question is, Chuck, what do you want from me? Do you want me to keep the kids safe, keep the sexy teachers safe, or keep the world safe for mutant kids? Or do you want a tame assassin, to make your problems go away?” Golden eyes, daring him to lay it on the line, and risk exposure.

“First, the former. And perhaps later, the latter. Once we know where your loyalties lie.”

A bitter laugh. “I can tell you where that is, Prof. With me. And with my wallet. Anything else is up for negotiation.”

His heart panged in sympathy for the man. He clearly wished things were otherwise. Perhaps he sought redemption?

“So let’s negotiate. What do you need to stay?”

“Somewhere else to live, that’s for fucking sure. A guaranteed spend on whatever security systems I think necessary, and oversight of your combat program. And a chance to work off some energy every now and then with a good fight.”

“Done. Welcome aboard, Wolverine.”

“We didn’t get to the fine print yet!”

He smiled, and held out his hand. “Put your expectations in writing, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements. We need you, and I’ll pay whatever is necessary. Plus, we have a team meeting in 10 minutes, and I’d like to introduce you as our new Head of Security.”

Wolverine stood up to shake his hand and pulled a wry face. “Better get on then, Chuck. Could be interesting.”

Interesting indeed, Professor Xavier thought, as the Wolverine followed him down the hall to the main meeting room. Jean was suspicious, Scott was feeling threatened, Rogue was angry, and the entire junior team was refusing to work with her.

The Professor smiled. Wolverine would soon discover that drama passed for entertainment in the X-mansion.

*

Something was gnawing at his insides, and Scott couldn’t tell whether it was hunger or foreboding. Lunch was beckoning, yes, but this uneasy flip in his stomach and the metallic taste in the back of his throat … it had to be nerves, he admitted. He was nervous for her.

Rogue was the only X-man not to have arrived yet, and with the old-fashioned clock on the burnished mantelpiece beginning to strike 12, she was about to be officially late. The Professor hadn’t arrived yet, of course, so the meeting hadn’t started, but … you didn’t arrive after the Professor. Ever.

Just one more rule for Rogue to break, he thought sourly. Not that it would be easy to walk into this pit of vipers, but she’d brought it on herself. A bit more trust, a bit more sharing, and they would have understood, he wanted to plead with her. Instead, you said nothing, and we built the lies ourselves.

The sound of her hurried arrival – not frightened, not reluctant, just late – dragged him from contemplation of their sins. He tried to stop his eyes from following her, but failed: another reason to reproach himself, because she looked scarcely older than the teenagers in the room - denim and Docs, black t-shirt and something see-through thrown over the top. The same, but more: the luminosity of her skin, the sweet curve of her cheek, the sensuous sway in her walk.

She hesitated, once, and then pushed her chin high and took her usual spot between Jubilee and Gambit. Interesting that they’d left it vacant, Scott thought, when both had been incandescent with rage just hours before. What did it say about him that he’d been more interested in Gambit’s admission that he and Rogue had been more than teammates? Was he so fixated on the girl that he could forgive her involvement with their enemy, but be outraged to hear she was fucking a friend?

Scott scowled, and hid his embarrassment behind the martinet face. He stood up – as Field Leader, he commanded the chair at the table’s end, directly facing Professor Xavier – and rapped his knuckles on the table, demanding silence.

“Good to see you are all here, almost on time,” he said pointedly, refusing to look at Rogue. “Professor Xavier will be here shortly, I imagine. But first I wanted to say a few words about what happened in the dining room this morning.”

He turned towards Rogue, inclining his head in her direction. Not for the first time, he was thankful for the modified sunglasses that shielded his eyes - they couldn’t know that he couldn’t look at her, for the fear of not wanting to stop. They couldn’t know that he was terrified of the projections he might send out, his wife being a telepath much less principled than the Professor.

“Nobody in this room doesn’t have a past. Most of us have something ugly and frightening that we’d rather not remember, and we choose not to talk about it. The way I see it, that’s all Rogue has done, and until her behaviour indicates otherwise, she is an X-man. Not Brotherhood, not anything else – an X-man. And anyone else who fancies themselves an X-man will treat her as such, or they will find themselves stripped of a uniform pretty damn quick.” He punctuated the threat with a glare that burned fiercest at the junior end of the table, where the truculent looks were almost amusing in their teenage predictability.

Gambit was wisely silent, if cloaked in black cloud of cynicism, but Bobby and Kitty were clearly burning with the need to lance the festering wound.

“But Cyclops, how can we be sure …” Iceman’s protest floundered under the weight of his commander’s furious look, and Shadowcat clamped her mouth shut even before her question had made its way out. Jubilee, however, was not cowed.

“Sure, we’ve all got secrets, but not all of us have secrets to do with fighting for our worst enemy,” she said mulishly.

“And then, there’s the matter of her loyalty yesterday – you said until her behaviour indicates otherwise, Cyclops. And yesterday, Rogue disobeyed an order, and attacked someone we were trying to recruit. Maybe the Brotherhood told her to get rid of the Wolverine or else!”

Jubilee’s moment of high drama was interrupted as the door to the meeting room opened, the Wolverine raising an eyebrow as he caught the end of the girl’s dire proclamation. He hesitated by the door, holding it open as the Professor wheeled through, but his alert gaze roamed the room before settling on Rogue. Expecting further violence? Scott rejected the idea as the older man’s eyes conducted a thorough inventory of his teammate, lingering a little too long on her eyes and her lips. It was more than simple appreciation, he realised with a chill – it was if he was determining that she was OK, or happy. Almost protective. It made no sense.

The room quietened instantly as Professor Xavier raised his hand. Wolverine loomed behind his chair, his forceful presence dominating the room. His attention had left Rogue, and was being focused elsewhere now … each face in turn, Scott realised, all the better to judge their reactions.

“I’m happy to report that the Wolverine has agreed to join the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning as our Head of Security,” Professor Xavier said genially. “We still have a number of minor issues to work out, but he wants to get started immediately, and that means a good deal of work for yourselves.”

Scott stilled. Why should security have any impact on the operation of the two X-teams? Wolverine would be a camera-jockey, perhaps organise a few patrols of the grounds. He’d have no involvement in the team, surely?

“As part of his role, the Wolverine will oversee combat training for the entire school, and has volunteered to teach the senior students himself. He’ll also be working with Scott to ensure the X-men are combat ready, and may yet agree to join one of the teams himself.”

Scott’s jaw dropped. That animal, on one of his teams? Training HIS team members? Hell was surely freezing over. And then, as if to prove it, Rogue raised her hand, and waited meekly for permission to speak. The Professor granted it with a nod, and she stood, glancing nervously around the table.

“I wanted to say something, and I need to get this out, so please don’t interrupt.”

“Yesterday, something happened to me. I don’t understand it, not really, but I think it was some sort of trauma thing. Something about seeing Wolverine again, and being in that warehouse …” her shoulders shook with a shudder no one could doubt.

“The last time I saw him, he was hunting me. In a warehouse just like that one. I was only young – just turned 16 – and I’ve never been so scared in my life. All I could do was wait until he came to kill me.” Her eyes were blank with remembered terror.

“And then he came, and he pointed the gun at me, and I knew I was dead. I just gave up, then, and thought it might be better anyway. And then he was lowering it, and saying something about my Momma and Daddy, and I couldn’t help it, I was just so scared, I had to get away. I touched him, and he was the first person I ever held onto.”

“I got all of his memories and most of his skills and even some weird personality stuff. So – I know him. And I didn’t say because it’s not easy having him inside my head, and it’s not easy remembering that girl. How scared I was. How weak.” Her self disgust cut his heart to ribbons.

“So when I saw him yesterday, I attacked him. I just wanted that weak girl, the scared girl, gone. I wanted Rogue back.” She was looking at the Wolverine, Scott realised with a shock. As if the message was for him, to him, rather than the rest of the table.

And from the look in his eyes, maybe it was.

***

13: Out of control

The hush lingered in the room as Rogue took her seat, and she fancied she could feel it settling heavy over her shoulders. August, she decided. It felt like the hot, sluggish weight of a Mississippi night in August. Someone stir the atmosphere, already!

She nearly laughed aloud when it was Storm who leapt to her feet, and enfolded her in a hug. All she said was “Oh, Rogue,” but it was forgiving and loving, all soothing noises and boundless compassion. It was why she could never get close to Storm, Rogue thought sadly as she dissolved into dramatic sobs in the older woman's arms. Abusing this felt like throwing the rain back into the clouds, or forcing the sun from the sky. But you do it anyway, she thought bitterly.

She felt a series of awkward pats on her back, and the waft of reluctant lust told her Scott was hovering. She released herself from Storm's tight hug with a whispered “thank you”, and turned to face him, hands dashing away the tears in her eyes.

“What you said. Thanks Scott. I know you didn't ask, but I was with the Brotherhood willingly, for a while. But I learnt from the experience. I joined the X-men without any agendas, and my loyalty is to you and the team.” Huh. The truth tasted better than lies. She'd forgotten.

His smile was strained, and she could tell he wanted to pull her into his arms. But she'd landed them square in team leader territory, and his professionalism demanded he stay there. “I never doubted that for a second. Your judgement, and your control, yes, but never your loyalty, Rogue.”

Her newly truth-telling self wanted to cock an eyebrow at that, but she was building bridges here, Rogue told herself. She let regret flicker across her face as she glanced towards the end of the table, where her teammates faces ranged from benevolent to outright mutinuous.

“I hope the others can be as generous as you are, Scott. It means a lot. But you can't force them to trust me – only ask them to work with me and give me the time to earn their trust back.”

She turned towards them, lifting her chin. “Anyone in the peanut gallery have problems with that?” Do not glare at Gambit. Do not glare!

Bobby responded as if Cyclops himself had asked the question, with a sharp “no sir!” and Kitty flushed dark red but didn't make a sound. Jubilee's porcelain-doll face was set to inscrutable, and Pyro and Gambit were lounging at the table's end in near identical poses. Gambit's was carefully calculated to express contempt, but Pyro was probably just bored, Rogue told herself.

An apology wouldn't hurt, though. Her pride, perhaps, but there was more at stake here. Rogue was still mulling it over when the Wolverine grabbed all the attention in the room, and squeezed.

“Rough fucking crowd. But my violin's broken and I have this stuff called work to do. We done with the pity party?” She could have kissed him, but satisfied herself with anger and insults instead.

“Sure there isn't someone somewhere who needs killing? More your usual line, Wolverine.”

His smile was vicious in return.

“I'm moving into the good guy business, babe. Attitude like that, you're gonna be doing lots of extra combat training, I reckon. Burn off that anger.”

She flipped him the finger, and shivered inside.

*
His senses caught the rush of arousal, and he was profoundly thankful that the wolfish smile happened to be appropriate. This meeting needed to end soon, and he needed to find a place where they could both slip the leash. Their kind of sparring wouldn't be welcome in that pristine ring downstairs, he knew that. He'd stood in front of it, on the tour, and drew in every bit of scent that had ever gathered there, and all he found was gallons of sweat, and surprisingly little blood. Nothing else. He was trapped in PG-land.

“Order of business. I need someone to show me the security system, right away. I need to know when you have your combat training, and when you're available to have more. I need a vehicle so I can sort out somewhere to live.” He counted them off on his fingers, ignoring the objections that buzzed around him even as he moved to the next point on his list.

Professor Xavier held up his hand and the room was instantly quiet. “Rogue knows the most about our security system,” the old man said, dropping her in it with a gently inquiring glance. Rogue nodded, with an impressive show of ill grace.

“If you sit down with Scott and Ororo, they'll be able to discuss who's available when. Most of the second team still has classes to deal with, and Rogue is starting her college courses in the Fall.” He blinked at that, and tried to be glad for her. Kid was getting a life.

“You are welcome to take any of the Mansion's vehicles from the garage. A few are the staff's personal cars, but the pool cars have the keys left in the ignition. As to a place to live, however … there is another option.”

Xavier paused, and his inquiry was made mentally. “Hell yeah, I'm interested,” Logan snorted, before realising he hadn't vocalised the response. Intent alone, it seemed, was sufficient to transmit his thoughts to Xavier. The White Queen hadn't been able to penetrate his mind at all, and the fact that Xavier could, even if passively, left Logan all kinds of worried. And impressed, he acknowledged.

“There is a cottage on the northern margin on the property, at the entrance to the woods. It is only small – just the one bedroom and a living area – but you are welcome to see whether that would suit you.”

The mere mention of being out of this zoo and next to the woods had left the Wolverine purring. No more creeping across the hall, Logan reminded him, only to be battered by a series of images of exactly what he could do with all that privacy. The growl ripped from his chest before he could stop it; all around the table, his new teammates froze.

The Wolverine didn't have to explain himself. Once, he would have grunted and ignored their shock. He wasn't that man anymore, Logan told himself.

“Sorry. Ferals don't like being cooped up much. Cottage would be perfect, Professor. Thank you.”

He wasn't sure what had shaken them more. His growl, or his manners. He slid a wide, open smile into the mix and nearly chuckled as the room filled with the stink of confusion.

Perfect.

*

A truly joyful meeting. Such restraint and oh, yes, maturity on show, Hank thought sourly as he ushered the last of the junior team out of the room. Only he and the Professor remained.

He huffed out a sigh of relief, and let loose his grip on Dr Henry McCoy, just a little. Truly, he was close to the end of his tether. Professor Xavier had laughed – laughed! – at his fraying control as the younger team members showed themselves to be sulky little brats, and then to hear Scott's misguided thoughts on the subject of the Wolverine … Cyclops could be such a boob.

As far as Hank was concerned, the Wolverine was an excellent addition to their team, and he deserved the opportunity to prove himself, just like any other mutant. He snorted. Bloody alphas. Did they really not think that their motives were anything less than transparent? Scott would have been better to strum a ukelele and start yodeling about a low down bastard that stole his job and his woman too.

“Care to share the joke, old friend?”

The Professor looked fed up, too, Hank realised. He censored the joke a little – Charles need not know he found the golden child so very insufferable – before projecting it to the Professor. They were both chuckling as he held the conference room door wide for the Professor, and then shut the lights before emerging into the near-empty hall.

“Go and let off some steam, Hank. Things will improve soon, I'm sure,” the Professor said hopefully, eyes worried as he watched most of his team beat a rapid retreat. Wolverine and Rogue were already embroiled in a confrontation just a few metres away, her face right up in his and their bodies vibrating with tension.

Charles shook his head silently and powered his chair in the other direction, leaving Hank to defuse the situation. Homicide didn't look likely right now – he was reminding her of her obligations, and Rogue was generally quite professional...

“I need to see that fucking control room, right fucking now!”

… except when someone tried to give her orders. Oh dear. Hank stood stock still, then shook his head in puzzlement as Rogue refrained from hurting him, and uttered barely an outraged peep before leading the way down the hall. He took a deep breath, because finally, he could breathe and ... oh my stars and garters. Oh no.

He'd expected anger, and hate. Two angry, resentful people. Not this blinding mishmash of pheromones, thick with lust and sex and history and love and loss and hurt. And lies. So many lies. Their scents, Hank realised with a shock, were entwined like rosebriars in Ororo's arbour, tangled together through years of growth, until you couldn't tell where one ended and its mate began. There was no way that the tale she had just told could be true. They were not strangers, or even recent lovers, though they were certainly that. All her secret places smelt of him, and every inch of him bore the scent of her skin. Beyond the hot, rich smell of recent sex was something deeper, and more puzzling.

That unusual base note he associated with Rogue, so heavy and musky and frighteningly primal – it was assaulting him now, thicker than it had ever been. Twice as strong, but deeper, and subtly different. Wolverine, he realised. At her most basic, elemental level, she smelt of him. Their scents weren't identical, but the dominant part of Rogue's scent was drawn from his, Hank conceded.

His scientific brain rebelled even as his feral senses confirmed it – how? How could two people share that? Pheromones were coded at a cellular level, more precise and individualised than any fingerprint. No two could ever be the same. Not even Mystique could replicate another person's scent … but Rogue had. Somehow, Rogue had acquired something of the Wolverine – her mutation. Not just a personality, but a phenotype reproduced – obvious, of course, or she wouldn't be able to reproduce other mutants' powers.

Hank's understanding grew in leaps and bounds, but it couldn't dull the nagging doubts. Why the Wolverine? What sort of bond did they have, beyond the now blindingly obvious? What was that vibration between them, that endless tension that they'd all seen, and felt, and explained away as hatred? More than hate, certainly. More than sex, probably. Less than love? Hank sighed, and even to his own ears it sounded troubled. Whatever it was - it was a lie. A dangerous, oozing pustule of a lie that had the potential to burst all over the X-men's tidy existence, he suspected.

An ethical dilemma. Hank hung his head wearily as the weight of responsibility pushed him towards the Professor's office. Charles and Jean, telepaths both, would never have invaded the privacy of another, but he, the feral, had been given no such choice, Hank thought bitterly. His only decision could be what to do with the information his dumb, oversensitive nose had provided, but as the only feral in the Mansion … he froze, the novelty of it stunning him.

He wasn't. Any longer. Wolverine had stood up there and calmly described his own abilities, and when he had squirmed in his seat at the description of heightened aggression and animal-like senses, the look the man had sent him had been full of sympathy.

Wolverine didn't try to hide behind a guise of gentlemanly behaviour and scientific erudition. He hadn't even apologised, Hank reminded himself. He was a man who would trust his instincts, and use every advantage he had.

But what were his instincts telling him, now? Deception, surely. That meant danger. Loyalty, to his ideals, and the team. Loyalty to his kind? Loyalty to the type of man he secretly wanted to be?

Beast growled and spun on his heel. Dr McCoy the scientist was demanding more information on this situation, and the hunter in him was warming to the chase. May the best feral win.

*
Rogue had wanted to mend things, really she had, but then the Wolverine had grabbed her and made a big production about being shown to the control room. So in the spirit of playing nice with the new recruit, she'd sent a sad smile towards Jubilee, and cried off on the ritual breast beating for a few more hours.

This situation was so fucked up, she was pretty sure it didn't qualify as dumping your friends for a man. Most of 'em weren't talking to her, and they'd never know, anyway.

And the electricity leaping between them was just about burning her alive as they rushed towards the control room, desperately trying the project the image of two strangers trying not to let personal business interfere in their professional goals.

Dr McCoy and Professor Xavier didn't need to know that her current goal was to tie him to that huge black chair, and make him watch the tapes. Rogue tried to remember to breathe as they stalked the length of the hallway. Make him watch, and see himself as he ate her out in the garage. Make him watch as he slammed into her from behind in the half-dark of the back stairs. Watch him grow hard, and grow desperate, and then take advantage of the situation.

Oh yes, that was a plan.

She heard his perturbed intake of breath, and wiped the tiny grin from her face. Felt the weight of his wordless stare, and wondered if her eyes looked like that too - pupils dilated and huge with want. She coughed, and looked pointedly at the tent forming in the front of his jeans.

“You being impertinent?”

“No sir, Mr Wolverine.” She heard his muffled laugh as they drew even with the control room door, and she stepped in front of him to enter her access code.

“Never let a stranger get too close to you when you're inputting any sort of code,” he breathed into her ear, his entire body suddenly plastered to her back. The door released, and she stepped forward, leaving him momentarily off balance.

“I'd never do that, sugar. Code changes every day, anyway – and I'm the only one who knows the sequence it follows.” Go sit in the chair, she begged him silently. She crossed to the desk in the back of the room, and perched herself next to the filing cabinet.

“Sixteen monitors, one for each of the 15 cameras, and an extra screen for reviewing footage. Constant live feed, and all saved digitally. Backups every 12 hours, so we never lose any little thing.”

He gave the operators chair a cursory twirl, then sat sideways on the operations console, watching her.

“This ever manned?”

“Not often. I come in for a bit if we have security issues, and sometimes I'll post a watch if we're having problems, but usually, I review it all remotely. You can access them from any computer, just have to know what to log in to.” Please sit in the goddamn chair.

“What's this for?” He walked towards her, indicating the unadorned desk she had perched herself on.

“Paperwork, mostly. I keep logs of suspicious incidents, just in case it might add up to a bigger picture, and I also lock the old footage – on portable harddrives – in the filing cabinet.” She unlocked the cabinet to show him the neat stacks of discs she had archived. “Few other bits and pieces too.”

He returned to the control station, and sank into the black leather chair with a hiss of pleasure.

Rogue swallowed her victorious smile, and reached her hand into the cabinet, plucking out the two pairs of handcuffs keeping company with a taser and a first aid kit. She slid off the desk, dropped the handcuffs deep into the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, and held her breath as she made her way over to him. Innocent thoughts, she told herself sternly.

He knew something was up, though, and he swivelled the chair to watch her as she came close, head dropping down as if she posed a threat, but eyes hot under those heavy brows. Her skin began to prickle and her pulse ratcheted high. They were alone. In a locked room.

She took another step forward, and stood between his spread knees. “Hi.”
“Hey girlie. What can I do for you?” His voice was rough, already sliding down to that register she'd heard last night. His hands rose to her hipbones, and she fought the urge to sink right down into him, onto him.

“Let's start with last night, shall we?” She nudged the chair back towards the console, and leaned past him to input her codes, and pull up the footage. The dark of the garage, a lone red car in the foreground, dark inside. Two Harleys, entering at speed. Two figures in black leather, falling together, falling onto the bench. A flash of adamantium, and the man fell to his knees.

“Fuck.” His breathing had changed, and he sat forward to watch, completely enraptured. Rogue took a step back, and his hands released her absentmindedly. Another step back, and she slid around to where one strong arm lay relaxed on the arm of the chair. Click.

He looked at her in shock, and she paused for a fraction of a moment to allow him to process the sight of the handcuffs securing his left arm to the chair. A smile, hungry with anticipation and hot with wickedness, spread across his face, and he relaxed into mute expectation as she moved around to lock the second set of cuffs around his right wrist. He didn't begin to growl until she moved in front of him, kicking his legs apart to crouch between his knees.


“Wolverine. What am I going to do with you?”

*

14: Unpredictable

“Wolverine. What am I going to do with you?”

Just the thought of it, the possibilities, sent her heart hammering. Rogue licked her lips, and took a deep breath to calm herself. She wasn't the student here – it was he who had a lesson to learn. And she could be a harsh taskmaster, if she had to be. Something must have shown on her face, because his hungry leer faltered, then vanished as he stared down at her. She was crouched on the floor at his feet, but she felt powerful, not submissive.

Suddenly, he looked wary.

Well then. She rocked back on her heels to survey him. Her territory, by conquest. Brand new running shoes, pristine and white, where she remembered steelcaps, or those disreputable cowboy boots. Thick terry cotton on his upper half, concealing that wondrous chest; thinner poly cotton below, hiding calves she knew bulged with muscle. They had lost the battle with his thighs, though, and she could see the muscles there clenching and releasing as his body fought the stillness he had imposed.

The moment before fight or flight, she realised, and nearly cursed aloud. He had been a prisoner more than once, confined for days and weeks, and tortured. He might have forgotten the nightmares, and buried the memories, but she hadn't – and she had cuffed him to a chair?

Rogue hauled the key out of her pocket, and her mouth was open on a babble of apologies, when his agonised growl stopped her short.

“Fuck, Marie. Don't make me beg.” His eyes were full of conflict, and yes, every muscle in his body was taut. Beg for what, Logan? But something told her he didn't want to discuss this, didn't want to be complicit.

But he wanted.

She tucked the key away, and stretched to her full height in front of him. Reached back, released her hair from its tight ponytail, and watched his eyes heat as it swished down to caress her ass. She hid her smile – oldest trick in the book, Logan – and leaned forward, her hands over his as they gripped the arms of the chair, their faces just inches apart.

“Marie wants to make you beg, Logan. All that time in the cabin, wanting you so badly, and not being able to touch you. She wants you to beg. And so do I.”

She dropped lower, pressing her lips to his neck. Tasted the sweat rising salty from his skin, and etched a teasing circle with her tongue. Sealed it with a sharp nip, and watched it blossom purple. A chain of bites, she thought, one for every time he had refused to touch her. Unbreakable, like the bonds he had forged the night he decided not to abandon her, shivering in the snow. And the the night they had killed her father, releasing her soul. And another night, testing the boundaries of newfound control, tangled together on a hidden patio in Havana.

Even as she sat back to admire the line of bites, dark against his skin, she knew they'd be gone before they left this room. But she'd know. That chain of bruises would be the last thing she would think of, every night of her life. The beauty of them, raw against his throat, and his submission. To Marie – and to Rogue.

But he wouldn't be the Wolverine if he went down without a fight.

“Fuck Rogue. You are Marie. And you damn well know you can do anything to me.” His voice broke. “You always could, kid. You just didn't know it then.”

She slapped him. As the flat of her hand stung against his cheekbone, she tangled the other hand in the nape of his neck, dragging his eyes up to meet hers.

“Marie wouldn't know what to do with you, sugar. She was broken, and she was scared, and she was a kid. You gave her the strength to get past that, and you can say what you like, but I know it wasn't because you wanted to fuck her!”

Her voice gentled. “Marie got a raw deal, sugar. She got a shitty father, a weak mama, and the sort of mutation that was always gonna ruin her life. But here's the thing – YOU happened. And you helped her take what she had and do something useful with it, become somebody who could actually survive that fucked up life.”

“I ain't apologising for Rogue, sugar. She ain't Marie, but she's not a dead loss, either. And here's the thing.”

She bent forward to grab the trackpants either side of his hips, dropping them to his knees with one quick yank. She nearly smiled at the tighty whities, but she had a point to make – and he was already making it for her. “See that? You're so fucking hard, you're halfway out of those jocks already. That's for me, sugar. Because I know Marie used to get you hot and bothered, but she ain't here now, and you didn't come here looking for her.”

She stared at him for a moment, daring him to disagree. When he remained silent, she raised her hand to her mouth and licked her fingers one by one before slowly, deliberately, dropping her hand down to trace around the head of his unruly cock. He didn't say a word, but the strangled noise and wild eyes made her smile. And dip her hand deep inside to grasp him tight, and stroke. And when his cock swelled even further under her hand, the sheer heft of it demanded she adjust her grip. And the feel of him in her palm demanded she close her fist around him and pump.

“Oh my fucking God. Rogue!” Her name became a howl as he threw his head back as if in agony, his hips pistoning upwards and knocking her backwards onto her ass. She tried not to crow with triumph, but the laugh came anyway, and when she finally stopped laughing, he was watching her with a strange light in his eyes.

“That's the first time I've heard you laugh.”

“Don't be silly, sugar! I laugh all the time.” Never like that, though, a little voice that might have been wholly her own whispered.

“Never with me. Marie smiled and giggled, but she never really laughed much. I've heard you chuckle, and make lots of wisecracks, but not let go like that. Not ever.”

“Well sugar, no one's ever knocked me on my ass quite like that before.” And she must look like an idiot with this Cheshire Cat grin, but fuck it, she was Rogue, and she was about to have her wicked way with Logan, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was enough to make any woman squeal with glee.

Not that she had any intention of squealing. Not before he did, anyway.

*

Mystique stared at the mysterious stains on the wall of the latest safe house, and told herself to bide her time. Be patient. Fight the good fight. But really, if she never had to live in another broken down, smelly, too small, too crowded safe house, it would too soon.

So many years of her life, sacrificed to this. It wasn't that she didn't believe in the cause, but to have to live like this, to be reduced to rats in the sewers … it was unnecessary. Misguided. Like so many of the Brotherhood's dilemmas. Misguided.

She had been a loyal lieutenant, to a degree. She had upheld Magneto's aims, and fought for his glory, and manoeuvred to his advantage. She had loved, and lost, because of him, and chosen the Brotherhood over her own blood.

Marie, of course, had never known. Adoption records were so tightly sealed, and even if her adoptive parents had thought to tell her, the papers had never held her real name anyway. (Slave name, his voice echoed in her head.) Would he have been less cruel if he had known who she was? Their child, conceived in love, early in their years together? When the cause had burned like a holy crusade, and a child was a mere inconvenience?

She knew why she had never asked. Because she knew him, and she didn't want to hear his answer. The greater good, he preached. And a true zealot would willingly sacrifice his own child, easily betray a loyal comrade, happily send them all to their deaths, if he thought it right.

Magneto no longer knew what was right. Their mission to unite mutants behind the Brotherhood flag had failed, falling into a morass of criminal activities and terrorist actions that won them more enemies than friends. Xavier had won the march, his insistence that they were all human – still human – winning the hearts and minds of moderate humans and mutants alike.

Easy for him, with his smooth white skin and easily hidden abilities, Mystique thought bitterly. Easy to hold to those wishy-washy politics when no one wants to lock you up, or steal acres of your skin, or kill you simply because you are too dangerous to live.

She tried to remember the days when the three of them had worked side by side, towards the same goals, but decades of bitterness had dulled their lustre. Pushed them too far apart to ever reconcile.

And reconciliation was vital with the changes that were coming, Mystique told herself as her conscience began to clamour once again.

She had unleashed her weapon, and he would make the kill for nothing less than the future of mutantkind.

*

Rogue pushed herself to her feet, and stalked towards his chair. Spun him around to face the monitors, and stood behind him to watch. On the screen, her face was contorted in a paroxysm of bliss, and her mouth grew slack as she remembered what it meant to be in that moment. His tongue, delving its way in between the folds of her sex, and his lips, closing around her clit, first to tease, and then to tug unmercifully as the wave took her. She forced herself away, out of that liquid state, and back to the locked room, back to watching. Only to find that had its compensations, too – the line of his back, muscles bunching as he lifted her high, and the breathtaking tightness of his ass, and the way her fingernails scored long lines down his back, to drip blood for a moment, then vanish as if they'd never existed.

She realised that she wanted to see his face as he came. She'd been too far gone in the moment, but the camera was paying attention where she had not, and the vein that throbbed at his temples, the grit of his teeth, and the tremendous, full body convulsion as his hips slammed deep into her waiting centre …

“You breathing?” His eyes were fixed to her face, and the smile was far too wolfish for a man handcuffed to a chair.

She blushed. “Don't like the movie, sugar?”

“I like it plenty, girl.” He flicked his thumb at the monitor, and tapped the screen to rerun the footage. “Now that girl, who let me go down on her in the garage, I figure that's Rogue.” He fastforwarded a few moments, and she saw her head fly back, and tears flowing down her face. He had stopped, just inside of her, and stilled for a moment, despite her kicks and protestations. That fraction of a second had lasted millenia, she remembered, and the sensation of it, the pleasure and the completeness and the knowledge that finally he was there, present, in her reality, after so, so long …

“That's Marie. My Marie.” He growled, half arousal, and half warning. “I'm actually pretty damn impressed with Rogue. But don't you go giving up on that girl, either. I think she's stronger than you realise.”

He might even have been right, Rogue conceded, as she stared at her own face, frozen in a moment of tenderness Rogue would have otherwise denied. She frowned, and hit fast forward again, only to find herself being thoroughly fucked on the back stairs. Her hands were white knuckled as she braced herself on the guard rail, and her entire body shook to the power of his thrusts. They seemed lost in a world of lust, those two … and then the dark-haired woman looked straight into the camera and sent them a slow, lascivious wink, even as the Wolverine loomed over her, balls deep on his way to another climax.

“And that, sugar, is Rogue,” she said as he spluttered beside her. “Question is, who's here now? And what, pray tell, is she going to do to you?”

“Think I'm past caring,” he grunted, eyes fixed to the screen as her mouth opened wide in what she knew had been a scream of pleasure.

“Well, sugar, I'm not, and you ARE going to beg me. You are going to beg me to touch you, and suck you, and let's see if I have this right … play cowgirl on your cock?”

He flinched at that but she was getting sick of their past crowding into the room. Rogue swatted both screens into silence, and hoisted herself up onto the console to examine him. He was too beautiful, really, straining against the bonds like that, half pissed off and half sorry. Still horny, though, and it was time he lost that ridiculous underwear, she decided. Poor man might do himself a damage, locked up like that.

She slid down and hooked her fingers into the elastic, then tugged, making sure her hair fell forward to pool in his lap. She felt his shudder as the long strands floated over his now-exposed cock, and shook her head a little to stroke him once more. Later, he would beg for her hands, but this was a time for taking it slow. She would wear him down like water on a stone – drip, drip, drip – and when she was done, there would be no more room for Marie.

“Marie would have been too scared to look, sugar. She didn't know what she was missing … because you have the most beautiful cock I've ever seen. Not as long as some, but so thick, like a tree. Blunt and powerful.” She bent her head to whisper the words over him, warm puffs of air, and her lips so close … but not touching.

A moan ripped out of him, a needy sound she would have never expected from the Wolverine. “Ro.. Ma.. uugh. Uh.”

“What was that, sugar? Touch you? Marie can't touch you, sugar ...”

Rogue dragged her fingernails up the outsides of his thighs, shamelessly tracing the huge muscles as they bunched and clenched under her hands. Used her fingertips as she reached his groin, dancing them over him, tormenting the tender skin then tangling her fingers in the proud bush of hair that framed his heavy cock. Tugged, and blew, and teased. But didn't touch.

“Rogue!” His shout echoed inside the room, and she drank in the desperation on his face. But …

“Touch me, Rogue. Please.”

She sent up a prayer of thanks and dropped to her knees, flicking her hair back behind her as she sought her prize. Slipped her lips over the silky soft tip, then slid her mouth down the fullness of his length, before dragging her teeth the full way up. The taste of him blindsided her for a moment, and she forgot all about teaching him a lesson as she chased down every fragrant molecule with her tongue. His hips had begun to heave before she came back to herself, and released him with a last, reluctant suckle.

“Don't stop. Don't, please ...”

“Now sugar, let's not get ahead of ourselves. I haven't made you cry yet.” And for that, she needed more skin, she realised, and bent to retrieve the tiny knife sheathed inside her boot. He stilled, and she saw the trust they were building stretch thin and taut. She held his eyes, then lowered the knife to the neckline of his sweatshirt, and cut through to the hem with one swift motion. Climbed into his lap, and brandished it in front of his nose.

“Whatcha think I was going to do with it, Logan? Cut you?”

He shrugged, the twitch of his shoulders pulling one muscle after another into sharp relief. She tried not to salivate, but really. Acres of naked Wolverine, handcuffed to a chair. She shifted restlessly, and felt his cock hit the sweet spot on the seam of her jeans. Control!

“Nah. Not really.” His smirk told her he knew exactly where her focus was. Bastard.

The blade flashed under his chin, and suddenly a line of blood bloomed across his neck.

“Don't take Rogue for granted, Logan. She's an unpredictable bitch.”

Rogue punctuated the warning by leaning forward to kiss along the fast-disappearing cut. It was gone by the time she moved to her mouth down to the hard swell of his pecs, kneading them with her hands as she sucked one flat nipple, and then the other, into her mouth. Used her teeth to worry them hard, then moved on to the delicious ridges that sculpted his abdomen. They, of course, demanded she trace them, one by one, with lips, teeth and tongue.

She felt like a supplicant at the temple of Logan when she glanced up and saw confusion and suspicion warring with arousal and awe. Trust me, Logan, she prayed. Let me fucking worship you. Then she lost herself in the smell and taste of him, nearly missing the answer that came wrapped in a long groan.

“Yeah. But she's my fucking unpredictable bitch.”

*

15: Red like wine

Logan wasn't a man who lived by a lot of rules, but he did have some. Stay in control. Keep the Wolverine on his leash. And stay the fuck away from emotional entanglements.

He'd broken most of them before, he had to admit. But never quite like this, he thought, as she stared up at him. And never all at once.

The Wolverine was snarling and snapping, howling with excitement at the proximity to his mate, and what she was doing to him. And it would be him, Logan knew. She was asking for total submission, complete abandon. She was asking for the animal she had never seen, and he was one breath away from giving that to her.

It was a long, dark hiss, that breath. Words, while he could.

“Mine!” he insisted, as her chocolate eyes drank him in, and a smile lurked in the curve of her lips, even as they teased the head of his cock. “My mate,” he groaned, straining against the handcuffs, wanting to gather her close to him and breathe the commitment into her hair. The glow in her eyes told him it was enough, and he threw his head back and fell into wildness.

Sensation … the world fractured into a million new colours, and twice as many scents. Her slick mouth, clever fingers. Fire, burning him from inside. Power and glory as she hollowed her cheeks and swirled her tongue and scraped her teeth along him. Out, out now, touch her, touch his mate. Helpless. Feel. Feel her. Feel her mouth. Teeth. Taste her!

Wolverine snapped at the air, desperate to bend forward to her, and her laughter roared in his ears, but she straightened and gasped as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, capturing hers and tasting, tasting, tasting, her and him and them together and he was howling as she slid back down again, raking her nails down his chest as she went. So good. Sucking again. Suck. Suck. Good. Don't stop. Coming. Coming now. So good it hurt. Still sucking, tongue cleaning him like she would a cub. A cub!

He roared, and the claws sprang free, and the puny steel was gone. Hard, again, and she smelt good, but not good enough. He would make her smell better. Warm in his arms, right. This den smelt wrong, but he would fill it with their scent and it would be theirs. Nowhere! Nowhere soft and warm to rut, but she was warm inside and now, he needed to be inside her now.

“Wolverine!” She wanted, too. She needed. There! Hard and cold, but flat, and she scrambled backwards and was holding out her arms to him, begging. First time. Soft. Their first time. Wolverine and Rogue.

He crawled over her, and took scent in all the woman places. Her ear, and her throat. Deliciousness under her arm. Waist. Belly button. So soft, her groin. And here. Here was best. The smell, the smell, the smell.

Want boiled his blood, and need ate him whole. Inside. Feel, taste, touch her inside. Fill her with his seed, his cub. Again. Harder. Again. More. She was clutching him, claiming him, pulling him in, and he was gone. Blackness. Nothingness. Hers.

The Wolverine collapsed on top of his mate, rolling them together on their sides, and tucking her head into his shoulder. Oblivion claimed them.

*

Starbucks, Jean thought sourly. The things she did for anonymity. She collected her mocha latte from the counter, and perched on a stool at the window, staring back into the room. Inputted the long string of digits into her phone, then listened as it rang. How long did it take a call take to bounce around the globe? She had barely thought the question when a cheery receptionist answered.

“White & Partners. How may I direct your call?”

“Miss White, please.”

The line clicked and Jean knew she was being recorded. Panic rose, but she pushed it away. They were both good at this. Trust the system.

“Jane White speaking.”

“Hello Jane, it's Rhiannon.” Skip over the vowels, and roll through the consonants, she reminded herself. She needed to point them far, far away, and deep in the government files was a mention of an Irish girl who had run with the Brotherhood for a while. She had died, Jean knew, but perhaps the listeners wouldn't. It hurt, being reminded they weren't free.

“Rhiannon, love. Great to hear from you. How's the mountain climbing business?” Jean blanked for a moment. Dear Mystique. Always had to throw it out there, take it one step further.

Mountains. Rhiannon was from Wicklow, she remembered. A tiny town, the highest in Ireland, they said.

“Ah sure, and it's foine. I took a group up old Lug yesterday, and we had the most brilliant time, even though it was a nice, saft day.” Take that and run with it, Miss White.

The chuckle on the end of the phone was real, she could tell, full of wicked glee she remembered so well. Nostalgia would get them no where, and she would do well to remember it, Jean told herself.

“Good. Great to hear its all working out. There's nothing like a good business plan, is there?”

“Yes, everything's working out really well. I've had a few new clients I'm a bit worried about though. Thought I should seek a legal opinion on what to do if things turn nasty.”

“I have a gentleman who has climbed with us before, several times, and was always satisfied with the service. But now, he seems to be having a personality clash with one of my younger climbers, and neither of them are enjoying the trips.”

“Have either demanded their money back?” Rhiannon's erstwhile lawyer was on the case. You had to hand it to Mystique, Jean grudgingly allowed – she knew how to set up a good cover.

“No, but it's making the trips unpleasant for everyone. And I don't think the peace will last much longer. And …” she stopped, not wanting to admit her suspicions to Mystique, because that would mean admitting them to herself.

But they needed to know. They all needed to know.

“I'm not sure everything's as it seems. I wonder if they know each other outside of our climbing trips, and what we are seeing isn't the whole story.”

Miss White clucked sympathetically, with absolutely no surprise. Jean's heart sank.

“Mmmm. Wouldn't be the first couple to drag their personal issues into another setting. Some people just can't leave the past behind.”

“But why would they pretend they don't know each other?” Jean blurted out, then froze when she realised she had abandoned her script. Any sign of weakness, and Mystique would swoop like vulture to carrion.

“I simply can't say, dear. Their business is their own – you need to stay focused on your job. It's only a problem for you if they are upsetting the other customers, really.”

Keep your nose out of their business, Jean translated.

“Perhaps you're right,” she gritted out. “I'll keep you posted,” Jean said, and then pushed the red button, wishing it was that easy to wipe Mystique out of her life.

*

Warmth. Satisfaction. His woman. Reality filtered back gently, but he fought it at first, curling himself around her more tightly, and ignoring the chill of cooling sweat on his skin. Fucking uncomfortable bed, he realised, as sleep left left him. Desk, in fact, Logan noted with surprise as he lifted himself on one elbow to take in his surroundings.

A chair upended on the floor, half a handcuff hanging off it. Files and random stationary scattered halfway across the room, a pair of jeans neatly carved open. A t-shirt, mostly whole, and half a bra. Everywhere he looked, the marks of his claws.

He stilled, terrified. Wolverine.

Logan closed his eyes, then opened them slowly as he eased himself away from her. He needed to see. The mass of her hair hid the elegant lines of her spine, but it fell away to frame the rounded swell her ass, like a curtain parting on the truth. Some bastard had gripped her hard, there, a black imprint of a thumb that had gouged deep into that sweet flesh (holding her still, he remembered, as he reared over her, plunging, as she convulsed in a wordless scream). A tracery of bloodspots decorated her back, and dread paralysed him until he forced the memory from Wolverine(“claws, your claws” she had begged, but this was no time for that nasty human metal so he had dug his fingernails into her back and dragged them down, and even her blood on his tongue seemed to shout how much she wanted this, wanted him.)

The Wolverine had been careful with her, or at least, as careful as she wanted him to be, Logan conceded. But just like a wolf had to howl at the moon, and the wolverine had to fight back … there were some things instinct always demanded. He held his breath as he lifted her hair away from the nape of her neck, and his heart sank like a stone.

A mess of blood, and bruising, and teethmarks. One one side, the ridge of muscle between neck and shoulder seemed to be lacking some flesh, the ragged wound oozing blood even now. It would scar, he realised. She would bear that mark for the rest of her life. He fought the rush of satisfaction, hated it, but he felt the triumph and ownership and pride swell and fester until it threatened to explode from his throat in a roar.

“Rogue,” he whispered, instead. Lowered his lips to her neck, and licked gently around the abused flesh. “Mine. Whoever you are. Whoever you become. Always mine.”

She lifted her head, then, warm chocolate eyes catching his. A smile, glowing with Marie's warmth and openness, but sure and knowing. Adult. She stretched luxuriously, and her long, throaty groan made him instantly hard.

“Morning, sugar. Or is it afternoon?” She sat up, scooting backwards into the warmth of his body, and tipping her head up to feather her lips along his jawbone. He saw the minute she slipped out of that sleepy reverie, wincing as the movement pulled at the raw flesh.

“What the …?” He grabbed her hand clear as she went to touch it, and groped desperately for something to say. How to explain him, and them, and this barbarous thing he had inflicted on her. Shame welled up, and he willed himself to say something – anything – before he turned and fled from the room. Somewhere inside, the Wolverine was jeering. Coward, he said. She is worth a million of you.

He was right, of course. He owed her this.

“I lost it. He … I … marked you.”

She glanced up at him, uncomprehending, and giggled. “S'ok, sugar. I can wear a scarf – could be fun.”
He snapped back, not able to wait for the horror, the shock that was sure to come.

“It's not a fuckin' love bite, kid. You're gonna need a dressing, not a scarf.”

Her hand drifted up to the wound, and she probed the jagged edges of the bite. He stilled, wondering how his heart could continue to beat. Somewhere inside, the Wolverine was quiet, waiting. He felt a strange compassion for the beast, so expectant and hopeful. Poor bastard.

He felt her shoulder hitch, and the breath move out of her chest in a long, sad sigh. She nestled her body into his even more deeply for a moment, then pulled away, sliding off the desk and turning to face him.

“I could do that. I could put Neosporin on it, and cover it up, and pretend I got bit by a big old dog. Or, I could say 'fuck that' and leave it uncovered, and let everyone see the marks of your teeth, on my skin. Show 'em that maybe someone out there wants to touch me, goes crazy for touchin' me.”

He began to breathe again.

She moved closer, then, her lips whispering over his in a kiss that felt like a benediction. She breathed him in, and something in him released. Only her. Only this woman could understand his wildness and desperation. One day, she might even be able to forgive it.

“I feel like wearing a fucking bikini, Logan. Let them see every bruise, every scratch. Show 'em that I belong to you. But we've got ourselves in a hole here, and we can't just up and do that. Too many questions and they ain't gonna like the answers. So we hide it, for just a little while.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, and she laughed with delight. Swooped to pick up her ruined jeans, and tugged a long swathe of dark, sinful red from the belt loops.

“How do you like wine red silk, Logan? I've been using it as a belt, but from now on, it's my favourite scarf – I'll wear it all week.” He was perplexed at the change in subject until she fluttered it down, settling it over his cock, redolent of him and her both.

She caught up both ends and wrapped them around what was becoming a fast-growing erection. “And then every night, I'll tie it around your cock. Prettiest little bow you ever saw.” He jerked as she tied it tight, a small stain appearing as he began to weep from the tip.

“And you'll see that scarf, and it'll still smell of you and taste of you, just like I do. That'll be your mark, until this can.”

She ran her hand up and down his silk-covered length twice more, to make her point – and embed it with his scent, the Wolverine added approvingly – before her hand away, leaving him aching.

He growled at her, but she just giggled, untying him with maximum contact, then taking a long moment to inhale deeply as she slid the scarf around her own neck.

“Gotta go, sugar. Combat with Scott.”

She sashayed out like a queen, long t-shirt posing as a minidress, ruined underwear and jeans in a bundle under her arm. The long length of red silk fluttered about her like a banner – it would be the first thing anyone noticed, Logan realised. He wondered what she would say if someone pointed out the stain, but realised it didn't matter. She wouldn't be washing it, regardless.

It was a good colour, he mused. Red, like wine. Red, like blood. Red, like his lover's devotion. He was pretty fucking sure it was his new favourite colour.

*

16: Clear as mud

Scott gritted his teeth. The man knew how to fight. He'd give him that. And all those years in the cut-throat business probably meant he had some tactical nous. He glowered, watching Wolverine strut the floor and bark orders to the team. His team. Didn't mean he had to fucking like it.

“No, yella, I want to see you roll. Strike, shift your weight, ROLL,” the hairy man was saying, “You don't stop, you don't change legs, you don't look at the ground and think about it. You ROLL!”

Jubilee, he noted absently, was about to blow a gasket. Steam coming out of her ears. Push her a little harder, Wolverine, he thought smugly. Deal with her then. We'll see what sort of teacher you are when your students mount an all-out revolt.

Rogue was holding up surprisingly well. She'd snapped a few times, raised an eyebrow at his tone, but she'd jumped when he said jump, and seemed more amused than annoyed. He'd never have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Scott thought ruefully. But then, she'd also managed all of the ridiculous manoeuvres, nailing them with an aplomb that had left everyone gaping. And jealous, he admitted, as he rubbed his aching arm, trapped underneath him during a takedown gone badly wrong.

Nothing he'd been able to serve up had phased her, and her form had improved as they ran through exercise after exercise, testing her limits. Rogue had moved from tense, to focused, to actually having a smile on her beautiful face, and the Wolverine – unexpected, he had to admit. He thought an ego like that would be threatened, but instead, the guy seemed to glory in her proficiency, pushing her harder and faster until they were both breathing hard, then signalling an end with a low bow.

“Impressive work, Rogue,” he had said. “You're way ahead of the others. We'll need to train one on one – you'd just be wasting your time in this class.” Scott had opened his mouth to protest – the team needed to train as a team – but Wolverine pre-empted him. Again.

“Tactical stuff with the team, and I'll work up a physical element with your instructor so that you don't forget how to fight together. But anything else – you're way out of their league.” Bastard had actually smiled at that, a shit-eating grin that had actually made Jubilee sigh. Scott ground his teeth. Maybe she deserved to get her ass kicked.

“Hey! Wolverine, dude. My bruises have bruises, here! I need a break,” she announced, crumpling on the mat in a woebegone heap. He loomed over her, mouth twitching with annoyance. Tut, tut, tut, Scott thought triumphantly. Not the way to deal with an exhausted student.

And fuck it if he didn't take a long look at her, and decide to go easy on them.

“Catch your breath, yella, then run it through a couple more times before ya hit the showers. I want it perfect by next week, though, so ya all better practice,” he glared around the group.

“It's just three freaking combinations. Get Rogue to run you through them if you need to. But next Tuesday, I want to see every one of you do it first time, no hesitation. You can't win a friggin' fight if you are thinking about this stuff – your body just needs to know to do it. Automatic like.”

Scott desperately wanted to disagree with the man, wanted to speak up and correct him. But he had seen Rogue in a fight, dancing through it with a mindless abandon that was nonetheless horrifyingly effective. She kept her eye on the goal, and worked towards it with a ruthless efficiency that discarded all comers along the way. And her body twisted and spun in the black leather, and it was fucking beautiful to behold. Scary, but beautiful.

He was breathing hard, now, remembering the way she got. Remembering being bailed up in the Blackbird, once, after a mission that had gone spectacularly badly, and Rogue had been buzzing with something. She'd come up behind him after the others had left the plane, stroked her deadly fingers along his shoulder, and down his arm as she came around to slide into his lap.

“Oh, I so bet Red's gonna get lucky, real soon,” she had crooned, rocking herself against him. “Gotta say, I can't wait that long, and here you are and here I am,” and he was hard, now, and her fingers had traced him through the leather, the tantalising witch, “and since I'm an unprincipled slut and all, what say we take the edge off?”

He'd frozen then, or at least, the thinking part of him had. Payback. Jean and her patronising, holier than thou shtick. “Really, Rogue, we don't expect you to play the unprincipled slut ...” she'd sneered, managing to ignore the fact the younger woman had effectively neutralised the guards without anything more than a few slow smiles. He'd seen fury flare in her eyes, and had braced himself for a comeback, but they'd been on a mission. Rogue just gritted her teeth and glared. Jean had sneered some more, and Rogue must have decided then and there that she'd be guilty as charged, thank you very much. Anyone else would have seen it coming, but Jean protected herself too thoroughly from human emotions to expect this – and Jean didn't know, either. She couldn't know that her husband had a hard-on for Rogue that was rapidly taking him to the point of no return. Fuck up, give in, take what she was offering, and may the divorce courts be kind.

Even Rogue hadn't known. She'd expected him to turn her down, and her 'oh fuck' moment when he clutched at her hips and rocked her tightly against him – just one minute more before he pushed her away, just one minute – made him hate himself just that little bit more. But he still ran his hand up her back, and dragged her head back to bury his face in her breasts, and just breathe her in for a moment. Or two. He'd pushed her away with a smile, then, knowing she didn't really want this, and was thankful. He loved his wife, but Rogue was every dark dream he'd ever had, and resisting that, resisting her, was beyond him.

So he had to make sure he never had to. He had to push her far, far away, and erect a wall between them, and keep it cool and professional. He had started with the truth.

“No one thinks you're a slut, Rogue. Not even Jean. She just ...” he paused, the words refusing to come.

“Hates my guts? Thinks I'm a piece of dogshit on her shoe? Doesn't trust me?” Her mouth was sour, and eyes sad.

Truth, he reminded himself.

“Maybe a bit of all that. But you threaten her because she would like to be you. Uninhibited and free. But she can't, because she's Jean Grey ….”

“The whole destroy the world with a stray thought thing?”

“Yeah. She's scared of that, and sometimes, you … you don't seem scared of anything.”

A rueful half smile had crept over her face, and suddenly, she was heartbreakingly young. Maybe even as young as some of his students, he realised with a shock.

“Oh, I'm scared, alright. All the stuff normal people get scared about, that's normal for me, but … other stuff is hard.” She looked up at him, then, huge brown eyes apprehensive. “I'm scared of fucking up, Scott. You took me in, and gave me a home, and something worthwhile to do for people, and sometimes it even feels like a family here, and maybe one day I'll get that too … that's what scares me, Scott.”

“Being part of that. Feeling normal again. Forgetting that I'm toxic and untouchable and fucking dangerous to the people who love me.”

He'd pulled her into a hug, then, her heartbreak making it safe. He'd murmured comfort, and reassurance, and belonging, and from then on, she'd been happier. She'd relaxed, and smiled, and even laughed sometimes. She had become a part of their family, he told himself.

She had.

Even if the past seemed to be reaching out for her. Even if the lies were about to choke him.

“You're done for today. Outta here.” Scott saw the moment the class ceased for exist for the Wolverine, and his focus returned exclusively to Rogue. He didn't say a word, the bastard, but his heavy-lidded gaze was practically shouting the details of what he wanted to do to her, sliding over her legs and belly and breasts with an avarice he didn't even bother to conceal.

He expected Rogue to revolt, but instead, she held his gaze for a long moment, before wandering over to where she'd dumped her things at the beginning of the class. Slid her jacket on, then wove a long length of red silk about her neck, eyes returning to the new instructor as she did.

His mouth went dry at the electricity that crackled between them, but no one said a word.

Gooseflesh rose on the back of his neck. Here be secrets, his instincts shouted.

*

Logan stood in the centre of the room and took stock. Bed. Check. Fireplace. Check. A place to hang the punching bag, and enough room to spar. He thought for a moment of the old claw-foot tub at his cabin in the mountains, and the hours Marie used to spend in it, then shrugged. Shower would have to do. One more night in that hive and he might turn axe-murderer.

“Yeah, it's good, Charlie,” he thought towards the Professor, and then wondered about his range. Could they be lucky enough to escape the brain phone out here?

They. Vague alarm skittered across his nerve endings as he recognised his easy use of the word. Too easy. This hadn't been his intention, coming here.

He'd known she was here, for over a year now. He knew he wanted to see her, be sure she was OK. Hadn't expected this thing to erupt all over them. Yet, he was thinking of them as 'they'. And his own place. Why did he need that? This thing might only take a week. Month at most. Then he'd be gone.

Wouldn't he?

She'd want to stay. Even as the X-men fell down around her ears, she'd insist on being here. She was one of them, now. Where the fuck did that leave him – the assassin? The destroyer of mutant dreams? Ridiculously contemplating how much time he could steal with her before it all fell down around his ears, that's where.

Chuck's reply came loud and clear, dammit, urging him to pocket the key and consider the place his own.

Logan snorted and stomped out of the cottage. Work to do. Gotta focus on the work.

And what the fuck was in his eye?

*

“Yeah, it's good, Charlie.” Logan's mental shout jerked the Professor out of his struggle with his correspondence pile, which refused to get any smaller. Easy answers, how he loved them. The thought of anything about the Wolverine being easy made him sigh, and he hoped his fears weren't
tangible as he told the man to make himself at home.

He was pre-occupied with something emotionally challenging, Charles noted as he withdrew from his new colleague's consciousness. Something he was struggling with, searching for a path forward. He couldn't make out precisely what – those impressive mental walls might well have been topped with snarling guard dogs – but his thoughts gave off a general miasma of turbulence. Any other mutant, and Charles would have invited him to talk it through, to share the burden. But this was Wolverine, the notorious assassin, and Charles reminded himself sternly not to forget that.

For the umpteenth time that day, he reached for the anonymous envelope sitting at the bottom of his incoming mail. So few photographs, to spawn so many questions.

Two were obviously culled from security footage, grainy black and white, and curious camera angles. They were dated nearly a year apart, and even now, after looking at them long and hard, desperately hoping he was wrong, those dates still broke his heart.

4.34pm, 2004. A battered camper van parked on the apron of a gas station, a scowling, flannel-clad man filling up the tank while a girl leaned against the side of the vehicle, gesticulating wildly, mouth open as if in midsentence. He wondered what she had sounded like then, whether her voice had been soft and shy, or sharp like it was now. She looked thin – too thin, cheekbones so sharp she looked frail – but most of all, she looked young. Very young.

By 2005 – 2.25am, to be precise – she'd filled out. Impressively, he recognised, even as his conscience tweaked at the admission. They were silhouetted in an alley, both in head-to-toe black.
She had hitched up one leg to catch the lowest rung of an emergency ladder; he was lifting her, hands full of her buttocks and obviously whispering something suggestive in her ear.

The final photo was a colour print, obviously taken through a long telephoto lens. He tried to look at it objectively, and calculate how much time had elapsed, but the raw sensuality of it kept stealing his concentration. Her hair was longer, cascading down her nearly bare back. Her skin was glowing, obviously tanned, and she seemed taller, endless brown legs folded either side of his as she sat in his lap. She was sprawled forward, kissing him, and being kissed, her hands tangled in his hair as his clasped her hips. It was a glimpse of total abandonment. Beautiful liars.

Enemies didn't look at each other like that. Strangers were too wary of each other to leave themselves so vulnerable. Whatever they were, it wasn't what they pretended to be.
Charles sighed and returned the photographs to their envelope, reaching down to lock them away in the under-desk safe. Massaging his temples, he teased at the edges of the problem, looking for the best path forward. He needed to know more - not only was his file on Wolverine incomplete, it seemed he needed to look more deeply into Rogue's background as well. How had they met? How had they parted? And was his appearance here, now, an innocent coincidence, or something more sinister?

And the question remained – who had sent the photographs in the first place? And why?

***

17: Black as sorrow

The mid-afternoon sun streamed into the room, gilding the two warriors sprawled akimbo on the floor. Rogue groaned with pleasure, and the surfeit of it. She should have known better than to spar with Logan, alone, in his new quarters. She didn't know whether it was the fighting or the fucking that left her muscles liquid, but the combination was a killer.

She smirked, and stretched out one quivering leg to poke him with her foot.

“You think now you're finished beating me into submission you could carry me to your bed?”

He barely opened one eye, but the eyebrow still managed to shoot skyward.

“You actually expectin' me to walk, after that? Hmmmph.”

He pulled a blanket down from the couch behind them – she'd been cold, those first few nights - and spread it over them, pulling her onto his chest.

“Pillow,” was all he said before he fell asleep, his face relaxing into an almost-smile.

*

So much potential, wasted. So many years with nothing to show for it. The world was slumbering, the telepath thought. Time to wake it up.

*
Normally, she would say something, or do something dramatic, Molly told herself. Normally she wouldn't just ignore them, or let them ignore her. But sometimes, when you spent most of your waking hours in a roomful of fourteen year olds, you made allowances. Vacation started in a week, and the end of the day grew near. She was as exhausted as they were.

Oh, to be a small town English teacher, she found herself thinking sourly. Trying to share the joy of Shakespeare and Whitman and Salinger with year upon year of knuckleheaded footballers, or vacuous cheerleaders. Just one or two kids on her wavelength – on any wavelength, really – and not even a decent bookstore in town anymore. Sometimes, she wondered if the world was still spinning out there, out where real life was taking place.

Hurry up, she found herself telling the clock. Otherwise I'm going to strangle one of the little shits. But the seconds crawled as slowly as they ever did, and the minutes sloped disconsolately behind. The sound of her chalk on the blackboard was hurting her ears, and she worked hard to ignore the rustle of notes passing from hand to hand. And not to envy whoever it was that was snoring quietly in the back row.

“Uh, Miss Anderson? Miss Anderson!”

She contemplated ignoring him, and returning to the thematic outline on the board. Kelly Spencer, of course. Hotshot know-it all. Sometimes her favourite student, but today … she took a deep breath, schooled her features and turned around, professional smile in place.

He was staring at the claws that had erupted from hands, and she couldn't help herself. She screamed.

They were covered in his classmates' blood, after all.

*
Jean felt the rush of his enthusiasm as he crossed to the whiteboard, scribbling frantically in a bid to explain the theorem to his class. Scott and higher mathematics – she wanted to roll her eyes, but his love of teaching, the joy he took from it – she would always love him, for that alone.

She studied the lines of his face, and tried not to think of another man. It wasn't that he wasn't beautiful to watch – he was, all sharp angles and incredible symmetry, a study in clean, polished perfection. Once, his very calmness had drawn her in. His control had seemed the most thrilling, exciting, desirable thing in her world.

Now, though. Sometimes, all she wanted to do was to marr that perfection. Scratch it up, tease out something wild. Something like him, her conscience taunted her.

Something like her, his thoughts whispered, even as he focused on explaining himself to the baffled seniors.

Jean sorrowed for them both, and prayed the end would come soon. One way or another.

*

He was standing in line at the bank when it happened. The big guy in front of him seemed to double over, convulse. Then he just seemed to … grow. Transform. Jack was so surprised when the change came, he forgot to be scared. Until the guy's skin turned green, that is.

Then he tried to run.

The last thing he remembered was a huge hand trapping his ankle, and as looked around, terrified, the sight of strangely human-looking brown eyes, staring from that massive green face, pleading with him.

He didn't know for what. He would never know, as that huge fist came swinging towards him, opening up his skull and smashing his frontal lobe into a gooey, seething mass.

*
Hank was no secret agent, but he had his skills. The skills of Dr Henry McCoy, over-educated empiricist, he reminded himself, because pitting his feral self against someone the calibre of the Wolverine … that would be stupid, he realised.

Logic. Reasoning. Some basic data from the man's bank accounts and medical records. Good places to start, he reassured himself as the search string began to deliver hits on the Wolverine's known aliases. He wanted to cross-reference them for any association with Rogue, but he couldn't, not yet. He mocked himself for feeling disloyal, even as the couple attempted to deceive the entire mansion as to their association. But she was his teammate.

His lethal, incredibly accomplished teammate, Hank conceded with a sigh. With unparalleled combat skills. And a strategic genius. Perhaps they were truly her own – or she might have gained them via absorption. It was possible. Even as he protested his own logic, the dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach testified to his real suspicions, and he found himself perusing the FBI database for reports of a team of assassins, rather than just a lone shooter. A highly successful team, he read with dawning horror.

Two murders in the Seattle Bay area, and another two in greater Los Angeles. Five in New York. One in Arkansas, another in Alabama, and a third in Mississippi. A multiplicity of weapons, and a dearth of evidence. No arrests on record, simply a few grainy surveillance photos that proved nothing more than the fact that they had existed.

Maybe it wasn't them, his heart insisted. The images weren't good, and the woman was too small, too thin to be her. And the dates didn't match up, anyway – those crimes were committed more than five years ago, and then the couple had vanished, the file said. Rogue had been with the X-men just over three years, he remembered. Yesterday, she had admitted to spending two years with the Brotherhood.

She was too young, he insisted. Rogue couldn't be more than 21 or 22 now … he sprung up so suddenly the desk chair slid wildly across the room. A long bound, and he was hunched over the sink, retching.

Apparently, a feral couldn't lie to himself. He tried not to think about them as his shaking hands poured a glass of water to rinse the foul taste away. But a chorus in his head was jeering at him: that man you so admire. That feral. He made a child his lover, and then turned her into a killer. She couldn't have been more than 16.

And there was no part of him that didn't believe it, Hank thought sadly.

*

She was a healer. She'd been born one, not that the hospital knew it. To them, she was just Doctor Seesanang, paediatric surgeon. Sure, she'd studied for eight years, even done some post doc work, but it wasn't the wall full of qualifications that made her a healer, Sriya thought.

It was this. It was being able to massage a child's heart back into life, being able to beg a soul to come back, to rejoin the living. She had been born to this, her X-gene equipping her for pediatrics long before she'd ever set foot in the University.

She was so happy here, so fulfilled. Sixteen lives she had saved this week. Sixteen families, who would be whole now. Sixteen smiles from innocent, beautiful children.

Sriya laughed as she moved from bed to bed, touching her young patients softly and gently. A stroke on the brow here. A pat on the hand there. Leaving their corpses behind her as their tiny hearts stuttered and stilled in her wake.

*

Charles had just wheeled himself into the dining room for a late lunch when the explosion of grief and terror reached him. Humans and mutants alike, crying out in horror. Crying out for revenge. Waves of revulsion, and fear. So much fear. It crashed down into his consciousness until he was drowning in it, unable to function, unable to even breathe with the weight of it. Yet still more came, and more. Thousands of souls, screaming for assistance.

He heard his own voice, screaming too. Screaming at the impossibility of it – mutants, good people, targeting others so cruelly, and randomly. Everywhere, at the same time. Thousands and thousands of people, dead.

It was the start of a war. And mutants, it seemed, had started it.

*

18: Three little words

Her contact, it seemed, wasn't coming. Mystique shoved down the exasperation, and gave the motherly looking waitress – Greta, her nametag said - a wan smile as she paid the cheque.

“Looks like I've been stood up. And I thought he was a keeper,” she sighed, drawing out the sympathy. You never knew who might be useful, Erik had told her once. Bind them to you, however you can.

“Don't worry, dear – a girl like you is going to find plenty of men to treat you right. Don't waste your time on those who don't,” Greta clucked, warm blue eyes meeting Raven's own as she handed over the change.

Amen to that, Mystique thought sadly. She'd been forced to learn that lesson over and over again. Forty years ago, she'd wanted the guy who treated her right, but he hadn't wanted her. So she'd chosen the other guy, and look at the sorry mess that had left them in. Brotherhood against X-men, mutant supremacy against the fight for acceptance … so much horror, all down to one, shameful truth, she thought sadly.

All of it – personal armies, students, crimes, plots, pitched battles – it was all about them, really. About Raven loves Charles and Charles loves Erik and Erik doesn't know how to love but can only come when she wears Charles' face. Forty years of hurt, and frustrated lust, and misdirected love. That's why it was up to her. To change the game. To release them from this goddamned dance.

Determination pushed her chin up and helped her return the woman's sympathetic smile. “No more timewasters,” she agreed, and then amazed herself by bending to kiss the older woman's cheek. “Thank you for caring.”

Her heart was feeling lighter as she left the coffee shop. More human. Perhaps if Charles could be persuaded to meet with Erik, perhaps if they could end this impasse ….

The gurgling scream was full of terror, but it soon stopped. Raven looked back, and recoiled in horror. Greta still stood at the counter, but her mouth was frozen in the scream. Her head wobbled, then, and lurched drunkenly sideways, as if to display the gaping wound at the base of her neck. She was listing to one side, as if her backbone was being held up by memory alone, and Raven knew then that the woman – that kind, motherly woman – would be dead before she hit the floor.

“Greta,” her nametag had said. Greta deserved more than that, she thought numbly, looking about wildly for the offender.

A man stood at the counter, swigging idly at a cup of coffee. Her next customer. He looked like a salesman, plain shirt, bright tie, shiny black shoes, but one arm ended in a strange, crab-like claw. Raven watched, agog, as he put his coffee down to rummage in his pocket for spare change, and threw a handful of coins into the tip jar.

“Great coffee, Greta – see you tomorrow,” he said cheerfully, before walking out of the store, nodding politely as he passed Raven, frozen in the doorway.

“Have a nice day, now,” he said, and she knew, then, that something was seriously wrong. Because his eyes were kind, and warm, not the eyes of a killer. And he had no fucking clue what he had just done.

She backed out of the doorway, succumbing to her sense of self-preservation even as Greta's blue curls turned black with her own blood. It wasn't until she was halfway up the street – walking quickly, but not running, not fleeing – she realised that the police had never come, or an ambulance. And that Greta wasn't the only innocent that had died today.

Because they were dying everywhere she looked. At the hands of mutants.

She had killed humans in her time. Some had needed killing, and some had simply been in the way. But as she watched an elfin, blue-freckled child push her doting mother into traffic, then look about in confusion, something inside of her broke. Who could be capable of this mass, unthinking slaughter? Who could actually engineer something like this? Only two names came to mind, and she couldn't believe it of either of them, but the banshee wailing inside her head kept shrieking them anyway. The gaping hole in her heart began to implode, collapsing in on itself until it felt like a stone in her chest. It didn't change things. Nothing could.

It just made it more urgent.

*

Logan woke to the chirruping of his mobile phone. The fuck? Warm, delicious woman on his chest versus annoying chirping thing. He ran his hands over the contours of her ass, then up her side to cup one glorious, plump breast before succumbing to the inevitable. He would crush the damn thing.

Who actually had this number, he wondered as he lifted cushions and sorted through the pile of newspapers on the table. Xavier? Wouldn't he use the brain phone? Rogue? Sure wasn't her, he grinned, watching her hand reach out for him even as she slumbered on. Mystique, he realised, hands stilling in the search. Fuck.

And of course, it revealed itself to him then, and it was a text message, so he couldn't ignore it.

DO IT NOW.

Fuck.

*

“Professor!”

She'd seen him come in, of course – the Prof was hard to miss, what with the snazzy silver wheels – but she hadn't actually been watching him. It'd been a Seriously Good Bit in her book, and even her donuts had been neglected as the Duke finally woke up to himself and realised his mousy little secretary was The One. Jubilee had been pumped up on sugar and happy hormones, all set for the big happily-ever-after, when the Professor fell out of his wheelchair. Screaming.

Holy shit.

“Professor!” She knelt by him on the floor, and yelled for someone – anyone – to come because she could not be here, alone, with the Professor having some sort of fit that had left him unconscious for fuck sake. He couldn't be unconscious …. what did you do for someone who wasn't conscious?

Jubilee grabbed the pitcher of water that stood on the bench behind her and flung it in his face. Miraculously, he seemed to rouse for a moment, muttering and convulsing before his eyes slid slowly open.

“Killing … they're killing. Start the war ...” His face contorted with sheer horror, and that expression, on his face, was too much to bear. Jubilee began to scream. No words, just shock and despair, an incoherent plea for help.

When she came back to herself, she was in her own bed, head heavy with sedation. Someone else was there too, she realised eventually, turning her head and forcing her eyes to focus. Storm. Head lolling in sleep, snoring lightly.

“Storm?” Was that her own voice, so terrified and little?

Brown eyes snapped open, and for a moment, she didn't look scared. Jubilee's heart leapt, then smashed into pieces as reality filtered back in, and Storm's expression grew taut and haunted.

“Jubilee! What happened? Did the Professor say anything, before he ...”

Before he what, Jubilee wondered. Surely he had come round by now, enough to tell them it was all a false alarm and that he had overreacted, and please God, there wasn't a war. Not a war …

“He's OK, right? I coudn't really understand what he was saying, so he'll have to explain it himself.”

Jubilee saw the pity creep into Storm's eyes, and turned her head to avoid it. No. This couldn't be happening.

“No, sweetie. He's ...” her voice cracked. It was worse. Worse than unconscious? “He's in a coma. Jean has tried connecting with him, but .. his mind is not … not OK. Not like it normally is.” Storm had slumped as if the truth had snapped her backbone, but after a moment she sat straight again. Jubilee knew what was coming next.

“Tell me what he said, Jubilee. We need to know.”

“Something about killing. They're killing, he said. But not who. And, he … he ….” her voice just disappeared, unable to say it. The thing they feared most, the thing in the back of every mutant's mind, every moment of every day.

But the Professor had said it. She couldn't doubt him. Not even in this.

“He said 'start the war'. He told us to start the war,” she insisted, finally daring to glance at Storm's face. The Weather Goddess was white with shock, and shaking. But Storm had been Xavier's second in command for years, and she had been a small, frightened, abused child long before that.

She didn't even bother to ask another question, Jubilee realised numbly. Simply picked up the silly pink phone on the bedside table, and tapped in the number for the sitroom.

“Get both teams ready. Equip as many of the older students as you can, see if we can't get a third team and fourth team up. Put the evac plan into action for the rest.” Her voice wavered, but it didn't relent. “We're going to war.”

*

19: Lie down with dogs ...

“Please don't do this, sir!” Gil was begging, he realised. Something he'd never had to do before, in eight years of working in this office. He was the President's senior domestic advisor, and as such, he persuaded, objected, or advised. He'd never had to fucking beg.

But then, he'd never been asked to oversee the mutant genocide before, either.

President Buchanan's faded blue eyes blinked up at him, obviously startled by the plea. “This legislation is an anathema, Pryor. A complete violation of human rights. But mutants are killing non-mutants, for no reason at all, and how many people have to die before it stops? I don't want to do this, but I must protect the innocents!”

Moral duty conveniently discharged, the careworn President scrawled his signature on the executive decree, passing them to Colonel Stryker's aide.

“Mr President, sir! Colonel Stryker wishes to advise that internment of known mutants will begin within the hour, and testing centres will be operational within 48 hours.” The soldier snapped a salute, and spun on his heel to deliver the orders to his commander.

Buchanan returned his attention to his senior advisor.

“I can reverse those orders if we need to. Find me something to stop it, Gil. Use whatever resources you have, whatever contacts – but stop this madness!” President Buchanan's stare was unflinching and direct, and the question in his eyes was clear.

He couldn't know, Gil Pryor told himself. No one did. There was nothing to link him with Xavier or the X-men. He'd destroyed the paper trail himself.

Suddenly, his mind drifted back to one of those interminable afternoons in Ethics. Jean Grey swishing her long red hair in boredom, Ororo mesmerised by the rise and fall of the Professor's voice, and Summers the swot onto his tenth page of notes. The air had been thick with humidity, and Professor Xavier's forehead was just beginning to gleam with sweat as he hammered his points home. Civilisation was built on the concept of personal sacrifice for the common good, from the observation of traffic signals to the creation of martyrs for a cause. Social change could not occur without the willingness to lay one's life on the line.

“Pryor?!” Buchanan was demanding a response. There was only one he could make, really.

“Yes sir.”

No one could ever really forget they were a mutant, Pryor decided. He was just lucky that he never forgot anything at all, and even dialling the numbers to the Professor's private line felt a little bit like coming home.

*

Storm was making her way to the sitroom when the telephone in Professor Xavier's office began to shrill. She paused a moment, then continued walking, before hesitating again. Who would bother ringing anyone in the midst of a national catastrophe?

Someone who was coming to the Professor for help, she realised, with a sinking heart. He can't even help himself right now, she wanted to scream, but instead, she answered the phone.

“Xavier Institute of Higher Learning,” she snapped. “Ororo Munroe speaking,” she added more politely, on realising she had answered the Professor's private line.

“Storm? Where's the Professor?” The voice was familiar, she realised, but not enough to put a name to. And if the wrong people learnt the Professor had been sidelined ...

“Who is this?”

“Gil. Gil Pryor. I work in the President's office. He's just signed a bill you need to know about. And I need help.”

Storm's mouth dropped open as her former classmate outlined the situation. The newscasts had underestimated the problem tenfold, and the deaths were moving into the thousands. No one, Pryor told her, had a viable theory for what was going on.

“The generous ones are saying the mutants have gone crazy,” he explained. “Others are saying it was planned all along. They're calling it the mutant uprising. And Buchanan just signed an order authorising the use of mass internment.”

She sat, stunned. The Professor had told them to fight … but whom? The government? The Brotherhood? The rest of humanity?

“Who does the Professor think is behind this, Storm? He must have some theory!”

She couldn't tell him. Couldn't force the words through her lips.

“We'll send the Blackbird for you. You need to get out of there,” was all she said. “Get in your car, and drive south to an open field. Send us the coordinates from your GPS. Don't forget your files.”

She was dialling Rogue's cellphone even as she hung up on Pryor, but she still wasn't answering. Red hair flashed in her peripheral vision, and she called Gambit into the Professor's office.

“Find Rogue. We need to scramble the Blackbird to get to Washington. I want Rogue to fly, with you, Wolverine, Shadowcat and Colossus as the extraction team. Gil Pryor, I'll leave full details on board. Go!”

*
Remy moved from room to room, looking for Rogue. He'd accepted the assignment cheerlessly – Storm's clipped order didn't leave any room for protests – but with every corridor that passed, his bitterness receded, and worry set in. The circumstances were dire and confusing, he told himself, and the absence of his team leader in that situation was problematic. He didn't give a fig about her, personally, he didn't suppose they were even friends anymore, but they had a job to do.

“Where are you, belle?” he muttered to himself as he completed his sweep of the upper levels. Somewhere on the grounds was the only place left, and she could be anywhere – swimming in the lake, sunning herself somewhere private, or gone for a run in the woods.

The woods. The groundskeeper's cottage. Wolverine was missing too, Remy recalled belatedly. Jean had tried to broadcast the summons in the same way Professor Xavier usually did, but she had recoiled, screaming, the minute she lifted her shields, so they'd resorted to the old-fashioned ring around. Only Wolverine and Rogue had failed to answer their cell phones, and given that one could fly and the other was notorious for vanishing on his motorbike …

Wolverine would be easiest to cross off, at least – he'd be in his cottage, or out whoring somewhere, Remy snorted. He broke into a jog as he crossed the wide lawns to plunge down the forest path that led to the lake. The cottage lay just beyond where the shore curved away from the mansion, secluded and private. Nothing but the best for Xavier's private merc, Remy sneered.

The background dossier they'd been given prior to picking the man up had omitted a lot of his shadier activities, Remy's contacts had since discovered. There were entire years of his history missing – and years where the paper trail was suspiciously perfect. There were rumours on the underground that, for a time, he'd had an accomplice, a young, beautiful girl that had since disappeared. Lie down with dogs …

This dog, Gambit realised as he leapt up onto the porch, had yet another woman with him. He heard them before he saw them – Wolverine had no reason to be quiet out here and the rhythmic slap of flesh was punctuated by a litany of growls and dirty talk, all clearly audible through the screen door.

“You like that, baby? You like it hard, don't you. Would'a thought you was ready for sweet and slow by now, but no. Not my girl. Needs to be fucked hard. Fast and hard and over and over and over again. Too much waiting, baby? Too many years thinking about me fucking you? Waiting for me to come back to you? No more waiting, kid, you take what you need. Now!”

An exquisite wail of pleasure demanded he look through the door, and then it was impossible to look away. The animal had her bent over the back of the couch, and her hands were convulsively grasping at the leather cushions. The force of his thrusts was lifting her feet off the floor, and her body was tipping in the fulcrum of his hands, anchoring her hips to the back of the couch. Her face was mostly obscured by a mahogany curtain of unbound hair, but several long platinum strands were caught in the Wolverine's meaty paw.

“Logan. Logan. LOGAN,” she chanted, the last on a rising scream. A sound he'd never heard, Remy acknowledged as realisation churned in his gut. His Rogue had been all about control; cool expertise and a final, triumphant moan. This woman …

“MARIE!” the Wolverine yelled, and folded her in his arms.

Marie? Hope flared briefly, but as she straightened to turn a too-familiar face into the Wolverine's chest, Gambit forced it away. This woman – whoever she was – had abandoned all control, and shed all her defences. Surrendered completely to a man she knew was an assassin and mercenary. A man she'd first met when he'd been sent to kill her.

It didn't add up. It wasn't the Rogue he knew.

Marie, his memory jangled. Wolverine had called her Marie.

And suddenly, it made sense. He swore, reaching desperately for anger as the betrayal threatened to swallow him whole. He'd never known her at all.

“Gonna get some fleas,” he said, and slammed his fist against the doorframe hard enough to drown out the flat, hollow tone of his own voice.

*

Rogue was still shuddering in post-orgasmic bliss when she realised the loud banging wasn't, in fact, her own pulse.

Logan had lifted his head to scowl in the direction of the door.

“Like to watch do ya bub? Looking to learn something?”

Rogue gasped and dove further into the shelter of Logan's arms as she realised someone was at the door, and groaned when Gambit cleared his throat to speak.

“Peace, homme. Didn't mean to interrupt. We need you at the house. Mission.” He didn't look at Rogue, but it was clear who he was speaking to.

“Code Red. Some bad shit's going down. Cyclops mobilised all the teams. Even the kids. We're going to Washington for some sort of pickup.”

“But the Professor … we didn't ...” Rogue shook her head in confusion. Did they trust her so little that she didn't warrant a call up anymore?

“Non, chere. The Professor – he's unconscious. And Jean can't seem to use the brainphone at all. Something really bad's going on. A war, they said.”

His face had been hard with anger when he'd first come in, but this, Rogue realised, was far worse. Remy, worried? Remy, confused? Dread chased away the outrage she'd wrapped herself in, and banished the blissful languor that had overtaken her muscles. Banished Marie, and summoned Rogue. She abandoned the search for her underwear even as Logan fired more questions at Gambit, settling for the jeans and t-shirt balled at the end of the couch. Shoes. Jacket.

War, she reminded herself. Clothes didn't matter any more. Trying to stay alive. Trying to stay together. That's what mattered.

The three of them sprinted back towards the mansion, explanations put on hold in favour of speed. “Straight to the hangar,” Gambit panted as they burst through the front door of the mansion, and Rogue led the way to the lower levels.

Colossus and Shadowcat had already boarded the Blackbird, and Gambit was buckling himself into his seat when Logan pulled her back into the hangar.

“Marie!”

She twisted free of his hold and made towards the plane. “Not the time, Logan!”

He growled and grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him.

“There's something I need to tell you.”

Her eyebrows rose in silent question, and she tapped any imaginary watch to indicate her patience was running out. He scrubbed his hand over the top of his head and then pinned her with hazel eyes that seemed to beg for understanding, and forgiveness. Her heart sank.

“I was sent here. A job.”

And there it was. Her worst nightmare. Rage swept through her and she slammed the heel of her hand straight out, catching him in a perfect strike to the bridge of his nose. She cursed her lack of self control as blood gushed from his nose, but couldn't feel sorry for it. Too busy feeling betrayed, she wanted to scream.

“Sorry,” he offered, as he dragged the hem of his t-shirt up to mop at his nose. The incongruity of it nearly made her laugh – he was the one bleeding – but she forced herself back into a professional space as the need for more information became obvious.

“Who was your client?” From anyone else, it would be a waste of breath, she knew. But the fact that he'd even told her this was a job had to mean something.

“Mystique,” he answered with a twist of his mouth. “But it's not what you think. Xavier wasn't my target. What's happening now – I don't think it's anything to do with this.”

Once, she'd known him well enough to tell when he was lying. But she had trusted him, then, and trusted herself. Now she was old enough to be honest – she wanted to believe him. For some reason, this man – this cagey, mercenary, violent, misanthrope of a man – was the one person she had ever wanted to trust completely, lose herself in, to float away on a golden cloud of obnoxious bliss. Had she overlooked his motives and their own history all for the sake of a few good fucks?

“Yes, Virginia, you sure did,” she told herself quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. Dragging in a deep breath, she flogged herself with the hurt and shame and loss of pride, and used the ache to rebuild the walls that had protected her for so long. Before he had torn them down.

He wouldn't get the chance again, she vowed, finally lifting her head to meet his eyes.

“We'll discuss this later. You'll tell us every last detail about of Mystique's plan, or I'll simply take the information straight from you. You might even live. But first, I'm going to do my goddamn job and you are not going to get in my way. Ever. Again.”

It didn't even hurt, she told herself. Marie would have curled into a ball of misery to see such disappointment and hurt on her lover's face, but Rogue was fine. Rogue's hands didn't even shake as she guided the Blackbird through its startup sequence, and Rogue's mind was completely focused on the mission as the supersonic jet leapt towards Washington.

And with the co-pilot's seat empty, no one would ever know that Rogue's face was wet with tears.

20: …gonna get bit

The fucking atmosphere was torturing him. He didn't fly a lot, and he'd managed to forget a few things. No air. No windows. And it was absolutely fucking impossible to escape the cocktail of emotion that was threatening to split his head in half.

Rogue was crying. No one else would see anything, or hear a whimper from her, but he could smell the salt, and the hot stench of her fury.

She'd automatically assumed the worst. Of course, the truth could be even worse than whatever his girl had dreamt up. How was he to know? In his business, it was better not to know, and rule one, since the beginning, had been to never, ever ask. Marie knew that – and she wasn't to know that he'd taken this job for reasons of his own.

Stupid reasons. Concern, and curiosity. A need to know how she was getting on, and who she was turning into. Bit of thought, bit of fucking objectivity, and surely he would have seen this for the clusterfuck it was becoming.

The words “Mystique” and “plan” should have been warning enough. Too fucking convoluted, and he had known that, but he'd jumped at the chance to kill the fucker anyway. Would have done it for free, truth be told. Magneto, dead at the hands of the newest member of the X-men – a short, sharp end to fifty years of mutant civil war, Mystique had preached. He'd been so busy ignoring the bitch he hadn't stopped to think what it might mean for her. Marie.

Now, he didn't give a damn about Chuck Xavier and his other recruits, but Marie was his, and she was an X-man. Not just one of the team – a team leader. And she cared about that place. He'd watched her with some of the kids in her combat class, and she was good, and she loved it – and the kids mattered to her. The people mattered.

He had thought he'd be able to control all the factors. Attack one enemy, while in the employ of another. Look after her. Maybe even “do the right thing” - just to see what it was like. Then get to leave town, $500k and one luscious girl richer. Some plan.

He'd forgotten one thing. He was the Wolverine. And she, better than anyone, knew what that meant. Remorseless. Ruthless. Single-minded. No room for emotion, or compassion, or regret. Marie wasn't going anywhere. Not with him.

His claws began to itch inside his fists and he used the pain as a reminder. Once, anger meant claws and claws meant death to anyone stupid enough to get in his way. No more. She didn't know the battles he'd fought since she was taken from him. Couldn't see how she had begun to change him.

The job in Boston had taken two days instead of the four he'd allotted, and he'd found himself driving south before he'd even thought her name. He never stayed local after a job, he told himself, it was one of the rules that had kept them safe for years – get in, get done, get out. Losing himself in the big city was the smart thing to do.

And if his bolthole happened to be close to the Brotherhood headquarters, so be it. Those fuckers would need killing one day, and the more he knew, the quicker it would be. But for now, he needed to be sure he'd be getting Marie.

Two years, it had been. He had a skinny street rat 'path keep tabs on her, and the kid had looked at him with pity those first few reports, when she still couldn't speak without growling, and slept on a discarded coat in the corner of Sabretooth's room. Six months before she even sounded like a girl again, a year before her eyes filtered back to green. Last report he'd had, her voice had changed - “like she's southern, or something,” his informer had said – and he'd had to stop himself from charging in, then.

But the memory of black, hate-filled eyes pulled him up short. Black, hate-filled eyes that exulted in his pain and suffering, that smiled as his blood dripped down to her fingers and then smeared her mouth. His worst enemy, staring out of her face.

If she had died, he could have mourned her. If she had left him, he could have hated her. Instead, her soul had been stolen, and he could do nothing. Nothing but wait, as his worst enemies made her one of their own. Watch, as his damaged girl turned vicious, and cruel, and capricious. Suffer, as his perfectly honed weapon was used as a blunt cudgel, aimed at the innocent and guilty alike.

And if he became more choosy with his jobs, refusing to kill anyone who didn't need killing? Only because too many people were dying because of him. If he ran interference on the Brotherhood's worst atrocities? It was only to keep her safe. If he ached, and shuddered with guilt, and dreamed of atonement?

It was only what he deserved.

“Wolverine!”

Ororo's voice trembled, even as it snapped his name to retrieve him from his memories. She stank of despair, he realised with a shock. How had he missed that earlier?

“You haven't heard.” Her monotone startled him, and alarm bells began to ring.

“Mutants are killing people. Everywhere. Thousands of people. The government is moving against us.”

He went cold. Every hair on his body stood on end. Someone had started the war – the war that every mutant had known was coming.

But … the mutants had started it? When they had everything to lose?

“Nah, it doesn't make sense. Why? Surely Xavier knows why?” he asked angrily, wanting to shake her from her torpor. Shake himself free of the horror.

“Professor Xavier was an early victim. Something … incapacitated him, this morning. He is in a coma.”

“But we're going to pick someone up. Who knows something, and can stop it. Right?”

That's what the X-men did, Wolverine knew. Even lurking in the shadows, he had known that, heard about their exploits and their heroism, brave warriors setting out to protect the innocent and all that. He'd scoffed and he'd mocked, and he still reckoned those high-falutin ideals were a crock of shit, but when it came down to it, they'd won a few games in their day. Lotsa points on the board.

“Stop it? There's no stopping it, Wolverine. The bill is passed. They are readying the camps – mutants are to be separated from non-mutants in the jails, and hospitals and schools from today, and then they will come for the rest of us.”

“So what the fuck are we doing now?” (Camps. Camps? He wouldn't think about camps. Couldn't.)

“We are collecting someone who is close to the President. He can help us prepare … as best we can. He will know what's coming.”

And we will run like rats, her quiet passivity suggested.

“NO!” he roared. “NO!”

“I didn't give her up for this. I let you take her, let her go to you, because you were what she needed. You fight, and make it right, and help the helpless and all that shit! You do not give up!”

Storm stared at him, mouth gaping, and Gambit had leapt across the aisle as if to protect her from the madman. But it was Rogue who his eyes were fixed on, Rogue who spat fire as she twisted in the pilot's seat to glare at him.

“Let me? You let me? I chose!”

She had known, he realised. She had known all along he was there – and she had chosen them.

The Brotherhood, he'd heard, were mounting a strike on Xavier's school. Magneto was hoping to use his favourite weapon – the Rogue – to harness the old man's limitless mental powers, and they were planning to take the youngest children hostage to ensure Xavier's cooperation. The plan couldn't fail, his informant had cackled.

He'd left for Westchester the next day. He wasn't concerned about Xavier or his kids, he'd told himself – he was simply going to get Rogue out of there. She wasn't even herself yet – add a world-renowned telepath to the mix, and she wouldn't be able to cope. She'd never recover. Better to step in now, and stop it. She'd fight him, sure, but one day she'd understand, he'd told himself.

He'd been riding hard over rough roads when the phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He didn't think to check it until it buzzed again, just after he'd stopped for lunch. Attack moved up, it said. Noon, today.

He smelt the smoke, first. One whole wing of the mansion, he realised when he crept close enough to see. No dazed kids wandering about, though, or screams of pain and loss, so they'd acted on the anonymous tip. Good.

A terrified scream split the air.

He'd bolted towards the noise, only to pull up in the shadow of the building.

Sabretooth had a small girl plastered to his front, his claws scrabbling obscenely over her tiny body. She was too frightened to cry, or even beg … but Rogue was calm. Rogue was freakin negotiating, telling the feral to stand down, to let the girl go. Not what they were here for, she said.

The beast man was past hearing, however. He was already lapping at the trickles of blood, slurping up her fear and hurting the child just to hear her whimpers escalate. Logan felt his own feral heart beat faster at the scent – fear, pain, blood – and had never hated himself more.

Rogue was feeling it too, he realised as he watched her. Pupils blown black, eyes shining gold. But her voice stayed calm, talking, talking. Even as she stepped in close, and laid a restraining hand on the huge feral's arm. Even as the veins began to pop in his face. Even as he slumped down, dead, and the girl stumbled into her waiting arms.

He saw her eyes blaze yellow, but then settle to amber as she cradled the child. Her voice was rough when she called out for help, but it was Rogue's voice, not Sabretooth's.

“This child needs help!” she called across the empty forecourt.

Two women emerged from the building, cautious and reeking of fear, even as Rogue soothed the little girl.

“Zara, come to me,” the redhead called, but the child would not step out of Rogue's arms.

The other woman, dark skinned and white-haired, was braver, walking slowly up to Rogue and squatting down to open her own arms to the child. “Come, darling,” she said, and the girl allowed herself to be pulled away from Rogue.

Rogue had turned away, and was walking towards the gate, when the dark woman called after her.

“The Brotherhood won't take you back after you have killed one of their own, Rogue. You must know that.”

Rogue stopped, but didn't turn. The woman kept talking anyway.

“You saved an innocent child, at great risk to yourself. You have chosen a new path. Walk with us, please,” she urged, voice thick with compassion.

Rogue's place was with him, Logan wanted to howl. She wasn't about to throw her life away on high-minded missions and useless dreams – she was going to come home, to him!

But her face. Full of longing, and desperate hope. She hadn't turned yet, though. She was still leaving.

“Know you are welcome here,” the woman said, face taut with sadness. "But it is your choice, of course."

It was as if she had flicked a switch. Rogue's head came up, and no sign of Sabretooth remained. Instead, her whiskey-brown eyes glowed with pride and determination as she turned to walk towards the Mansion.

Her voice drifted back to him, even as he was sinking deeper into the trees, losing himself in her past.

“Why, thank you, Storm. I might just take you up on that. Since it's my choice and all.”

*

The late afternoon sun shone warm on his head, and the smell of the newly cut hay was incredibly comforting, Gil Pryor thought. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this. His beloved President, the human rights crusader, would never disenfranchise his people, on a day like this.

But then, any other day, Gil wouldn't be standing in a field, clutching a file, waiting for a secret para-military organisation to collect him.

He refused to believe it was inevitable, the way so many had said. He still refused.

So Gil Pryor, who hadn't slept in 48 hours, opened the files again, and opened his mind to the patterns in the data.

When his eyes drifted shut, he dreamed of diamonds.

***

“There – the hay field. Green Saturn.”

Rogue resisted the urge to tell Colossus she knew exactly where she was going – GPS co-ordinates were helpful like that – and instead thanked her team mate quietly. She could feel that girl clawing at the edges of her consciousness, demanding she turn around to check on him, see how he was, tell him she was sorry …

She wanted to slap her.

He doesn't deserve your pity, she screamed, inside. You ... I should have never trusted him!

Never have trusted me, you mean, Marie replied reproachfully. Please Rogue, you need us all. Don't turn your back on me again. Please!

Her eyes were hot with tears, but she refused to let them fall. Emotion was weakness. She remembered that now, and concentrated on strengthening the labyrinth in her mind until Marie's pleading faded into inconsequential murmurs.

So easy, this quietness, Rogue thought, as she she released the landing gear and settled the jet down without even the slightest bump. Just the mission, and the perfect clarity of purpose. Even as the others filed off to collect their contact, her hands flew over the console, readying the X-jet for its return journey. Minutes later, Storm ushered in a small man in a suit clutching a cardboard box and a laptop bag, and the team returned to their seats, one by one.

Rogue didn't even hesitate before turning to check each member of the team was onboard before starting the ascent. When her eye caught his, she was able to smile with a cold insincerity that would have made Magneto proud.

“Thank you for flying Mutant Airlines today. Flying time to New York is forty-five minutes. Please fasten your seatbelt, raise your tray tables and return your seats to the upright position. There will be no drinks service on this flight, and murderous bastards must stay clear of the pilot at all times or she'll fry his ass.”

Gambit shot her an amused glance as he locked himself into the seat directly behind her and Rogue couldn't resist firing one more shot.

“You, though, sugar. You can come up and visit anytime,” she purred, and laughed with delight when the Wolverine was unable to stifle his growl of objection.

*

Jean Grey moved like a wraith through the Mansion. Two floors, and no smiles, or shy greetings, or quick cuddles from the little ones. Two buses of children had left this morning, and she felt their absence like a hole in her heart. If they could be sure it was worth anything, if they could be sure they weren't simply sending them to the camps a week or two early, then it wouldn't hurt so much. But there was no surety. Ever again, something inside of her shrieked. No safety, no rules. Nothing to hold you back.

She pushed it down with the breathing exercises that she had used to calm her mind since she was a teenager. Had it been there, then, she wondered, this voice that whispered around the edges of her sanity? Not that she was hearing voices, or experiencing a break with reality, the doctor in her wouldn't allow that, she was not ill. This voice, this Phoenix as it called itself - it was simply echoes of her own brain, her id prowling around in her conscious mind.

Calmness helped. Work helped. She had one more bus to fill (no, don't think about the border closing, don't think about the children, alone and vulnerable, don't think …) and then she and Scott would head north themselves, after one last task. She had promised. She would put a pillow over his face, and he would die, gasping and twisting and she would drink his soul with glee, her murderer, drink down his power and good intentions and grand schemes for the world. She would drink deep and make it hers, and she would break free of this husk and take it back, all that she was.

Jean blinked as the door in front of her came into focus Why was she here, at the Med Bay? What had she needed? She shrugged, and inputted the codes. Best to check on the Professor while she was here.

“Good evening, Professor, how are you feeling?” Jean asked as she walked into the isolation suite on one end of the medlab proper. He didn't need isolation, but she'd felt he'd be more comfortable here, out of the cold, open spaces of the medlab proper. It was more private, and Charles Xavier was a very private man.

They all were, telepaths. It came from having the whole world forced into your brain. Peace was such a rare commodity, Jean thought sadly. Mystique had given her that. Charles and Erik had been so busy with their grand dream, building Cerebro, that the little girl they'd rescued had taken a back seat. Only Raven had noticed how she was being tortured. Raven had noticed, and worked with her to build the blocks she needed.

When the split came, that was what hurt the most. Erik had always frightened her, so dark and driven and sombre. But Raven had been capable of kindness, once. Raven had seen her, and helped. Sixteen years of conflict had never managed to erase that fact. Charles had given her a home and a purpose, but Raven … Raven was the one who had given her peace.

He'd never known, dear man, she thought, running a fond hand over the curvature of his skull. He was capable of picking up on the brain waves of every human and mutant on the planet, capable of changing reality itself … but he'd never known what Raven had done. They'd worked together, later, on refining her blocks, honing them to perfection, and he'd complimented her on grasping the concept so quickly.

So blind. Blind to her pain. Blind to the world's pain, and what needed to happen to cure it. Blind to wheels within wheels, and the powers at work here. So easy to take it, his power, to use his own ideas against him, and collect that psionic force he pumped out into the world. Collect it, and amplify it, and twist it, and make it something magnificent.

Jean frowned as she bent over him. His face was so drawn, making him seem old and frail. He shouldn't though – physically, he was doing well, respiration and cardiac activity self-regulating now, and all of the metabolic indicators were promising. Only his brain activity had failed to return to normal, she thought sadly, and truly that was the measure of this man.

Flicking a practised eye over the reams of printouts, she looked for something – anything - that would suggest he might return to them soon. Tiny pinpoints of colour lurked in the edge of her vision, the migraine only waiting for her to show weakness – and there was nothing, no relief glimmering from his chart, no miracle requiring her intervention. She would cry soon, Jean realised. Cool, calm, emotionless Dr Grey wanted to cry, and scream, and beg him to come back.

Stupid girl, it raged. We don't need him. He is disposable – purely power. When we are done – soon, very soon - we will drink what's left of him, and we will be stronger even than she is, and together, we'll be able to control everyone. Everything.

Panic pushed in on her, blackness and flame flaring at the edge of her vision. The pile of printouts dropped as Jean slumped next to the Professor's bed.

“Please, Professor. I need you. Come back,” she begged in a voice no one in the Mansion would have recognised. Dr Grey's calm, soothing alto was gone – this woman sounded younger, unsure and scared. “Please. This is just the start, I think. All those people – it's not about them. It's about us!”

Her tears fell onto his face, but he didn't stir.

Jean broke.

*

Ororo buckled herself into the seat next to Gil Pryor, who seemed unimpressed by the high-tech interior of the X-jet. Perhaps the government knew more about them than they realised, she thought, skin prickling with alarm. Or perhaps, she reminded herself, he had been on the jet before – he had said something about attending the school.

Gil Pryor was a small man, with brownish skin and brownish hair and brownish eyes. Nondescript, Ororo thought as she studied him. No wonder she didn't remember him.

She felt bad, then. She surprised herself, worrying about common decency. But – it wasn't like her to simply dismiss someone based on the way they looked.

“It's okay, Ororo,” he said wryly. “It's kind of what I do. Blend into the background. Go unnoticed. Run the world from the backroom.”

She blushed. “That obvious? I guess as mutant powers go, that's more useful than most.”

He laughed this time.

“Actually, that's not my mutant power – that's just me. My mutation allows me to analyse information more quickly and thoroughly than other people. I see patterns and associations in the data that computers won't necessarily pick up on. It makes me useful as an advisor, for policymaking, that sort of thing.”

His mouth turned down. “Not that it helped us. All the data, all the evidence in the world doesn't help when all they want is to lock us up.”

Professor Xavier would have protested there, Ororo thought. Professor Xavier would have shook his head wisely, and told them change might come slowly, but it would come. Having mutants in government positions was a tremendous step forward, and they need only wait and plan for the next step. Or equally pretty, useless words, she thought bitterly.

She could feel the hate and fury brewing, untwisting itself from the tiny corner of her heart that had never forgotten the dark days. She remembered the feeling, that sour taste in her mouth and the frantic hammering in her head as she drew down the elements to avenge herself, to strike and blast and burn away the hurt. Normally, she would soothe it away, with the children and her garden and the warmth of his hand on her own, but the very thought of those things gone made it build faster, until it slipped free of her, crackling into the atmosphere.

The jet tossed and jerked in the disturbed air as they made their way homeward. She reined in her annoyance when Rogue made a crack about PMSing weather, and returned her focus to Gil Pryor.

He might think himself useless, but he had the one thing they did not. Information. A large file box was already spitting loose papers through the cabin, as he flicked his eyes over report after report.

“So – does all that give us any clues as to what's going on?”

Gil raised his head from the report he was skimming.

“Not that I can see, yet. I've plotted dispersal paths for the attacks, and they seem truly random, with no clustering or trajectory. No linkages at all,” he said, shaking his head.

“But … I don't … I can't,” he fumbled, and seemed to bite his tongue. Wolverine was watching them, as if waiting to spring into action, obviously annoyed by Pryor's reticence.

“Spit it out, bub,” he growled, and Ororo wondered if it was the animalistic noise or the hard stare that caused Pryor to swallow his tongue. And indeed spit it out, as the words arrived in a flood.

“It's too widespread, too devastating to be anything BUT planned. Innocent children, loving parents, entire offices … someone's going for maximum impact. So it's not just happened,” he babbled.

“So far, we have 600 different offenders. Only a dozen or so known to police, and nothing linking them other than the fact they are mutants.” He paused. “Obvious mutants. All with physical mutations, or well known as being mutants, like that baseball player, Charlie Dux. Or Jeremy Paschal, the Nobel Prize guy.”

“I think it's political. Has to be. Someone is trying to change something here. Someone with a big agenda, and psi powers. Lots of power.”

He looked apologetically at Storm.

“Only person I know with that sort of power is Professor Xavier. The world's most powerful telepath … but if it's not him ...”

Storm shook her head decisively. “No. It's not possible.”

Wolverine was obviously unconvinced. “When did you say the attacks started? Early this morning?”

She would have ignored his ignorant questions if Remy and Piotr hadn't turned to listen as well.

Pryor nodded. “0600 or thereabouts – we received the first report at 0610. By 0630, we'd logged 48 different attacks, some with just a single victim, others ..”

Wolverine cut him off with the wave of a hand.

“Xavier could have triggered it, then had some sort of blow out. Maybe that's why he's unconscious. Don't rule him out just yet. Who else's on the list?”

“Well, we don't actually have ...”

Wolverine's look of disgust had the man tapping madly on his laptop before he dared to finish the sentence.

“I uploaded as much information as I could before I left, but you have to understand – it's been our policy NOT to collect information on mutants. But there are certain people whose activities are monitored, or tracked, because of the – uh – potential level of threat.”

“Names, bub. Whereabouts.”

Pryor nodded stiffly and started jotting on a small piece of paper.

“It's not much, but our databases suggest this is it.”

Wolverine unclipped himself to read over her shoulder as she considered the list – just five names, most blessedly unfamiliar.

The Professor and Jean's names stood starkly at the top of the list. She had heard of Franklin Richards but she had never met the boy. Quentin Quire she knew by reputation, and never wanted to meet. Elizabeth Braddock. Flirtatious, unreliable Betsy.

“I don't know those two other men,” she said quietly, “and Betsy – she's capable. Sometimes. And not always very stable. It could be her.”

Wolverine shrugged and took the list from her to frown at it.

“Richards – is that Kid Omega? Lotsa power, but I thought he'd burned himself out or something? Possible, I guess. And Quire's a bad bastard, believe anything of him.”

Wolverine flicked the paper with his finger as if something about it was bothering him. He rubbed his forehead, as if a headache was lurking there, then blinked with surprise.

“Where the fuck's Emma Frost? She should be on here!”

“Who?” Pryor looked confused, Ororo thought. Wonder why? Frost … the name buzzed in her head like a particularly annoying wasp, and she didn't want to be bothered any more, so she swatted it away.

“Emma who?”

*

Emma Frost stood in the mirrored room, luxuriating in the light as it bounced off her every facet. So much had been taken from her, but she still had this. For now, at least. Her diamond form was weak, and her immortality fracturing, but things were moving apace. She would have her revenge, snatch the victory, and be perfectly satisfied with that, if fate so determined. The coda … that had always been the risky thing, the dangerous choice … but what did she have left, now, except danger?

Bracing herself, she drank in the energy from the light in the room, and reached out. This broadcast, so wide, so destructive … cracks grew and multiplied, and where there once was bliss, only pain existed now. It was a fair trade, she allowed, for being able to turn the good and the innocent against those who enslaved them. She was dealing death, and couldn't expect it to be painless.

One final push, this one focused, and she stole the memories straight from Raven Darkholme's mind. She had ordered the kill, just as Emma had suggested, and soon, her two enemies would be dead, and the third would be broken. Such a deadly weapon, love.

Xavier and Lensherr, dead. Mystique at her command. Wolverine, her toy. And the girl. Emma shivered at the possibilities. She must be in twenties now, and that body would have ripened to its full promise. And her power – so much potential, for one unafraid to use it. Delicious side benefits, those.

But life. Life! For a woman who had been immortal, then had it stolen from her – life was the one thing worth risking everything for.

*

22: Shatter

Gil Pryor flicked up the window shade to watch the mansion unfold below him, its elegant sprawl seemingly unchanged. When Xavier found him, he had been sleeping beside dumpsters, staking out the few restaurants that were generous enough not to scare away the hungry scavengers. Only three or four of the kids in his band would sleep in any one place – any more and the tolerance would turn to fear – but they would meet up to pool their spoils, and everyone got fed. Mostly.

The human kids – and the ones like him that could pass – would be the ones to beg for scraps, or hit up the diners for spare change. The others had learnt to stay hidden after they'd lost Taya, with her blue hair and eyes like black opal, and Jeremiah, who must have bared his fangs to the wrong person. And Mama, of course.

Mama had cried with relief the day he was born. Her fingers, she said, had inspected every inch of him, singing hosannas over his pale, perfectly normal skin. He told her the rosettes were beautiful, the way they slid along her cheekbones and then tumbled over her shoulders and back in rich swirls of black and yellow. But she had shaken her head, and explained about hate. He didn't really understand, though, until the day he had come home from school to find her blood spread across the bed, her body twisted and broken.

He was only six, but he'd already discovered how to control the fear. He needed to collate the facts, sort them, find the patterns. What did he know, he asked himself as he lay in the dark, snuggled to her back, oblivious of the blood soaking into his skin. It couldn't have been a robbery – they had nothing to steal – and he'd never known his father, so that ruled out something like the nightly brawls that raged in the squalid apartments all around them. A customer? Mama only brought men home when they really needed the money, but the rent had been due that week and the tips had been down at the diner, so – possible. Or it could have been one of the neighbours who spat foul words as they scurried past. “Trash.” “Freak.” “Mutie.” And the throwaway line that chilled him now. “The only good mutie is a dead mutie.”

Two days, and he'd finally realised there were no answers, no understanding to be had, no matter how many hours he lay there calculating. His belly had begun to cramp with hunger, and then the body began to stink. So he left the apartment, door wide open, and walked out into the street. That night, he joined the motherless legion - smart, sly, fierce kids who knew how to beg, and find food, and the best places to sleep. Six years later, when the Professor found him, it was his genius keeping dozens of bellies full, and organising the lookouts and guards to keep them safe.

He'd wanted to bring them all, when the messiah had appeared in the gloom behind Luigi's that day. Xavier had been kind – his friends were always welcome to visit the Mansion, he said – but the school was for mutants only, and they'd feel uncomfortable there, the humans. He still remembered Chloe's eyes, huge with fear, as he left her side to join the other mutants. He had never said the words aloud before – never admit it, Mama had said. Never even think it. Be human.

But Xavier had asked him, straight out, and it was a test he wasn't willing to fail.

“Yes, I am a mutant,” he said, and it felt like a betrayal. But this man, who spoke softly and reeked of money, smiled as if he was proud, and called it a gift. He spoke of training, and helping others, and using his abilities to help change the world.

Charles Xavier had given him his pride, and his education, but most of all, he had shared his home, Gil thought, as they descended into the basketball court. This place, this magnificent old pile, meant nearly as much to him as the old man did. On the streets, they had moved every few nights, avoiding the authorities, dodging the predators, constantly on alert. Here, he had learned to sleep deeply, and eat slowly, and laugh out loud. Already, the sense of 'home' and 'safe' was helping to force back the desperate fear that had been riding him since news of the first attack.

He dragged the feeling deep inside himself as he stepped out into the lower levels, then headed down the familiar halls towards Professor Xavier's office. He walked faster to catch up with Ororo, who was much less scary than the three other X-men, currently engaged in a pitched battle of not-talking and murderous glares.

He didn't bother to disguise the small huff of contentment as they moved past the achingly familiar zones of his childhood – dining room, rec room, library, tv room – enroute to the Professor's office. Ororo turned to smile at him, as if he had suddenly slotted back into her memory, and was welcome here.

“It's good to come home, isn't it?” she offered. “We'll go over things in the Professor's office, and hopefully he'll be up to seeing you. He wasn't well when we left to pick you up, but … I'm sure he's fine now. I just need to check with Jean first.”

“Fine. We need to ...”

His train of thought evaporated as they turned the corner to find a hallway filled with people.

Unfriendly looking people. Brotherhood, the X-men called them. “The Lensherr faction,” was the term he preferred to use in his reports. He remembered their crimes from his time here as a child, and had always refused to let them appropriate any sort of legitimacy to speak on behalf of mutants.

Magneto looked older, he realised with surprise, the supervillain of his youth grey now, and gaunt, if still distinguished in his flowing cape and metal helmet. “I was hoping to meet with Charles,” he drawled, “but he seems not to be available.”

Ororo's voice dripped ice. “Professor Xavier is unwell. And I am sure he would have nothing to say to you, Magneto. Leave. Now.”

“That is where you are mistaken, Miss Munroe. Charles and I prefer to navigate crises with a modicum of courtesy and a level of consultation. This, you cannot deny, is a crisis.”

“Where's the courtesy in invading our home?” Suddenly, she was Storm, Gil realised, the air about her crackling with threat, and a magnificent hauteur that reminded him this woman had once been worshipped as a deity.

“Think of it less as an invasion, and more as a recruitment drive. This is no longer about choosing sides, my friends. The humans have chosen for us – they have criminalised us, every last one, and the time for platitudes and appeasement is gone. We are fighting for survival now, and we must fight as one,” Magneto said.

He sounded so pleased with himself, so damn pompous, that Gil couldn't do it, at first. This ... this criminal, this blistering pomposity couldn't possibly be right. Unlike other people, though, Gil Pryor didn't have the luxury of prejudice. His analyst's brain had already plotted all the paths forward.

He needed to shut down this confrontation. Move them beyond it. Guide them into a joint action. Working with criminals could never be contemplated under normal circumstances, but Lensherr commanded a useful group of talents, and if things came to war … if the President couldn't reverse the action, if the situation deteriorated even the tiniest bit - they would need Magneto's firepower. Their survival might even demand his repugnant anti-human stance, and repulsive separatist agenda, Pryor admitted.

But then the Wolverine struck.

His outraged bellow seemed to shake the walls as he flew at Magneto in a rush of gleaming claws and black leather. His fury – for what? why? - seemed unstoppable, irreversible, but his target simply stood there, a half-smile on his face. Then a real smile, as he twitched his fingers, and Wolverine's arms wrapped tight around his body, claws plunging deep into his own chest.

“Hello, Wolverine. I had heard you were contracting to the X-men these days. To do what, I wonder?” Magneto drawled as he flicked his fingers towards the ceiling, and the burly mutant followed, like a fly pinned to the roof.

“Nothing to say? Surely your lungs are clear of blood by now? Here – is that better?”

The feral hung in the air now, crucified on his own metal skeleton, agony written on his face. Was it the pain or the rage that kept him from speaking, Gil wondered. He doubted it was fear, or self-preservation, because even racked with shudders, he was still trying to kick out at Magneto, his leg flailing uselessly.

The older man tutted, and shook his head as if Wolverine was a particularly recalcitrant pet.

“Perhaps third time will be the charm for you, my friend. Next time you attack the Brotherhood, maybe you'll remember that I am the master of ...” his mouth opened as if searching for the word. But purple veins were creeping across his face and something – a heart attack? stroke? - seemed to have robbed him of speech.

It was only when he dropped to the ground that Gil saw the woman standing behind him, her eyes glittering with rage.

“And perhaps you'll remember that I don't need a weapon,” she said. Rogue, Gil remembered. They called her Rogue, and she could kill with touch.

He shivered, and told himself she had simply responded to a threat. Neutralised the aggressor. Then her gaze landed on the Wolverine, and he realised that was only half of the story. Detachment fled as she moved to crouch next to the fallen warrior, deadly fingers dancing lovingly over the contours of his face. Her voice was low and angry – they had been fighting earlier, he remembered - but Gil could hear the passion throbbing underneath.

“C'mon sugar, time to get you up. Crazy bastard. Don't make me ever have to watch that again, shithead.”

Wolverine grunted back at her as she helped him up, before pulling away to stand unaided, wobbling slightly as he shrugged his shoulders and cracked his neck with a sickening pop.

Magneto's henchmen had frozen when their leader fell, and were holding a whispered conference at the far end of the hall, obviously deciding what to do. A young punk – Latina female, omega tattoo, codename Callisto – stepped forward with her hands held high in submission, and kneeled slowly to check Magneto's pulse.

“He's alive,” she shouted to the others, and they began to approach, clearly intending to drag him away. Fury rumbled from the Wolverine's chest, and his claws flashed, and suddenly, the metal helmet was rolling on the ground.

“Ain't gonna be a next time, bub,” the feral growled, and the noise seemed to reverberate up and down the suddenly silent hallway. The X-men looked more shocked than the now leaderless Lensherr faction. What would the government call them now, he wondered idly. Where would the White House find an analyst that could make sense of this?

Gil wasn't sure he understood what was going on with the mutants, and he'd just been awarded front row seats.

*

The nausea hit hard after they turned onto the winding road that led them through the lakes and up into the wilderness area. Scott slammed his foot on the brake and hit the door lever with a blind swipe, before bolting outside to empty his stomach into the bushes by the side of the road.

What the heck was wrong with him?

He hadn't eaten anything strange for lunch, only the sandwiches that Jubilee and Kitty had made this morning in the Mansion, and no one else was sick. He was tired, yes, and stressed, but he'd never been carsick in his life. Yet he couldn't escape this clenching in his gut, and the wrongness that seemed to crouch in his chest, and periodically rise up into his throat and then explode out of his mouth.

It felt like sorrow, or death.

Scott felt his mouth turn down and his spine straighten as climbed back onto the bus, and restarted it for the third time that day. It had been four hours to the border, and three hours beyond that – they had to be getting close to their refuge now, and he should be feeling better. Not like something awful was waiting for him.

He nearly missed the sign, and had to yank the bus around hard to turn onto the rutted road that took them deep into the looming pines. Any sight that meant they would soon be getting off the overloaded bus should have been welcome, but a hush had fallen as they rattled their way towards a sorry collection of cabins that looked incapable of surviving the summer, let alone a Canadian winter.

“It looks like something out of a slasher movie,” Jubilee goggled, then sprung down the steps of the bus. “Last one in the lake's gonna get their legs chopped off!”

“Might be the warmest shower you get for a while,” Scott muttered as he killed the engine and stretched to his full height. “You heard her, guys. Go burn some energy, then we'll figure out who's sleeping where.”

Camp Winchelsea had advertised itself as fully furnished, he realised with a sinking heart. They hadn't even brought sleeping bags … simply booked it for two full months, with no ancillary services. Right now he was hoping bedlinen and mattresses hadn't been regarded as ancillary, along with closing doors, running water and wild-life free cabins.

His gut coiled again and doubled him over in pain. This time, the pain radiated right up into his brain, leaving him moaning and horrified. This wasn't right. Something was wrong.

Jean, was all he could think. Jean!

He was almost sobbing her name when he returned to himself, and it was that, most of all, that scared him. Why? He missed his wife, sure, but he had other things to worry about now. She was safe, at the mansion. She'd be joining them later, as soon as the Professor was stable.

“JEAN!” his mind shrieked again, and his stomach emptied itself all over his boots, leaving him shaken and drained.

He dialled her number anyway, desperate to hear her voice.

“Jean, thank god. Is everything OK?”

“Fine, thank you Scott. And you?”

He blinked. “Seem to have some sort of stomach bug. And it's a real dump up here, so there's a lot to do.”

“Tell me where the camp was again?”

He doubled over again, dry wretching, unable to keep the train of thought. Ah!

“Scott, the camp?”

“Sorry, Jean, I've got to go. I'll call later.”

She'd sounded almost bored, he realised later. Unlike her. He'd always loved hearing her Dr Grey voice, the smooth, professional tones so different to the seductive purr she used to communicate telepathically, but this evening, she'd sounded … different. Disconnected, as if what he had to say was of no importance.

Jean changed, sometimes. She hid herself behind a facade, an outer shell as impenetrable as any she had built inside her head, and the masks would come and go, always hiding the woman inside. But underneath she had always been the same - caring, smart, passionate Jean.

Lately, though. The facade seemed to be eating her alive – so cold, and remote, and calculating, he couldn't see his Jean anymore. Flashes of her, like yesterday, when she stomped out of the TV room shaking at the injustice, or this morning, when she sat with the Professor, eyes huge with fatigue and dread, but … only flashes. And today, when they were leaving, he had felt her mind touch his. He had smiled, expecting a silent embrace or final goodbye, but she had nothing to say, simply flicking through him like a filing cabinet, in search of information. And the feel of her – burning in his head, blazing, leaving him weak and shaking as he threw up a ramshackle wall to protect himself from the invasion.

She didn't feel like Jean anymore. And he couldn't shake the feeling that his body knew it, and was trying to purge itself of her. Of his link to her.

Which was ridiculous. Jean could form a mental link when he was close – in the Mansion, sometimes in Westchester itself, but never miles and miles away. Certainly not several hundred miles away.

Not-Jean, his body reminded him once more, doubling him over.

And the chill rolled over him in a moment of pure fear.

*

Emma was sleeping when Charles Xavier's heart began to stutter.

At first, her subconscious didn't quite know what to do with it, that irregular thumping followed by a sharp spiral of choking agony. It drew patterns, made walls of pink squeeze tight around her dream self, and spun the colours out into delirium. A huge fist came down from the diamond-bright sky, to swoop her up, then squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

The pain woke her. His failing heartbeat – ka thump, thump,thump, kathump. Thump. Th.. th ... – echoed in her veins, and the tightness in his chest began to fracture into a million points of light. Distant light, beckoning through a world of black. Realisation rocketed through her, and she threw up a block, and then another, and wall beyond that, desperate to escape the link she had forged between their minds. But she had stolen his consciousness so many times now, the link pulsed like a superhighway – she could slow the traffic, yes, but it was still there. Thought, moving between them. Feeling, seeping through.

Death, shared.

Perhaps this was her penance, her desperation screamed as she fought to free herself. She had abused her own gift, pushed it beyond its limits, to capture that one part of him that she had always wanted. She had harnessed him like a mule, and used his vast mind to push, push, push … strangers on a street corner, half a continent away, or the President himself, locked in an ivory tower – it made no difference to the immensity that was Charles Xavier.

And she had used him. To wreak abomination. To foment revolution.

“You weren't the only one,” she shoved down the link, mutely begging him to release her.

“We all had dreams. We all wanted to help, but you were so in love with your ideas of peace and coexistence and teaching the children – you were making us weak, Xavier!” His sorrow and disappointment came rushing back to her, but this was her last chance to be understood, and dammit, she was going to take. Going to force him to listen.

“We were born to be strong. We were born to be warriors and telepaths and rulers, but you would have us be slaves instead. When this thing is done, our people will tear off their shackles and will refuse to bow to the humans ever again!”

He was floating now, beyond pain, and she could feel something of his bliss. He was glad to leave. And he … pitied her. Her poor, little mind that couldn't see beyond the hate.

Emma Frost screamed her rage, frustration and disbelief shattering the peaceful night. Even in death, she fumed. Even beyond death, Charles Xavier remained a sanctimonious tosser who couldn't get his head out of his arse long enough to appreciate that necessary wasn't always nice.

She was prepared to do what was necessary. To survive. To rule. To live.

Emma reached for the telephone on her bedside table and began to text Mystique.

xxxxx

23: Shards of truth

Mystique blinked, then blinked again. In this, her true form, everything was sharper, more detailed. Something to do with the vertical slit eyes, she thought. In the balmy afternoon light, she could see the dust motes spiralling down from the ceiling, and the minute tracery of cracks and fissures in the seemingly pristine white paint. The white bedlinen was painfully glary, and the picture on the television screen was pixellated. The way it used to be, she found herself thinking. The way it should be.

Disquiet crept in as she realised something had changed. She was … not different, but the same. Again. Herself, once more. She had been away.

Her heart was thudding, Mystique realised. Alarm, teetering on the edge of panic. A growing dread. Neither was useful, not now, when her faculties were returning like sensation to a numb foot.

She reached for the coffee cooling rapidly on the bedside table, and put it to her lips. The warmth of the cup made her purr, and the bitterness on her tongue warred with the sugary dregs. Eyes closed in delight, she drank deeply, refusing to forego the pleasure of it even as she began to tease out the puzzle. How long?

How long had her body been dulled? Vision, touch, taste, all compromised. For more than a month. Or – was it her brain? Reasoning? Logic? She thought back, reviewing the plans, and plots. Some were unnecessary. Malicious. And calling in her chip against the Wolverine? For this? Irrational. Immoral. If Magneto needed to die, she would kill him.

Forty years, she reminded herself. Forty years of prejudice, and anger, and hate. Forty years of feeding his obsession with anything that would pay - murder, espionage, organised crime. He had killed her love the moment he chose to sacrifice their child, but the loyalty lingered. Forty years. His death was hers to deal.

The sudden insight was shocking. The unfamiliar clarity, with no sting of emotion, no slap of hate. Nothing redirecting her from logic or analysis. The realisation clawed at her gut, forcing bile into her throat. Mystique leapt from the bed, and sprinted for the toilet as her stomach rebelled.

Who? Who could have done this, she raged through the convulsions. Xavier, of course, but … she knew the feel of him. And the steel of him, and he wouldn't lower himself to this .. this .. violation. She had been raped. Her will, torn away. Mystique shuddered. She had nothing left to vomit, but her body was still intent on turning itself out, as if it could purge her of the invasion. The shame. The consequences.

Dread slid over her skin. The consequences!

She forced herself to the vanity on wobbly legs, and took a long drink of water straight from the faucet, before straightening to stare at herself in the mirror.

When had she decided they needed to die? Had it been her, or … someone else? She had her reasons – love turned sour, resentment, loss. Fear for her child, love, a mother's ambition. Doubts about the future he was so desperate to shape.

The breath hissed out of her as she recognised her motivations, stripped of the noise that had surrounded them before. Her feelings, without a doubt. But were they motivation enough? Yes, the Brotherhood needed to fall. Magneto needed to be stopped. But ...

She would have never sent an assassin after him. She owed him an honourable death.

And Charles. Yesterday, she had whispered in Sabretooth's ear to ensure Erik's strike on the Mansion would claim Charles as well. But today - nothing in her would allow him to be dead. Her first friend. Her protector. Even as she waged war on his dream, Charles Xavier had always been safe, more protected than her ever knew. Sometimes, in her dreams, she wore the black and silver, that shiny X taunting her, just out of her reach.

Someone had wanted them both dead. Magneto and Xavier, twin poles of the mutant world. Why?

Who? What was coming?

Her mind flicked back to the massacre in the cafe, and unseeing eyes of the murderer. Raped, her brain screamed, and fear burned acid in her mouth as she remembered that thousands had died, all around the world.

So much power, and so very ruthless. And with the X-men and the Brotherhood in disarray … the strike would come soon.

Mystique's mouth firmed as she searched for her phone, then quickly keyed in new orders for the Wolverine. The jitters were rage, she told herself. Rage, and the lust for the revenge. Later, she would drink them deep, but now – she had a weapon to redeploy. A coup to deflect. A daughter to save.

And an enemy to meet.

*

Wolverine was stripping the mangled leather from his body when his phone started buzzing in one of the fancy lockers. He considered ignoring it – Rogue was dressing slowly just a few feet away, and they needed to talk this thing out – but too many years of last minute instructions had trained him well.

Mystique, he saw. A text message.

ABORT ABORT ABORT.

And wasn't that just too fucking late.

He frowned at the order and made a note to call Mystique later before returning to the fight to remove the leather pants. Rogue's eyes were glued to his ass, he realised, and maybe a shower was in order - 'specially since they were the last two left down here.

“So – we back to talking yet?” he asked as her scent rose between them.

“No. But I'm open to --”

Colossus burst through the swinging door, his terror and pain announcing him in a welter of acrid hormones.

“The Professor! He's dead! And Jean … we think Jean killed him,” the blond giant blurted, and he looked about six fucking years old with all that loss in his eyes.

“Incorrect.” The voice rose from behind the kid, and he could smell nothing familiar in whoever the fuck this was. “Jean Grey did nothing. She was incapable. The Phoenix has done what she could not.”

The light fell on her as she stepped through the doorway - a nightmare, wearing Jean's clothes, and Jean's body, and Jean's face. But his every base instinct assured the Wolverine that nothing of Jean remained.

She had killed a man, Colossus had said. Yet, Wolverine could detect only curiosity in her scent, as she tilted her head a little, red lips pursed as she watched them react. He schooled his features into stillness – he couldn't show weakness, not to her – and forced his muscles to relax. He felt like a mouse scurrying under the gaze of a hawk, and his animal was cowering, shaking.

What the fuck was she?

“Your Professor was lost in sorrow. I have but released him,” Jean Grey said, as if the explanation would make it easier for them. The Phoenix, Logan corrected himself. She calls herself the Phoenix. Jean was Rogue's teammate, Scott's wife, the kids' mentor … this thing is not Jean.

“The world is clean now. Wheels within the wheels, moving.”

So, crazy? Check.

Powerful? Bitch killed Xavier. Fucking check.

And the only other question he had was how in hell he was gonna get Rogue outta here safe while he took this bitch down. He knew insanity when he saw it, and he sure as hell wasn't letting his girl anywhere near that.

“Oh, dear boy. You have no idea of her potential, do you? He wants to lock you in a box, child, and keep you safe. So sweet,” the Phoenix cooed, sliding in close to Rogue, her fingers trailing slowly over the younger woman's denim-clad hip.

“But you know the truth, don't you Rogue? You're the dangerous one. He's merely an animal, used up and soon to be broken. You're the real killer,” she whispered, as if confiding some sort of delicious secret.

Wolverine ordered himself to ignore Rogue's dizzying arousal, so warm and thick and intrigued, and focus all of his senses on the immediate threat. It was the Phoenix's smug smile, and the surge of triumph in her scent, that forced his attention back to the younger woman. Her eyes were closed, as if the world was too ugly to look at, and when she opened them, Marie's warm brown eyes had given way to a cold, hard green that shone with malice. The real Rogue, he knew. The unpredictable bitch.

“Oh, he knows. He made me that way,” she said, and moved to slide her arm around the Phoenix's waist. They turned as one, and made their way out of the locker room, two dark goddesses sharing secrets of war, and death, and destruction.

His girl was gone, and all he could do was howl.

*

Spending Sebastian's money had never been quite so fufilling, Emma thought. She had wasted it on pretty things at first, but there was only so many animals they could make into white coats, or so many beautiful boys (or pretty cars, or cute little houses). The blueprints had changed that. Nearly a decade, now, she thought as she readied herself to leave the tower. It had seemed ridiculous that it could work, but her little scientist had demonstrated with a diamond box, and her hand inside it. She could still taste that first rush of power, and it was nothing – nothing! - compared to the bliss of the diamond room.

Dusk was fast approaching, but even at night, even with a sliver of moon, the millions of facets magnified each other, and bounced back and forth into a shrieking crescendo of light and power. It was a side effect, of course, but she chose to see it as a visual counterpart for the mental energy she was throwing out into the world. She was a powerful telepath in her human form, Emma knew, but in her diamond form, the energy was doubled and trebled by her every facet. And the diamond room provided a million more facets, a billion more, amplifying the signal, reflecting it back, and amplifying it again and again in a never-ending vortex of psychic energy.

For a decade, she had struggled to harness the power, until she had stumbled across an account of Cerebro, Professor Xavier's very own technological wonder. It gave him range, and he gave it focus, she was intrigued to find.

The path forward was very clear, then. Control Xavier, and she could control the world.

“Xavier simply refines the signal. You are the source,” Emma reminded herself as she pulled on high, white boots over similarly toned stockings.

Sheer bravado, however, was for shortsighted men like Sebastian Shaw. She was the source, but she wasn't above taking extra measures. It was heavy, as necklaces went, but incredibly beautiful, her storage device. A diamond for every angle in the room, and complex circuitry in platinum wire, giving her access to power stored over a decade, and a refinement of control beyond the skills of any other telepath. Even Xavier.

She would have quite liked to test it against him, Emma thought. Whoever had stolen that opportunity from her would be made to regret it. There was, after all, no one else who could challenge her – Xavier had made sure of that. Poor little Jean.

She considered a cloak – she hadn't yet worn the arctic fox – but reluctantly conceded that Westchester in September would be barely verging on autumnal, far too warm for such a statement.

“I'm ready, Tonio. On the roof in five,” she ordered silently, and closed her eyes to take one last hit of the power before leaving this place. She climbed the few stairs to the roof slowly, her eyes adjusting to the weak polar sunshine, and the sensation of wind on her face strange and exciting.

“Miss Frost,” her pilot saluted her, and she nodded before climbing into the seat beside him. He didn't need to know she was breathless at the kiss of fresh air for the first time in months. As the helicopter lifted into the sky, she watched the home she had built for herself so many years ago shrink to nothing against the field of glistening white. After Xavier and Magneto had torpedoed Sebastian's foolish dream, she had needed a bolthole to outlast her enemies, and she had grown to appreciate the solitude of Sassivik. But it was time to return to the world.

Emma lifted her head and looked out to the horizon. The helicopter would slip invisibly into American airspace, and her little jet was waiting in Prudhoe Bay. Antonio would set it down on the basketball court, and she would tell them – once – to take her to the lower levels. First, she had taken Xavier, and now, she would take his X-men. There would be no more torpedoes.

She had already set the world into disarray.

Time to rein it in.

*

The seduction was unexpected.

Her nerve endings were on fire, Rogue realised. Her skin was singing with energy, begging for more contact with this woman. This force. She was … elemental, Rogue considered as they climbed the stairs together. Even through their clothing, even with her control clamped tight, Rogue knew exactly what the Phoenix was. A being of pure feeling.

Like to like, Marie whispered in her ear. But she is not you. She is not us.

Us, Rogue concentrated. Not like us. Marie had retreated so suddenly that Rogue had been momentarily trapped, alone in an eerily silent mind. You're the real killer, she heard, and Marie was gone, even Wolverine was gone, with only the demons left to keep her company. And the Phoenix, tap, tap, tapping at her mind, and slurping up hate and resentment and Sabretooth's vile black rage.

Glut yourself, bitch, Rogue thought, and but the Phoenix just smiled. Not so different to Jean, after all, Rogue ventured, watching the other woman's face for the slightest reaction. All she could see, however, was lust, hungry eyes dipping down the front of her shirt and wandering fingers tracing the seam of her jeans. Rogue forced herself not to wonder about Jean and practised the vacancy, practised being open and clear and easily influenced.

And Marie laughed, and the Wolverine was horny, and her father was caught in a paroxysm of disgust as Rogue called the multitude, harnessed every voice in her head to resist, to chatter, to add to the clamour. Even Xavier had been unable to make his way past the disorienting swirl of thoughts and feelings; so many separate minds, all trapped in her head. The Phoenix thought she had, but Rogue – and Marie – knew better.

They were approaching the med bay, and Rogue steeled herself for what she was about to see. She had respected Xavier even when he had been her enemy, and if she'd felt more like hired hand than beloved student since joining the X-men, well, perhaps she hadn't been ready for another mentor. Didn't mean she wanted to see the man dead, though, and walking in hand in hand with his supposed killer … her mouth twitched. Awkward.

“What did you mean Xavier was lost in sorrow?” she asked as they strolled down the hall together.

“She made him watch,” the Phoenix said desultorily. “Each killing. She used him to reach out and touch their minds, turn them into monsters. The guilt, you know.” Her smile made it clear the Phoenix was untroubled by guilt, or regret, and she had pitied Xavier for his weakness.

Smug bitch, Rogue thought angrily then stopped short, dragging the other woman to a halt as well.

“She? You mean – not you? Jean?”

The answering laugh was one part amusement to two parts derision.

“Oh no, not Jean. She might have had the talent but suffered from an overwhelming lack of vision. But then, Emma Frost has always had vision, but a distressing lack of talent … quite impressive, really, that she should manage something like this.”

Emma Frost. Havana. Long chats about power and potential and taking control. And her old friend Logan, who had arrived at the Mansion just days before the killing had begun.

But … mass murder. Raping a man's mind to execute mass murder. She had slit her own father's throat, and grown up killing people for money, but she had never considered killing innocents. There was a line, and he had drawn it in the sand for her. Even if his old friend had jumped straight across it, Logan wasn't a part of this.

She hoped.

Immaterial, anyway. They'd deal with Emma fucking Frost when she was in striking distance. Until then, her immediate problems included surviving her pissed off teammates, managing her possibly murderous ex, and somehow dealing with the scary murdering bitch currently swanning around the Mansion giving orders.

She needed to figure out how to do it. Because for all the power singing under her hand, Rogue was pretty damn sure this was one mutant she did not want inside her head.

*

It wasn't his first autopsy, but it was certainly the hardest. Not the science – quite straightfoward – but the conditions. The murderer, watching calmly from the other side of the autopsy table, her expression flickering from politeness to boredom. The spectators – on one side of the room, Rogue, prowling a circle around her surprising new ally, their hands always touching or stroking or reaching for each other, on the other, Wolverine, Colossus, Storm, Gambit and Pryor, by turns bemused, alarmed and glaring daggers. And on the table, the victim. A man who meant everything to him.

Don't look at his face. Don't look at her face. Don't think. Just do, Hank told himself.

Professionalism had gotten him through stickier situations than this, he reminded himself. He just had to trust in his expertise, and his training, and ignore the personal issues at play here. When it came down to it, he was a scientist, and a doctor, first. Dr Henry McCoy, MD, PhD.

He would have never finished his training, or practised as a doctor, if it hadn't been for Charles Xavier.

Don't look at his face!

He returned his focus to the minute blood vessels in the subject's eyes. A small bleed, but not sustained. Indicative of an unusually rapid, immediately effective asphyxiation. One that had not only blocked the airways, but had managed to still the operation of the lungs themselves. Had it been mercy? Or a simple desire for efficiency? Doctors always make the best killers, he thought sorrowfully.

Don't look at her face!

The heart had been showing some signs of distress, certainly. Arrhythmias, a steady increase in blood pressure when it should have dropped, but there were no signs of a physical deterioration. The heart of a man of who ate well. Physically fit, despite his disability. Dedicated to calm and practised at finding it. Ambushed by stress only in these dreadful, last days.

Ambushed by a woman he had loved. A girl I had loved. A woman who is watching me now, flames flickering behind her eyes. The Phoenix, she calls herself.

Oh, Jean. So practiced at self-deception.

He was shaking with anger, now, the scalpel unsteady in his hand. A moment more, and he would snap, and be hurling it at her. An eye, perhaps. He had always loved her eyes. Instead, he released the clamps pulling the ribcage apart and began to sew the flaps of skin back together. Dignity in death. This man, above all others …

“Finished so soon, Dr McCoy? What about the digestive system? The stomach contents?”

“I am confident I have established caused of death, Jean.” Don't look at her.

The blow came from the dead man, his balled fist swinging up to catch Hank under the jaw with surprising force.

“I am the Phoenix. Jean Grey is dead.”

Fuck professionalism. Raw anger would have to do.

“No, she's not! Are you forgetting who you're dealing with here, Jean? I was here when you arrived, and I remember a little girl who was so angry at the world, she destroyed her entire street out of spite. Who tormented her own parents just because she could. Who used her power whenever she wanted and however she wanted and hated Charles for telling her to stop.”

He took a long breath and ignored the shocked faces around him. “She didn't need to call herself the Phoenix, Jean. She might have been selfish and insecure and immature but – she was honest. And she wasn't scared of who she was, either.”

That came later, he knew. The fear, and the shame of being less than perfect. They were imperfect human beings, but as Charles Xavier's favourite students, they were expected to be perfect mutants. High achieving, morally upstanding, publicly laudable. Mutant showponies.

He'd had his books, his retreat into acadaemia and the arcane. He had worked with Xavier to modify his responses, tame his anger, bely his bestial nature. Hide his physical characteristics, speak softly at all times, never shout, never run, never fight.

He remembers a snippet of conversation, half-heard from the hall outside the Professor's office.

“I've never seen power like that, Erik. Any anger, any passion, and her control just deserts her. Pure power takes over. She could quite literally destroy the world. Just by wanting it to happen.”

Now, with adult ears, he remembered the fear in Xavier's voice. And not for the first time, he wondered what she had been made to do.

Because he had admired Jean Grey, her relentless work ethic, her vast knowledge, the kindness and compassion that came as such a surprise after knowing the moody, scrappy girl. He'd put it down to growing up, then. But now he wondered if Dr Jean Grey was as false a front as this Phoenix incarnation. And if so, what had created her.

He looked, then. Xavier's face, calm in repose, looks untroubled by human concerns. Remote.

“You did this,” he thinks. “Empire building, masked as acceptance.”

She laughed, and made her way around the table to slide up next to him, close enough to speed up his traitorous heartbeat.

“Always the philosopher, Hank. But don't waste your pity. I am glorious.” She leaned in close, breathing in his ear. “Let yourself be glorious too. Fight with me.”

And that was the moment, of course, that the alarm broadcasted a presence in the main hall. He flicked his eyes up to the security monitor and blinked at the sight of a gorgeous ice blonde, resplendent in white leather, knee-high boots and far too many diamonds for the day time. He should know her name, he thinks, but he can't quite remember ...

“Who the fuck is that?” Wolverine asked with his usual charm, and they're all too busy shrugging to object to his language. Rogue raised a sceptical brow in the Wolverine's direction and scowled at the camera.

“Really, sugar? Such a short memory? That's the bitch we have to kill.”

***

24: The mists of memory

So that's the enemy, Logan thinks, hitching an eyebrow in surprise. Even on the security camera, chick's kinda pretty … long pale limbs spread wide, ass waving in the air … but there's something odd about her. Something familiar … sounds like a cat in heat, demanding little bitch … lost to the holes in his memory.

Something's different, he frowns. Usually, he doesn't know what he has lost – it's a void, a cold blackness when he tries to remember. But this is something pushing him away from memories he knows are there. His nose is reminding him of how she drenches herself in some sort of godawful perfume, and his hands are itching to slap her around a bit … all she wants him for, all they ever want ... but he doesn't know her name, or how he knows her.

Fucking inconvenient, considering Rogue's just nominated her as the enemy. Any other day, he'd be down there already, slicing and dicing on just her say-so, but … Rogue's eyes were still glowing green. And she was holding hands with the bucketload of crazy that killed Xavier.

Wolverine was growling in confusion. He just wanted to gut somebody already. Right there with you, bub, Logan snarls, but forces himself to dig up some details – anything – on who the fuck the woman in white might be. Instead, things grow fuzzier as they watch her progress through the house, towards the lift. Push the button for the medbay, and smile serenely as she begins to descend.

Pretty blonde. Wonder who she was coming to visit, Logan wonders with a grin. Who was that redhead with Rogue, though? She smelt – off. He needed to kill her. Now.

He lunges with a roar, claws out in front of him, as the Wolverine thrashes inside, terrified. His target simply raises an eyebrow and flicks her fingers at him, throwing him back across the full length of the medbay. Powerful, he thinks, groaning as he slides down the wall.

Why was Rogue with her?

“Marie?” he protests as he staggers to his feet.

He shakes his head as the world seems to mist again, then blinks. Who are these people? Are they pursuing him? Everyone is tense and worried, but there's no stink of murder, or rage. Just horror, and confusion.

Why are they confused? Who are they?

“Logan? Sugah?”

Concern, and annoyance in a voice that drips the South. (Something inside of him is howling a name. He swats it away.) The smaller of the two delicious women on the other side of the room is approaching him slowly, and he relaxesbecause she's a hot little piece, even if her hair is a little weird.

“Hey, sweetcheeks. What's an angel like you doing in a place like this?”

Her mouth drops open in shock, and he swallows hard. Those lips were … he shouldn't be thinkin' of a lady like that. But, still ...

“Really, Logan? Emma fucking Frost is dabbling in mass fucking murder and you've decided to turn into some sort of mutant frat boy?”

“Who you calling a mutant, sweetheart? And what in tarnation is a frat boy?”

Her eyes bug as she takes a step back. The other woman, all wild red hair and scary black eyes, strolls closer and tilts her head curiously.

“How very strange. She's blocking him, somehow. Leaving the barest essence of who he is. His feral side is completely locked up. He is … just a man.”

“A man trapped in the 1950s!”

“More probably the 1920s,” a cool voice intercedes from the other side of the room. “I couldn't take him right back … maybe another day, more time. But … Logan was always so sweet when that animal was out of action. 'Course – I did let it come back sometimes.” Frosted pink lips stretch into a parody of a smile as yet another gorgeous woman makes her way towards them. A blonde, dressed all in white. Why was he shivering?

“I did love to subvert that horrendous old saying about women. Just a little reorganisation, and even he was a gentleman at the table.” She lowers her voice into a coy whisper. “And an animal in my bed.”

The little one flinches as if the blonde had slapped her, and steps in front of him protectively.

“What sort of woman needs to use mind control to get a man,” she hisses.

“Oh, no, dear. That's not how it worked. He came to me. Just like you – he wanted control. He needed to learn how to control the animal, and I gave him that. Whatever fun we had … that was just incidental. It's not like he paid his debt that way.”

She leans forward, and Logan realises all the fancy clothes, all the diamonds in the world, couldn't pretty up that much malice.

“You, of course, never paid your debt at all. But don't worry. I've got a payment plan in mind.”

He had no clue what the blonde was talking about. But he could taste the threat, and something about the way the curvy brunette reacted, something about her flinch … his hands were fucking itchy, he realised. As if pressure was building behind the skin.

Pressure became agony, and James Howlett looks down in disbelief.

He has fucking claws!

*

Dr Henry McCoy stares at the implements in his hands, and wonders what to do with them. Why huge, ungainly paws such as his own would be holding them in the first place. He was made for bashing, crashing, crunching.

Roaring. Destroying. Carnage.

He rips off the labcoat and drops down on all fours, blindly moving towards the blood dripping onto the floor.

Taste. Good. More

Beast bares his teeth and leaps for Wolverine's throat.

*

Ororo Munroe feels the storm gathering long before it arrives. She reaches for it, tries to draw it down, but the clouds scud away.

She blinks in surprise, then wonders why she had tried. What human could command the storm?

And why is she here, so exposed, with these strangers? She is a creature of shaded doorways and dingy alleys, and there is nowhere to hide here, where the lights are so bright.

The woman once hailed as a goddess slinks backwards, sliding into Dr Grey's office when all eyes are elsewhere.

She folds herself in under the desk. Hidden. Safe, she thinks, staring blindly at the silver X on her belt. What could it mean, she wonders idly as she waits for the chance to sneak away.

*

Ilyana! The two beasts were snarling on the floor in front of her, and her terror had him completely armoured before the first gouts of blood sprayed across the pristine white floor.

It was a lab of some sort, he realises, looking around wildly. He has no memory of how he got here, only that he had been standing, staring at the dead man, and then he had heard her scream, his sister, his Ilyana.

Not the child he remembers, Piotr realises as he throws a red-eyed demon aside in his inexorable progress towards her. A woman grown, now, but her spirit still shines in her eyes, and her voice chimes inside his head the way it always had.

“Careful, Piotr. They have been keeping us prisoner, but I have the upper hand, now. The only threat left is the red headed witch. Come, deal with her for me, and we shall leave this place together.”

He throws himself at the witch, a missile of gleaming metal, only to find himself twitching at the end of her fingers. In mid-air. Completely suspended, and paralysed, able only to move when she forces him to.

“Phoenix. Let him go. He's not responsible for his actions.” That voice was usually sweeter, he thinks idly. Southern, he frowns, without ever wondering how he knows the woman. Even so, her clipped tones were positively warm next to the terrifying redhead's utter disregard.

“Child. Mercy will get you killed. A weapon is still dangerous, even if it doesn't choose to fire itself. And you are all her weapons, now,” the witch observes, her lips twisting with amusement as she forces Colossus' fingers into the shape of a gun, makes his thumb cock it, and then fire in the direction of the smaller woman.

Her witch's sardonic grin faded as the threat hangs heavy between them. “Except for you, Rogue. You seem unaffected. Why is that?”

Colossus quakes for her, but the girl tips up her chin, and there is nothing sweet about her cold, green glare.

“Let's just call me difficult, and leave it at that, shall we? And while we're being honest with each other? Quit pushing, Phoenix. I can feel you, scrabbling about in there. You ain't getting in.”

The horror blinks in obvious surprise, but the scrappy girl isn't quite finished.

“Way I see it, we got a problem needs solvin', and it'll get done quicker if we do it together. And then we'll see if you and me still got a problem,” she says, staring up at the redhead.

And suddenly, Piotr couldn't decide who was scarier. He holds his breath as the horror contemplates the deal, looking almost human as indecision lightens her black eyes. She nods, finally, and the invisible fingers at his throat vanish, dumping him on the ground in a trembling mess of tortured gasps and shaking limbs.

Colossus forces himself to his feet, and falls in behind the two women. Rogue, he remembers. His team leader. And Jean. Who was calling herself the Phoenix. And was apparently the lesser of two evils.

The thought makes him shake.

*

Her gaze had passed over him, straight to the warriors. Wolverine. Colossus. Even the good doctor. Gil Pryor had never been so glad to be ignored in his life.

He watched as their faces grew blank, and recognition faded from their eyes. Watched their minds submit to the newcomer, their bodies claimed for her service. He had begun to inch himself backwards, into the supply room, even before Rogue and the Phoenix started to fight back. He had no place there, could render no aid.

He forces his mind to work through the available options. Normally, he would seek backup in such a standoff, but this woman was using her powers to violate free will. She had already captured the X-men's three outstanding fighters and turned them back on their own team … the same fate surely awaited any newcomers.

The Phoenix had simply twitched her fingers to recover the giant Russian, pushed the illusions aside as if they were nothing. Could she do the same for the Wolverine, and McCoy? Was it in his power to make that happen?

No, Pryor decides. He has no agency here. And he has other responsibilities. “Find the culprit”, the President had said. “And I will stop this.” Twenty four hours had been and gone. The soldiers would already be filling the camps.

He has to try.

The President's private line is busy. He ends the call, and presses redial immediately. Busy again.

He keeps trying.

*

Three missed calls, from Gil Pryor. The guilt hissed and coiled in his stomach, writhing, bile under his tongue. It was the same colour, he fancied, as the poison in the vial sitting on his desk. Condemning him.

President Buchanan stared at the vial for twenty minutes before dialling the number.

“Pryor.” His tongue stuck in his throat, after that. He waited for the other man to speak.

“She's here. The one who caused all of this. Mind control,” Pryor whispered, his words barely discernible. “We're dealing with it. Cancel the orders.”

He didn't even say goodbye, Buchanan thought as the connection reverted to static. How could he have explained, anyway?

The camps were no longer an issue. Stryker's new plan had been set in motion six hours ago.

25: A sense of self

He wonders if this is what it had been like for the Wolverine. At first, nothing but blackness, and then the memories filtering back, one by one.

Three hours of hard work, and it had begun to feel just like summer camp should. The long bench tables had groaned under the weight of three pots of tuna casserole, a bunch of salads, and a passel of overexcited children. He remembers thinking it would have been helpful if the damn teenagers hadn't insisted on sitting on the tables as they dished up ...

“Jubilee! You're going to tip the whole thing --” Scott bit down on the string of expletives as the table collapsed, spilling food and girl and giggling kids in every direction. They stopped at his glare, though, their eyes riveted on him.

He was hardly going to gut them like the Wolverine, Scott harrumphed as he strode forward. He shook his head ruefully to lighten the moment, but the kids still looked terrified. Huge eyes and open mouths were fixed on the windows behind him, Scott realised slowly, and he swung around just in time to see the room explode into a hail of glass.

“Down! Get down!” he heard himself scream as the throb, throb, throb of helicopters shook the rickety building. He expected to hear the thump of booted feet, or the staccato of gunfire, but instead, half a dozen small canisters came flying through the window, then began to hiss.

Scott was choking even before he could think the word 'gas' but he tried to warn them anyway. His vocal chords refused to cooperate, so no one had any time to cover their mouths, or shut their eyes, or shield themselves from the biting, stinging, burning cloud that stole them all away.

His eyes seemed unaffected, Cyclops thought as he watched a line of soldiers enter carefully through the door, guns at the ready. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, but he could watch as they scooped up the smaller children and dragged the larger. Most had surrendered to unconsciousness; they kicked each child to be sure first, and those who moved were jabbed with some sort of taser that made their eyes roll back and bodies relax immediately.

Then they started on the injections. A tranquiliser, he theorised, until Leo Strong's sharply feline face began to writhe and shift towards more normal proportions. Hanks of yellow hair fell around him, until nothing was left of his pelt except fresh, pink skin.

He couldn't watch, he couldn't, so he looked away, but everywhere he looked, his children were being violated.

Unconsciousness would have been kinder, Scott thought as he lay there paralysed. Blindness would have been kinder.

Death would have been kinder, he thinks as struggles to find some light in the cell, wondering who has captured him. Who has neutered him, and left him to rot.

And who else is lying in the dark, waiting.

*

Quill had fallen by the door, his body prickling with spikes and retracting into blandness as the convulsions overtook him. Callisto had made for the stairs, bound for the panic room, but not quite quick enough. Multiple Man would be forever alone, taken slumbering by the console.

She couldn't have expected it, Mystique told herself as she stared at the roof of her cell. She had needed to see who was available, who could be roused to join forces with the X-men. With Erik gone, they had been open to taking up arms alongside their old enemy, rallied to the idea of a force united against humanity. (Hardly a new concept, my dear, she imagined Erik's German-tinged accent mocking her. His voice was a comfort, now, alone as she was.)

She had been thinking about how to tell them the biggest threat would come from another mutant when the attack came. Gas, then soldiers. Then a terrible stinging dart in her arm, and blackness. Then waking up in this place, this cell, and discovering it was even worse than she thought. The guard was kind, fatherly even, bringing her water to wash clean her furry mouth and some bread to soothe her roiling stomach. Even as he turned his back, she was reaching for his likeness, cataloguing his features and waiting for the change to flow over her skin.

It never came.

*

He has claws, and blood is dripping onto the painfully white floor in this strange, foreign place. James Howlett barely has time to scream before a huge, blue creature flings himself across the room, and he is attacking, slicing and slashing with the obscene metal implements even before he thinks to defend himself. His body knows this dance, he realises. He has done it a thousand times before, a million times.

Something unlocks, and the memories are battering him, one upon another, coming fast and without mercy. He is old. Ancient.“Unnatural!” his father had shrieked, the first time they watched claws erupt from his hands. Bone, not metal like these, and they had burst forth like an orgasm, an eruption of pleasure rather than pain.

He had hated them anyway.

“Ungodly! Get away from me! Abomination!” The pious git had scuttled backwards, and Mad Dog's shotgun splattered him against the wall, shock and revulsion still twisting his features as he stared sightlessly at his sickly, studious, never-good-enough runt of a son. There was no time to mourn his father, however. Something new was preying upon him.

His reason had been stolen by a towering, ungovernable rage. He tried to stand in the face of it, to resist, but Mad Dog Logan's howl of triumph rang in his ears, and he started to advance, his newly massive body shaking with the need to slash, to tear, to kill. The man inside him looked on in horror as blood rained on the walls and the roof of the fine house he was raised in. Blood on his hands, and his lips, and in his heart.

Twenty four years, it took.

Twenty four years, to realise that wild creature was as much a part of him as young Mr Howlett, the product of nineteen years of social conditioning. Twenty four years to bring the two sides of himself together, to be able to think and see and reason through a feral rage. To find enough control to allow James Howlett to rejoin the world, just another gruff mountain man working the northern woods, and letting off steam in the local fight bars.

The Wolverine, they called him. He laughed about it, that name. It was fitting. Almost poetic.

And then the war came, and he became a soldier, and everything human, everything genteel and kind and honourable was burnt out of him. The Wolverine was all he had left.

*

Thoughts buzzed. Stop. Don't. Think! Beast slapped them away, and lost himself in the glory of bite-kick-tear-smash-howl. So easy. Simple. Satisfying.

The crunch of the other feral's ribcage under his paws startled him (the third rib seperating from the sternum, the fourth rib pulverised, the fifth fractured) but it felt good, so good. Power. Rage. Blood, blinding him.

He licked it from his face (erythrocytes and leukocytes, plasma and electrolytes, marvellous stuff, blood) and the coppery tang charged to his every tastebud, his every nerve with a dose of pure adrenalin. Pure oblivion, where nothing existed but drive to show them, show them all who was strongest, wildest, alpha.

The other one, he was strong too, but he was bigger, even if the other one healed. Remarkable mutation, really, magnificent to see it close up, to hear the bones knitting and watch the skin reform. The claws gave him an advantage, longer than his own, sharper, and they were slicing into him, slowing him down, making him bleed, but he! He could leap over the other man's head, cling to the roof a little, recover, then drown him in several hundred kilos of blue fur, falling at high velocity.

The Wolverine was groaning beneath him, and the bellows and grunts were less enraged now, and he was actually speaking, ceding control to the man. Weak! Beast protested, but this fight wasn't going the way it should, he wasn't dying or slinking away to lick his wounds, and it allowed too much time to think.

Why are we fighting? We could learn from this man, Henry McCoy whispered from somewhere deep inside. He could teach us how to learn from each other ...

Beast roared, enraged by the thought of humanity having anything to offer him, but the thought refused to be lost to the waves of aggression flowing through him. Wolverine. His animal had a name, almost as if he was proud of it. Honoured it.

Logan let it take control, rather than have it ripped from him. The Wolverine was never locked away, blind to the world, chained in one tiny corner of the man's brain.

Beast sprung up, and backed away, panting. Why were they fighting? Who had started this? What the heck was going on?

He kept a wary eye on the Wolverine as he levered himself to his feet, groaning as bones and tendons snapped themselves back into place. He shrugged a few times, and rolled his shoulders to loosen them, but made no move to retaliate.

“Thanks, bub,” the other man said finally. “Bitch out of your head, yet?”

Hank stuttered a little, the words thick in his mouth, but managed to nod.

“She took me … away,” he said slowly. “I ...”

Wolverine cut him off with a non-committal grunt.

“Yeah, bub. Been there. Killed that. It's over now.” As dismissive as the words were, the older man held his gaze for a moment, and there was understanding there. Acceptance.

Hank felt the smile twisting his face, and hoped it was less doubtful than he felt. He wasn't sure that this would ever be over. His feral self had been fully unleashed for the first time, and forced his human side to realise something.

Lock something away, and you feed the rage. Let it out, and you've got a chance to learn how control it.

Start learning, Beast snarled, and slunk backwards to let Henry McCoy get on with cleaning up this mess.

*

“Let me go you idiot numbskull norm bastard motherfucker!”

The yellow girl, Mystique thought sourly. That shrill voice and overly creative vocabulary. Best brace herself – luck most definitely wasn't hers today, and if there was a cellmate she would have preferred not to have … the guard stopped outside of her cell, carefully opened the door, and pushed the young Asian girl inside.

Mystique couldn't hold back the smile.

“So how go things with the X-men?” she enquired as Jubilee pounded on the rapidly closing door, earning herself a vicious kick from the guard in the process.

“Uh, sorry lady, but kinda busy here!” Jubilee snarked in between hurling threats out the peephole.

“Who're you anyway? How do you know the X-men?”

How to answer that, she sighed. These children had no concept of the deep past, of how interwoven their lives had been. No clue about Charles, or Erik, or Raven. All they knew was Mystique, with her beautiful blue skin, copperbright hair and gleaming golden eyes. Her endless campaign of hate.

This bland new face, that no one had ever seen before, could be the perfect disguise.

She shook away the temptation and spoke softly, so as not to startle the girl. “My name is Raven Darkholme. You knew me as Mystique.”

She saw the moment the name registered; saw the stillness creep over her, and the careful, measured turn that brought her face to face with the enemy.

“Mystique?”

“Very little left, I'm afraid.” She needed to work on that note of insouciance. That had veered dangerously close to pathetic.

“Where are the rest of your merry little band? Bold and free, or snivelling and powerless?”

Jubilee's head snapped back at that. The mutinous sneer was so predictable that Mystique had to fight back the smile that threatened while she waited for girl's outrage to break.

“Well, obviously the bitch gene isn't linked to your mutation! I might not be able to fry your ass right now, but you can be sure it's going on the fucking to-do list,” she blustered.

“Your people might'a forgotten about you, but sure as tomorrow's Tuesday, the Professor's got a fix on us right now, and there's gonna be a team jetting in any minute. And this little thing with my pfaffs, and Kit's phasing, and Cyclops ...”

Mystique looked away for a moment as the burst of anger gave way to silent tears. The poor child didn't even know Xavier was dead, she realised, and that the Mansion was somehow the primary target for whoever it was that had created this whole mess. Gently, she told herself. Carefully.

“They took us at headquarters. Magneto is dead. The rest of us,” she shrugged, holding out her all- too-human arms, disgust rising at the thought of what had been taken from her. “They call it the Cure. They strapped me down, and injected it into my veins. And then they expected me to walk away, like a meek little lamb.”

She pinned the girl with an unwavering gaze.

“The doctor who stuck that poison in my veins? She's dead. I don't need to be Mystique to be deadly, girl. I might not be able to shift, or see in the dark, or dance the way I used to, but I still know how to break a neck.”

She shrugged again, and smiled.

“I just have to try a little harder now.”

The yellow girl's mouth was open in shock, and Raven waited for a deluge of recriminations. Instead, her mouth twitched with indecision for a moment, then firmed as she gave a little nod.

“I was a gymnast, before. A really good one. It's not like I used my mutation a whole lot in combat anyway.”

Not exactly true, Raven remembered ruefully, but she'd take that.

“I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name.”

“Jubilation Lee. Jubilee.”

“Well, Jubilee. I don't know about you, but I really need to get out of here. Any thoughts on how?”

The smile was full of teeth and pride.

“I might not be able to melt locks anymore, but I still know how to pick pockets,” she grinned, producing a electronic keycard from inside her bra.

*

He was running through a tunnel, ignoring them all, the hands and arms reaching for him, the angry faces, the crying faces, the screaming, wailing, teeth-gnashing faces. He couldn't block the sound - “beware, beware,” and “remember the beginning, Scott, don't forget,” and everywhere, the redheaded woman, the apparition that looked like Jean, “help me, Scott, help me, help me.” He couldn't look at her, wouldn't stop, simply kept running and running, knowing it had to end soon.

They were shaking him now, reaching out and pulling at his clothes and yanking him about, and he didn't want to hurt anybody, really he didn't, but he just wanted to be left alone, left to grieve, and it's not like he could help anyway … he pushed back, and his tormentor went reeling backwards, tumbling onto the floor of the cell.

“Summers! Wake up! We're trying to rescue you here!”

The sharp tones cut through his nightmare and he opened his eyes to a beautiful woman he had never seen before. She was breathtaking, really, with a thick fall of dark hair and huge brown eyes that dominated the sharp planes of a perfectly balanced face.

“What's happened?” he croaked when he could finally speaked. “How can I see?”

“Long story, Cyclops. I'll tell you on the way,” the woman snapped. The tone was naggingly familiar, Scott realised. Someone he had heard before but never seen?

But apparently the time for explanations was over, because she was already moving out of his cell and onto the next one.

Kitty, he panicked, finally coming back to himself. Jubilee! The kids!

He flings himself after her.

*

26: Gods among men

The anonymous black limousine rumbles out of the garage the minute the door is high enough to let it escape. It looks like hearse, Jubilee thinks, and it's out of her mouth before she can push the thought back.

“Well, somebody did die,” she cracks, and Mystique glances away from the road to raise an eyebrow at her outburst. That she can deal with – Scott's snort of disgust from the back seat stings, and Kitty's strangled sob brings tears to her own eyes.

Light relief, Jubilee thinks bitterly. That's all you ever were, and you can't even do that anymore. She stares out the front window and forces herself to shut up and watch the greyness of New York subside into the green of the suburbs as they drew closer to Westchester.

Mystique had stepped into the literal – and metaphorical – driving seat when it became obvious Kitty and Scott were both in shock. Jubilee's bitter about that, too.

It's not that she's not sad about the Professor – of course she is! He had taken her in when she was 14 years old and given her a new purpose in life – but is Jubilee the only one who remembers what he taught them? There are other X-men in danger right now, and they need her, so she's not about to check out just because the Professor wasn't here anymore.

Breaking down, sinking into catatonia – that isn't going to help things. “Not going to help!” she wants to scream at her teammates, but then, that probably wouldn't help either. Right now, it looks like it's Team Jubilee and Mystique, something that would have once ranked as Most Unlikely to ever, ever, EVER happen. Effective, though. They had powered their way through the facility, unlocking cells, taking out guards, ushering the dazed not-mutants out to freedom.

They had been looking for the children, but it quickly became obvious they'd been taken elsewhere. Jubilee's dread had sent her spinning into a series of horrible scenarios, but Mystique stopped her short.

“I'm thinking someone's had a stab of conscience,” she had observed drily. “The lab here – feels like a testing facility. Maybe they don't see the need to test on the kids. Maybe it's just because we're dangerous.” She eyeballed Jubilee dispassionately and shrugged. “Be thankful they're not here, girl.”

“What are we searching for, then?”

“You'll see.”

Mystique had only slowed once they got to the central lab, and it became clear she had a specific goal in mind. “Help me!” she'd barked at Jubilee as she dragged open the huge industrial refrigerator to reveal boxes upon boxes of neatly packed syringes.

The Cure.

They smashed the syringes against the wall. Stamped them underfoot. Threw them like darts at the ceiling. Carton after carton, emptied on the floor, clear liquid spreading across the floor like a flood of tears.

“Gonna turn up the heating, since it was in the fridge,” Jubilee said, remembering a disastrous lab project that had seen her grow mould rather than maintain a sterile plate. “What about the research itself? Can we do anything about that?”

“Not right now,” Mystique had answered grimly. “But when this is done? I know a man who can upload code with his mind. He might not even count this as a favour.”

“If they don't get to him first,” Jubilee had muttered, and found herself on the end of a questioning glance.

“They won't. Not if we remove the threat,” Mystique said, and her tone had hinted at something Jubilee still hasn't come to grips with.

The fact they were heading for the Mansion? That meant whoever had started all of this was there too. Jubilee has a Very Bad Feeling. It's not just the standard things-about-to-go-cray-cray bad feeling, either. Her skin is crawling with dread, and fingernails are biting into her palms, and fuck, they're here. The familiar gates slide silently open, and she's ready to beg Mystique to turn the car around.

She's not a coward. Never has been. So what in the eighteen levels of hell is going on? Her heartbeat is slamming in her ears as the car comes to a halt, and her limbs seem heavy as she climbs out of the car, there's something, there's something ...

She's worrying about nothing, she tells herself as they huddle together in the front hall, looking for a clue as to where to go. There are voices somewhere, but they're far away, somewhere in the lower levels. That's just wrong, she finds herself thinking. Upstairs is noisy, down below we have to be quiet – but the whole place is quiet now, without the children. Lifeless.

Her spirits rebound with a wild yank, and something reassures her that's it's all okay, there's no problem here. Perhaps everyone was in the dining hall, sitting down to roast beef and slightly overcooked vegetables. Perhaps they're out at the swimming pool, having fun.

Perhaps they should come quietly to the medbay, and stand on the safe side of the room, well away from the danger, near the angel in white. She'll protect them.

“Angel? You? Not even Jubilee will believe that,” a disbelieving voice sniffs, and that disdain is too fucking familiar, but it can't be Jean because it was inside her head and Jean doesn't do stuff like that without asking, Jubilee reassures herself. There's no one talking in her head, can't be …she's not even a mutant anymore.

“Jubilee? Are you okay?”

Mystique's voice is loud in the crowded elevator and she grabs onto it like a lifeline. “I don't … I heard ...”

“Yes. Someone's playing games. Ignore them,” Mystique says coolly, and Jubilee wants to ask how the fuck she's supposed to do that when the elevator glides to a stop, and the doors open.

It was Jean, she gasps. Sort of. Not really, she realises as the tall redhead turns cold, black eyes in their direction. There's no feeling there, no regard whatsoever – not even Jean's usual pissy contempt.

“Jean!” Scott cries behind her, and she throws herself in front of him, not wanting him to see.

*

The Phoenix wasn't buying the buddy-buddy best friends routine anymore, and Rogue was pretty sure she knew what was going to happen: she was dead, the minute they dealt with Shiny Obnoxious over there. Possibly sooner: the Phoenix seemed inclined to swat them like flies at the most minor annoyance.

She wonders if the newcomers had any idea how close they'd been to complete annihilation when they'd charged through the open door. Cyclops, sans goggles, Jubilee, Shadowcat and a stranger, who seemed to be in charge. Rogue was still wondering at that, when Jubilee caught sight of the Phoenix, and threw herself in front of Cyclops to stop him in his tracks.

“What's happened to Jean?” Jubilee whispered, and Rogue simply shook her head behind the other woman's back. Now was not the time for explanations.

“She's liberated herself,” the stranger breathed, her voice naggingly familiar. “God help us.”

The Phoenix stalked towards the newcomers, a smile stretching across her beautiful face. Not for Cyclops, but for tall brunette who stood in front of him.

“Well, well, well. Proud of me at last? How nice. What brings you here, Mystique?”

Mystique? Rogue repeated in shock. Mystique?

“Oh – that's right, I already know!” the Phoenix said pointedly, glancing at Rogue. “But the family reunion will have to wait, I'm afraid. Busy now,” she almost sang, dismissing them.

“Actually, I was here to find out who's been meddling with my mind for the past few months,” the stranger – Mystique?- fired back, looking past the Phoenix to Emma Frost. “I guess that would be you.”

The White Queen smiled demurely and nodded her head as if accepting an honour.

“Don't be too hard on yourself, dear. Some of it was your idea. Not much, but some. And you were so stubborn! It wasn't until I had Xavier on board that it became so very easy. His power made everything easy,” she gloated.

The question had been gnawing at her for days now, and Rogue simply couldn't hold it back.

“Why? Why would you bother making people kill each other like that? Making us public enemy number fucking one, and making them come after us? What could you possibly have to gain from that?”

Rogue had expected a mental slap, or a sudden loss of the ability to breathe. The doting smile came as a shock.

“So clever, Rogue! I do love it when people ask the right questions? Very simple, dear. They needed to want to make it stop. They needed to want it enough to give me exactly what I need.”

“What could you possibly need that much?”

Emma Frost claps her satin-clad hands as if Rogue had just performed a pirouette.

“You, darling. Just you.”

*

James 'Logan' Howlett is still trying to make sense of his recently unlocked memories when the Wolverine shoves him aside, teeth bared and claws sliding free as he registers the threat to his mate.

Wolverine's right, it dawns on Logan. That almost religious awe, despoiled by pure avarice … he last saw it in Havana.

“Let me in, child. Relax your shields. I need to know what it's like to be you!” Emma wheedles. Logan can smell Rogue's fear souring the air, and he wants to tell the woman to leave her the fuck alone. But they were so close, the White Queen had said earlier. If she couldn't control her own mind, she would never control her body, and that was what Rogue wanted, Logan told himself. She wanted that above all, and he wouldn't get in her way.

“They're fighting so hard,” Rogue sobs, and she's working so hard to relax her mind that sweat drips from her brow.”Try again,”she grunts, and Emma's face goes blank as she focuses her own power. Suddenly, her eyes open and Logan gasps at the emotion blazing forth: joy, and admiration, and naked, unrestrained hunger.

“So beautiful, Rogue. So much power. Any gift, any life – all you have to do is reach out and take it,” Emma cries, and falls to her knees before Rogue. “So ungrateful, that lot. You've kept them alive! You took them from their miserable, weak bodies and gave them yourself – and thanks to Wolverine, you'll never grow old! Never die!”

Her voice was rising and falling with all the cadences of an old-time preacher, and she was almost frothing at the mouth with excitement. “You've given them immortality itself!” Emma intoned, and her voice shook with belief, and a fervour that made Logan's hair stand on end.

Immortality. Emma Frost wants to live forever, and she plans to do it in Rogue's body.

Seven years, she'd been spinning her web. Seven years, and she'd concocted the perfect plan, a way to make Rogue not only agree to absorb the White Queen, but to let her take control of what Emma had called the Rogue collective.

Not a fucking collective, Logan tells himself. Not even Rogue's to give away.

“Marie!” he howls, throwing himself into the attack.

*

The Wolverine's bellow reverberates up from the floor, shaking them all. Horror, and pain, and a sheer, ungovernable rage that makes Scott flinch just to hear it. The feral's claws spring loose and he is hurtling towards the White Queen, a cannonball of sure death.

Something catches him in mid-air, suspending him, then floating him gently back to Jean's side.

She did that, Scott realises paling. Jean had done that with the power of her mind.

“No, no, Wolverine. Let's not make it too easy for her. Such arrogance deserves to die slowly,” Jean says archly, as if they were discussing a naughty child at a church picnic.

“She'll just turn you against someone else. And where will you be then? One more death on your conscience and nothing gained. I have something much more fitting in mind.”

Scott's heart misses a beat as a sly grin stretches across his wife's face. He has no doubt what she meant. Jean had often played with the idea, joked about fitting ends and appropriately grisly deaths. But this woman wasn't joking – she is delighting in the idea of causing pain, and terror. For the first time, Scott takes in her grey pallor and the veins creeping over her skin. Decay, he thinks. Something eating her alive, from the inside. She is foreign and terrifying.

Not Jean.

His stomach revolts, and vomit splashes over his shoes, pooling around his feet. She doesn't even bother to look at him, instead gliding closer to her quarry.

“I know old age must be so tiresome, Emma, and yes, you are looking a little frayed at the edges, but I don't think I want you in Rogue's head,” the Phoenix says idly.

“I think I'd prefer to let him gut you, really, but there's something you need to know first.” She leans in close, inclining her head and adopting a screamingly false stage whisper.

“It wasn't your plan. It was never your plan. Did you really think your little mind could conceive of this alone?” the Phoenix taunts.

“Something so grand? So sweeping? Please. As if it would have been possible for you to control Xavier. Your fancy machine gave you reach, but it was I who crippled him in the first place. I who left him vulnerable.”

Scott's mind screams with questions as the Phoenix unleashes her scorn on Emma Frost. How long? Had it been sudden, or had this monster stolen his wife long ago? Had Jean known?

“ … the greatest mind of our his generation? You? Nobody but I could have done that! He created the pathways himself, when I was a child, and shaped me – hidden away, in the dark, like a secret, but always watching, always learning. And when the time came, he was glad to surrender to me. Humble! In awe of his creation, and you? Emma Frost, half telepath, half party trick? You think this could have been you?”

The Phoenix throws back her head and laughs, even as Emma Frost takes a step back, beginning to armour herself in her diamond form. A gun appears in her hand, but the Phoenix merely twitches her fingers, then opens her hand to show off the bullets.'

Scott's head begins to ache, and then he is on the floor, screaming. His mind reels with hate and anger and love and sadness, jumps to obey orders, then curls back in to relive the memories they are hurling at each other, history and slights and insults and resentments. He's tossed like jetsam on the psychic storm, helpless, vulnerable, and he can feel them tapping away at his mind, trying to steal it. It's nothing to do with him, nothing they want from him, simply a body, and energy source. A chip in the battle against each other. He is nothing, and they are huge, endless wells of power, dark and light, the very poles of being.

The light hurts his eyes, and the dark chills his soul. Neither gives a damn about him, and he submits, lays down his will, to watch a huge bird rise, soaring up until it hovers overhead, protecting him (and every other tiny, insignificant creature crouched under its wings) from relentless glare of the noonday sun.

He opens his eyes at the sound of laughter, a manic giggling at odds with a low-pitched wail of pain and loss. Diamonds are floating through the air. The Phoenix is laughing as she carves out gorgeous, gem-sized chunks from her rival's skin, the diamonds detaching themselves from the White Queen's body a few a time, dancing through the air in a glorious swirl of light. Then more, flying from the writhing form at the centre of the tableau, and then more, until she is nothing more than a twisting, tortured chain of atoms, desperately trying to reform itself into the shape of a woman.

“Goodbye, Emma,” the Phoenix says, and her voice thrums with something so human that Scott's needs to see her face. Her eyes are still black with power, and her skin grey with desolation, but her smile is horribly familiar. Jean's smile – his least favourite, but Jean's nonetheless. It was the smile she would try to hide when she knew she had the upper hand, or felt bitter and slighted. The smile that broke his heart, even as it tells him that his wife isn't completely gone.

Had never been gone.

Had never, perhaps, really been his at all.

Her power had claimed her first.

**

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.

27: Cry havoc

Mystique knows her heart is dead, the victim of too many years of grievous abuse. Only the clear, logical, vengeful core of her could possibly have survived, she thinks desperately. This pain, this shameful, slicing sorrow – it can't be happening. It can't be her.

She has no tears left, but her eyes are scratchy, and she feels … after the flood of memory, feel is all she can do, different emotions circling her like vultures waiting to pick at her carcass. Emma, Sebastian, Charles, Erik, Jean, Marie, and right back to Emma; love and hate and friendship and rivalry, and what does that come back to after sixty years, or thirty, or even twenty?

They had repaired the breach, once. Maybe 1975? Possibly '76? She remembers kaftans, and a white turban set with a diamond the size of a hen's egg. Emma had always been allergic to subtlety.

The scatter of diamonds on the floor seems to twitch, and organise, then try to build itself into something. Mystique huffs and stamps her heel down into the unruly pile, kicking the small stones away from each other. She was grieving, yes, but it hadn't made her stupid.

Emma had been left with with a pile of dirty money after Sebastian died; at one point, she had used it to open a school that rivalled the Institute for its work with young mutants. Charles had been impressed, and had proposed a summit. The two leading educators in their field, he had boasted as they strolled the halls together.

Erik and Charles had made their own peace a few years previously, and if noises of their lovemaking had made her cry at night, in the daylight hours she was able to be happy for them. A week turned into two, and after-dinner drinks became debates and planning sessions and all-night talkfests fired with revolutionary fervour.

“This is the way it should have been, right from the start,” Emma had said during a lull in the conversation, eyes suspiciously misty. “This is how we should have been.”

“We can't change the past,” Charles had said, and that sad half smile would haunt her for years to come. “Let's concentrate on changing the future,” he had proposed, and they held up their glasses and cheered. She's sick, now, remembering those days, high on love and youth and optimism.

Still, they'd made a point of keeping Emma away from the groundskeepers cottage where Mystique was staying with Jean. Her young charge was angry and frustrated at being kept out of the main house, particularly when she knew they had guests. So when the knock came one evening while Mystique was up to her elbows preparing supper for them, she hadn't thought to tell Jean not to answer.

“And who might you be,” her old mentor had purred, and the greedy note in her voice had sent Mystique's pulse galloping.
“Jean Grey, ma'am,” the child had answered, and under any other circumstances, she would have been proud of the girl's manners.

Instead, she had screamed at Jean to shield her thoughts, and forced herself to calm her own panicked brain before wandering out to formally introduce them.

Emma's eyes had been wide with shock. Even those without a drop of psionic talent could sense the aura of power that had surrounded the eight year old; for a telepath, it was the mental equivalent of blow to the head.

Mere weeks later, Emma contacted Xavier requesting permission to work with Jean. He had turned her down as gently as he could, and she had taken the rebuff badly. Detente over.

But who could have imagined it would end this way?

Mystique shifts under the weight of Jean's stare, and wonders if the Phoenix is still capable of regret. How would things have turned out if Jean had been allowed to work with other telepaths? Would the Phoenix have still emerged if other paths had been explored?

Would Charles still be alive? Would Erik?

That way lies madness, she tells herself, and looks about for Rogue. She refuses to be eaten by regrets she hasn't had yet, and there's still time. She's not chasing redemption, or even forgiveness. All she wants is to look into her daughter's face, and be recognised – after that, the world can go to hell in a handbasket for all she cares.

It probably will, her conscience whispers, but Mystique refuses to listen. Her debts are nearly paid, her time nearly done – an old woman has the right to be selfish, she tells herself and looks away as the remains of Emma Frost disintegrate into sand, and then dust.

*

William Stryker turns slowly, knuckles whitening on the lab reports he is holding.

“I'm sorry, Captain, I thought you said for a minute they'd escaped. But that can't have been what I heard,” he muses quietly. “Now, what was it you were really trying to tell me?”

Captain Jordan swallows, and repeats the news as calmly as possible.

“Four of the Cured mutants from the testing facility have escaped. Raven Darkholme, Jubilation Lee, Katherine Pryde and Scott Summers, sir. And ...” he begins to hyperventilate, unable to force the words from his tongue.

“Finish the sentence, soldier.”

He is a dead man, Jordan knows. No one hears that voice and lives. “They destroyed a significant quantity of the drug prior to their escape. Most of our stocks, in fact.”

“Well, that's unfortunate. All that research, destroyed. Quite clearly we are going to need a new test group. I'll be sure to tell the President that his decision to house the children separately to the mutant adults proved sensible, in the end.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Oh, and Jordan. I've heard there's a child over there who can boil your blood with a single look. You'll be administering his cure yourself,” Stryker said casually. “Good luck with that.”

*
She is hiding under a desk, Ororo realises slowly. She has no idea why. There's no obvious threat in her immediate vicinity, and all she can hear outside is the low buzz of voices. Certainly nothing to account for the tremors running through her, or the sour tang in her mouth. (Never again, she had vowed after leaving Cairo. Never hungry, never scared, never weak.)

She eases herself out from the tiny space and peers through the window wall – Jean, she can see, and Rogue. Wolverine and Beast, both bloodied from recent battle, and Colossus and Gambit, who were strangely untouched. No sign of Pryor, and … was that Scott? And the girls?

Electricity crackles in her hair as she assures herself the children are safe. Scott would have never left them undefended. Jubilee and Kitty would have never abandoned them, not with everything in such disarray … the killings, she remembers with a shudder. The camps. Charles, her heart screams. Charles – the fear is rising, bile in her mouth as the puzzle pieces fall together.

Emma Frost. The White Queen, throwing a blanket over their minds and stealing free will. Feeding off Xavier to commit atrocities … humidity builds in the room as her control begins to slip, and thunder rolls overhead. She reaches out for the charge, closes her eyes and lets it cleanse her. Burn, she thinks. Burn out the fear and uncertainty and weakness and leave nothing except purpose.

The children, her heart pleads. The work. Not this cold, knife-blade intent that Charles had worked so hard to rid her of.

Avenge him, her soul hisses.

And that's when she remembers the Phoenix.

*

He's sweating. Huh. Air-conditioning must'a gone down.

Remy wipes his forehead, praying he won't attract the attention of the banshee who's just saved their asses. He thinks. Don't matter none – she's as dangerous as a box of rattlesnakes, and 'bout that predictable too.

Just like someone else he thought he knew. His eyes flick to Rogue, frozen a pace or two behind the Phoenix, eyes huge and haunted. He's fighting down the urge to feel sorry for her when her knees buckle and he lunges to catch her.

“Rogue! Chere! Rogue,” he whispers urgently, but her eyes are blank and unseeing, and mierde! The Phoenix is turning to inspect them.

“And this, child, is why you are no threat to me. Such potential, but in the end – your humanity makes you weak,” she sneers. Those eerie eyes fix on him as if she is seeing him for the first time, and making a judgement as to his usefulness. His heart is pounding by the time she deigns to give him and order.

“Bring her to me, when she's ready to stand at my side. Everyone else – out of my way,” she says, dismissing their very existence as she stalks towards the elevator, fractured gemstones crunching under her high-heeled boots.

*

Nothing like finding out you were responsible for genocide to make a girl feel good about herself, Rogue thinks viciously.

“Thought I knew a thing or two about self-hate. Turns out, I was just getting' started!” she quips to herself, and begins to laugh. Marie's in there somewhere, trying to comfort her, but really, it's all that little bitch's fault. She's the one with the fucking poisonous skin.

“But you're the one Emma Frost knew she could control,” Magneto points out. “She built you. You were her creature, you and your precious control.”

Wolverine's hiding somewhere, licking his wounds, the useless bastard. He sold her out, after all. Just so he could fuck her. Or maybe – maybe this'd been their plan all along. This way, he'd get his nubile youngster who'd never get old, and his decrepit fuck buddy for extra credit.

She tastes the reek of him before he pushes forward but for once Sabretooth's not trying to steal control. He just wants his turn to cut her to shreds.

“Way I see it, ain't the runt that wanted to get fucked,” the sadistic feral sneers. “You were the bitch pantin' for it. You knew you should'a stopped, knew it wasn't right, but no, you had to keep pushing. Couldn't stop at a kiss, couldja? She even told ya to take it steady, bit at a time, but ya just had to touch him – even had to taste him, dirty bitch. And then you lie back and make him touch you – you with your filthy, unclean, poison skin ...”

“Filthy. Unclean. Poison,” her father takes up the chant. “Unclean. Unworthy. Abomination! Rogue, rogue, rogue, rogue ….”

They're too loud, too hateful, and the guilt, the guilt is drowning her, killing her. Rogue screams, and bolts, running blindly, losing herself in the labyrinth. If she stays lost, stays down, stays quiet, they'll never find her, never be able to blame her, the unclean one, the abomination, the Rogue …

Marie's arms try to comfort her, but the others haul her back, push her forward, and she's just girl. Ain't up to any of this, sugar! I cahn't!

“Rogue? Rogue!”

Marie screams at the strange, red-eyed man looming over her.

“Who're you?” she asks and his jaw drops with disbelief.

“I'm Gambit, chere. We ain't speaking, I get that, but you pretendin' not to even know me? That's cold!”

“She don't know you, bub. That ain't Rogue,” a rough voice cuts in, and she turns her head, and looks up into warm, golden eyes.

“Logan?”

“My real name's James Howlett, darlin'. What's yours?”

“Ah'm Marie.”

There's an inelegant splutter of disbelief from a girl in yellow, who throws her hands in the air in disgust. “Well, glad we're all introduced. But the thing is? Kind of in crisis right now. You know – the big bad? So, Marie, nice to meetcha, but Rogue's kinda kickass and WE NEED HER!”

“Well, aren't you jus' the rudest thing? Rogue isn't up to company right now - she wouldn't be able to help you even if she wanted to. I'm what you've got, and I've been here all along, Jubilee. Just 'cause I'm kinda wakin' up doesn't mean I haven't picked up a few things, and the first thing I know?”

“Ah'm the only one that bitch cain't get a read on, so I'm the best weapon you've got. Ain't that right, runt?” she snarls.

Jubilee swallows, and starts to back away. Wolverine's teeth are bared, but Mystique leans closer, and slides an arm around her shoulders.

“Excellent strategy, Marie. Use them all. As many as you can, all at once. And turn your skin on.”
Marie drops sarcastic eyes to the hand still resting on her bare skin, and the older woman - Mystique, she remembers, sometime friend, sometime enemy – gazes back, eyes calm. You'd think she was asking for salt rather than pepper, and Marie baulks – does she not realise her skin kills? It nearly killed them all, and the last thing she's gonna do is …

“Just do it. Quickly, before she comes back,” Mystique insists quietly, and she knows. She knows exactly what's going to happen, but is giving the order anyway. She's doing what needs to be done, and ya gotta respect that, Rogue mutters somewhere deep inside.

Marie takes the woman's hand, and tries to slow the drag. The memories come first, so many memories, but she's thinking about the face of a baby, a beautiful, special baby, a child she'll never raise but will always love, a child she follows to the ends of the earth, but can never let know she's there. A child who becomes a mutant, and vanishes from the face of the earth, for a while. Her child. Marie. Rogue. Her child …

Shock steals her control, and her mother's life force rockets through her, her hungry skin drinking it in, all of it, even last scrap of experience and information. Her last thoughts are still echoing in Marie's head even as Mystique convulses, and Jubilee begins to scream.

“Mine. So precious. So beautiful. Mine. The Cure, child. In my boot. Jean needs the Cure.” In Marie's mindseye, Rogue is tiptoeing out of hiding to cradle the newcomer in her arms, stroking her hair and whispering “yes, Mama. We will, Mama. Thank you, Mama.”

Raven Darkholme smiles as she dies, and it's peaceful, almost joyous.

Marie's silence cuts through him like the most desperate of sobs. His mind is choking in an avalanche of memory, a sickening blur of faces and names and murder and death, but the scent of her tears drags him clear of James Howlett's fugue. Suddenly, he doesn't give a damn about trivial shit like who the fuck he is.

It's who she is that counts.

“Darlin',” he rasps, and drops to his knees, easing her desperate hold on the woman she's cradling in her arms. “Not your fault. She forced you.”

“No! She needed me to know! She thought this was the best way,” the girl insists, an edge of desperation snapping at the heels of shock. “She sacrificed herself to ...”

The words are lost to a wail, quickly followed by loud, noisy sobs that immediately make him suspicious. She's got something going on, so he feeds the 'path exactly what she'd expect – bemusement at a woman's tears. Annoyance, even. So many crying women, he thinks, and drags their faces to mind, an endless parade of tedious female histrionics. (Marie never made a sound when she cried. Rogue was too fucking angry to bother, slaking herself with death and destruction.)

Grief and regret are rolling off her in great, acrid waves, but there's intent there too. Her fingers clutch hopelessly at the other woman's clothes, but as they do, they form shapes. Words.

Five minutes, she signs. Be ready. She's barely ghosted out the words before she launches into another bout of near-hysteria, sobbing “Mama. Mama!” over and over again.

Good smokescreen, doing what they expect you to. He'd taught her that.

“All they're gonna see is a girl, and you give 'em that, kid. Give you the element of surprise every time,” he stresses as they speed away from the town. Things had turned to shit at the fights, but she'd grabbed the shotgun behind the bar and held off the locals until they made it to the camper. She'd done well. Cool under pressure, tactically sound, too. He should train 'er up.

Logan snorts with mirth, dismissing her enquiring look with a flick of his hand. Who'd ever heard of a girl assassin?

Four hours later, he's still trying not to think about what it might be like to have an apprentice. Someone to teach, to shape, to mould.

Someone who moves like liquid silk, and looks like a fallen angel.

Not that he's allowed to look.

Yet.

Just in case we're in any doubt about your motives here, Logan finds himself thinking as he stares at Marie. You reckon you did for her, but you had one hand on your rod the whole time, boy. Nothing but a goddamned pervert.

The growl rolls through him before he can call it back, and Marie's wails hit another register. Her hands, though, are moving swiftly, easing off of Mystique's boots off to delve inside. She moves so quickly that he doesn't see what she slides into her cleavage. He fills his mind with images of her breasts, perfect curves heavy in his hands, delicious little nipples standing hard and when he sucks …

He throws in an image of long, sweet kisses, and the sense memory of Marie's body, warm and pliant above him. Even cuddling. He senses the moment the Phoenix yanks away her attention, and deep in his gut is a ball of shame that he knows is pure James Howlett. Pussy, Logan swears, and returns his attention to Marie.

Her grandstanding is drawing to a close now, her shoulders starting to shake with genuine emotion. He knows that she has some sort of plan – girl's a tactical genius, there's always a plan – and he can't know what it is. All he can do is help her to stay focused.

“Let her go, baby. Let us take care of her,” he whispers, pulling her into the shelter of his body, even as she continued to clutch at the corpse.

“She was my Mama, Logan. My real Mama – and she loved me,” Marie says, and he's never heard her sound like this – so broken. “She loved me so much she gave me away so that no one could ever use me against her. And I killed her.”

“No, Marie. She chose to die. For you,” he insists, praying it's the truth. Praying there's a fucking reason behind all this, and that it's not just another colossal cosmic joke at Marie's expense.

Marie relinquishes her hold on the woman they'd known as Mystique and turns her face into his collar. She barely breathes it, murmurs so softly that no one other than a feral would have registered anything at all, and there's so many things that she could have meant.

He tries not to think about it, and ruthlessly squashes any sort of hope. But ...

“Not just for me. For us all.”

Looks like he's gonna have to get used to owing Mystique, he thinks, trying to push his gratitude away lest the witch returns. He's struggling, until the thought is knocked from head by sheer astonishment. And fear.

“Uh – Marie? Any way we can tell her that?”

Because Storm is striding across the lab, eyes completely white, her entire being cloaked in a nimbus of electrical energy, stray bolts of lightning working their way free to explode against the ceiling or floor in front of her.

She doesn't bother to take the elevator.

A small tornado propels her upwards, and the ceiling simply incinerates around her as the weather goddess bursts out of the lower levels and into the main part of the mansion without ever exchanging a word with her colleagues.

“Oh, fuck,” the yellow girl says, and even stick-in-the-mud Summers nods in astonished agreement as burnt plaster and debris rains down around them.

*

“Go Stormy!” Rogue exults, and rudely stomps all over Marie's concern. “Yeah, yeah. She's a big girl. You're playing with the big kids now, kiddo. Give the woman the respect she deserves and be thankful for the fucking backup,” her ruthless alter-ego advises. She's not having second thoughts, she's not, Marie thinks desperately, but there are so many people inside her head that are so much better at all this stuff ...

“Maybe it'd be smarter if ...”

“Nah. Has to be you. You know it has to be you,” Rogue insists, then retreats, leaving her alone. Almost alone. It's too soon, she has no real voice yet, still pure knowledge and memory, but Mystique is as real to her as Logan's arm about her shoulders, or the floor under her feet.

“Guess I'm going up then, mama,” she thinks, and pushes herself to stand, tugging the feral up with her.

“C'mon sugar. We got a job to do.”

*

“Where are you going?” Scott winces at the panicked question in his voice, knowing it should have been a demand.

The Wolverine huffs and ignores him – so far, so usual – but Rogue offers him a gentle smile that leaves him blinking in astonishment.

“The elevator,” she says, and … yes. That part had been obvious.

“Lambs to the fuckin' slaughter – there's nothing they can do, Marie,” the Wolverine protests, but she frowns and pushes his objections aside.

“It's their battle too, Logan. The X-men created a monster, the X-men are going to take her down. And the X-men need their leader,” she said, slipping her hand through his elbow as they stepped inside the elevator.

The cold, vengeful practicality was the Rogue he knew, but the warmth of her hand on his arm, the slow of fellowship and support – that was new. Marie, he thought, testing the sound. From now on, he'd be calling her Marie.

*

“Anybody else think us all arriving in one little steel box is like – muy estupido?”

“Shut up, Jubilee.”

“But Roguey!”

“Mah name is Marie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Got that. It's like – we're all here! Kill us now!”

“So go out the fucking window, or up the stairs, girl! Quit your bellyachin', ” Wolverine snarls.

“Well, who died and made you a million years old? There are no windows in the medlab. Or stairs.”

Wolverine simply raises an eyebrow, as if waiting for the penny to drop.

“Oh. Note to self: my secret underground facility is gonna have more than one way out.”

Scott looks almost affronted, while Beast nods his head in amused agreement and Gambit snorts with mirth. Roguey though – she's still staring straight ahead, completely out of it.

She did just kill a woman. Who turned out to be her real mom.

Total suck, Jubilee thinks, then berates herself for even noticing the pun.

What? She's funny, okay? (And fucking scared.)

The elevator dings.

*

It's raining upstairs.

Hank distracts himself by trying to figure out how Storm has managed to lower the humidity to the point where there are no visible clouds, but a whirling gale that moves through the halls, pushing them ahead of it with rain so hard that it stings their skin.

He has no idea what the plan is, or even if there is a plan at all. Wolverine had been rather succinct on the matter - “We find the bitch, and hope Storm has fried her” - and Scott's pale face suggests he hadn't quite thought through all the eventualities they might face.

They were setting out to kill a friend.

Rogue – Marie, as she insists on being called now – is uncharacteristically quiet. Her voice has changed, much gentler rhythms than she used to have, and there's a different tang to her scent, so it is possible she simply isn't Rogue any more, he allows. What he doesn't know is what that means. Is she stronger? Weaker? An X-man or not?

She certainly moves through the corridors as if she's perfectly at home, checking one room after another as they progress along the main corridor. She still works seamlessly with the Wolverine, and directs the rest of the team as if born to command.

Mystique's child. Perhaps she was, Hank can't help but think.

*

Really, they should'a just followed the trail of fire and destruction, Marie huffs. Here's Storm, and here's the Phoenix, and looky here! There's a big old tornado taking on the scary telepath.

The Phoenix is standing at the far end of the dining room, hand extended to vaporise chairs and tables as they hurl towards her on the relentless wind, and the other extended towards Storm herself, beckoning her closer.

The weather goddess unleashes a volley of lightning bolts, and the witch does nothing to avoid them, throwing her head back in ecstasy as they explode around her, drinking them in. She's absorbing the power, Marie realises with a shock.

Welcoming it.

Storm's nimbus of energy is flickering around her, burning blue hot, incinerating everything that she comes into contact with, intentionally or otherwise. Marie counts a dozen balls of lightning zooming around her, tiny planets to her blazing sun, and her passage across the room is marked by footprints scorched into the wooden floors.

The Phoenix is a creature of fire, Marie wants to scream. You can't defeat her that way.

(She doesn't have to, Rogue murmurs. She just has to keep her busy. Focused.)

Logan rescues her from having to think about that by bending down to breathe into her ear.

“What are we doing?”

Marie isn't sure who growls the answer, and tries to ignore the primitive thrill that rockets through her as she sights her prey.

“Stalking her,” she says lowly, knowing that Beast will catch it too.

“We get close, we bring her down.”

“Inelegant but effective,” Beast snarls, and they move in concert, letting the wind pick them up and throw them at their target. She barely notices their presence, at first.

The three predators spring in perfect unison, their bulk knocking the Phoenix to the floor. Her screech is inhuman, outrage and frustration and aeons of anger erupting from her body. Two of her attackers, she flings away, their claws scrabbling at thin air as she throws them the full length of the room. Marie, she keeps, hanging in mid-air, her prisoner.

“So you turn on me at last. Oh, I've been waiting for this. It's going to be so much fun!” she coos, bringing the smaller woman closer and closer until their lips meet.

“See? Not even your skin can hurt me, child. I am untouchable. Unbeatable,” she stresses. “Let me in, child. We'll have so much fun.” The Phoenix cups Marie's cheek with one hand, the other sliding up and down, up and down across her breast, thumb catching the nipple with every pass.

Marie lets her breathing roughen and her mind fill with erotic images. She shifts closer to undulate under those busy hands, tilting her head to lick along the other woman's bottom lip. “Oh God, open,” she moans, her hand already fishing inside her bra as the Phoenix closes her eyes in momentary bliss.

She wasn't the only one set on distraction, Marie realises after a moment. Even as their tongues tangle, Marie can feel the tap-tap-tap of the Phoenix's mind at her own, and carefully pushes forward one occupant after another. Sabretooth's special brand of insanity makes her attacker flinch, and Daddy – well. Daddy makes her pull away, blinking and pale.

“World needs to look after its little girls a bit better, don't it sugar,” Marie says sadly, and yep, that does it nicely. Even the suggestion she might be some sort of victim sent the Phoenix – or maybe Jean – into spiral of rage that left no room for clever mind tricks.

Nothing more dangerous than a fucked-up little girl, Marie thinks bitterly, hands moving quickly behind the other woman's neck, flicking the head off the cartridge to expose the triple-needled syringe. Unless it's an assassin you should have never trusted in the first place, she thinks sourly, slamming the needles deep into back of the woman's neck. As close to the brainstem as possible, Mystique was telling her anxiously. For maximum speed in reaching the brain.

Reach the brain already, she begs, as an invisible, intangible hand grabs her about the throat, threatening to separate her head from her body. It shakes her like a puppy, for the sheer fun of it , Marie suspects, then flings her up the wall opposite. Anytime now would be good, Marie groans as the Phoenix amuses itself by trying to leave a woman-shaped mark in the plaster. Cure, my ass - if anything, the witch is getting stronger, incapacitating every person in the room one by one.

“Jean!” Marie screams, as blood starts to trickle from Scott's nose and ears. “Stop! You don't want to do this,” she begs.

The Phoenix raises an eyebrow. It's the most human expression Marie has seen on the other woman's face in days, sheer disdain for the thought that anyone would dare to second guess her.

“Jean is gone, and you weren't even friends,” she points out. “She couldn't even decide what she hated most – the fact that her boyfriend wanted to fuck you, or the fact that your boyfriend didn't want to fuck her.”

“You just don't get it, do you bitch? That stuff? All the petty little things? That's because we're human! Not perfect, not all-powerful, nothing particularly special.” The intangible punch slams into her belly, doubling her over even as she writhes halfway up the wall. Undeterred, Marie gasps out the words Jean Grey desperately needs to hear, even if the Phoenix objects.

“Jean was being Jean, then. Not Dr Grey, certainly not the Phoenix. Just another woman. Sure, most of the time she was a stuck-up bitch, but sometimes she was fun! Sometimes she relaxed enough that we could see who she actually was inside - and we liked that person.”

Her windpipe pinches shut, then, that invisible, malicious hand denying Rogue her last breath.

Dark spots bloom, and half a dozen voices clamour for attention on the edge of her consciousness. No, she protests. Don't want to talk about the Phoenix.

Sorry. Stole your lives and now I'm taking you with me.

Rogue. Come back. Stronger than me, y'know. Strongest of us all.

Logan. Sugar. Love you.

Love you all. Weird. Guess it's because you're me.

I'm you ...

We …

*

Someone is howling, filling his head with the most woeful noise. If he could only wake up a little to beg them to be quiet, perhaps he might find some peace. The light stings as he cracks his eyes open, and it seems to take forever for anything to come into focus.

And then he sees her crumpled at the other end of the dining room, blue in the face, and he realises it was him, all along.

“Marie!”

He is broken, dragging something twisted behind him as he shuffles across the floor. Of no consequence he thinks. He is whole enough to give her what she needs.

“Out of my way!” he snarls at the group clustered around her. “Somebody go hang that witch of yours,” he suggests, nodding towards where Jean Grey is thrashing and moaning, fighting the effects of the Cure right down to the very last cell in her body.

Storm smiles, ice-cold, and he realises it's not safe to say things like that anymore. The X-men lost their mentor, then their leader, and now their moral compass. Jean Grey can't expect anything other than short, sharp justice. It goes against every Christian principle, but there's too much of Logan in him to care.

Not when the only person the bastard ever cared about is dying slowly in front him, her lungs starved of oxygen and her brain already shutting down. The rattle in her breath tells him her windpipe is crushed, but that's fixable. It's only been minutes, he tells himself as he falls to his knees. The damage to her brain … he can't think about that. She's tougher than anyone he knows. She can take from him, and heal, he calms himself.

She will heal, he panics as her skin stays inert under his fingers. Heal, Logan orders inside his head, and heal, Wolverine howls his grief. The rattle stops, and his ability to be gentle vanishes, his hands roaming her skin looking for somewhere – anywhere – that will trigger a response. He refuses to add this girl's name to the list of lives he has destroyed.

“Jesus, sugar,” she moans suddenly, and he realises he was so caught up in his panic, he missed the moment when her skin began to buzz. “You don't need to do this,” she slurs, voice bruised, and he laughs bitterly because – need? His need for her? Always his downfall.

He clutches at her, refusing to let go even as his vision begins to blur, and he hears the blood vessels start to pop inside of his body. Still he forces his strength into her, more and more of him, and it's only when his legs give out that he severs the connection.

She hovers over him, concerned.

“Logan? Sugar?”

She wants to crawl into his arms, that much is clear. He wants to let her, but for her sake, he's not going to.

“No, ma'am. James Howlett,” he says stiffly, and backs away, refusing to catch her eye.

He has made victim enough of this girl, and has no intention of letting it happen again.

Hank is itemising his to-do list and trying not to let his attention drift to the man plastering at the far end of the room. The dining hall has been converted into a makeshift medlab facility, and Logan – Howlett, he corrects himself – has taken on the task of rehabbing the battlescarred walls.

There's a mountain of research that needs to be recovered from the computers buried in rubble on the lower levels – the contractors are warning that the roof could cave in any time, and he has no intention of losing even one more data set to this catastophe, Hank thinks tiredly. Then he needs to ferret out the medical records for the children the government have “taken into care.” Buchanan's people are full disclosure of all genetic data before they even contemplate releasing the children, and Rogue can't seem to see how perilous that is, he frets.

He'll do as he's told, of course – he had voted for her when Scott stepped down as leader – but it rankles to be reminded he's their only doctor. He needs to remember that, she said.

As if he could ever forget.

He tries not to think about Jean these days. After a week, it had been obvious the Cure had worked magnificently, and they had nothing to fear from the now-powerless woman. After two, she had been told she was free to move about the house, to eat with them, even to sit in on meetings. She hadn't even bothered to answer, let alone leave her room.

Rogue, he suspects, is thinking good riddance. Scott is stony and unmoved. Storm is concerned, but is always so distant now. And the young ones, well. They'd put a bullet through her if Rogue would let them. It's only their loyalty to the new leader that's stopping them.

And Wolverine. He hardly knows the man, but it's clear he's not himself.

It's like watching an automaton. Stir, slop, smooth. Stir, slop, smooth. Stir, slop, smooth until he wants to tip the bucket over the other man's head, or beat him about the head with that damn stirring stick.

Hank orders himself to leave Howlett be, even as he is loping over to inspect the newest batch of repairs.

“Very nice. Are you planning to paint soon?”

A shrug. Communicative.

“It's a fairly standard colour. We may even have some in the garage – would you like me to check?”

A grunt this time. Charming.

Hank snaps, reaching out to yank the plaster bucket away, forcing the other man to look at him.

“Got a job to do here, Doc. You got a job to do over there. Way over there,” Howlett warns, and for a moment, he's as menacing as Logan ever was.

Under the circumstances, he'll take that as a victory. And license to proceed

“Stop torturing yourself!”

Logan's not completely gone, Hank reassures himself. The way he raises an eyebrow, two parts challenge to one part question is pure Logan, but it's Howlett who kills the moment to return to stirring the plaster. Hank, however, refuses to move away.

It's a mere interest of his, psychology, not an area in which he can claim any expertise, but he is forming a theory nonetheless.

Howlett is the raw material, and the social conditioning it received. Logan is the personality he created to function in the absence of memory, and Wolverine is something different again. Something older. Conceived when he was a child, perhaps, a repository for all those feral instincts so unwelcome in a young man of his class. Likely birthed in trauma, like so many young mutants.

All real, Hank wants to assure the man assiduously avoiding his gaze. All you, and all valuable.

“Pretty sure I deserve to suffer,” Howlett mumbles after long minutes of ignoring him. “You don't know the things I've done.”

“We do what we have to do to survive. We use what we are given to make a life.”

“I used what I was given to take lives. Lots of them. So many I can't even count that high, Doc.”

“And this bastard?” he says scornfully, tapping himself on the side of the head. “He's proud of that. Proud of killing people. What sort of man is that?”

He had asked that question himself, when he'd first met the man, Hank will admit. Asked it without appreciating the Wolverine's history, or the complex moral lines Logan drew for himself. At least he has an answer now.

“A man who did what he was taught to do. A man who changed the rules when he learnt better. A man who mastered his own nature, who imposed his will on it, rather than letting it rule him. Yet allowed it to exist. Allowed it to become more a part of him than any feral I know.”

“And that's a good thing? That I have an animal inside of me?”

“We are what we are, Logan. The feral nature – it's inescapable. But you do it more honour than most. You allow yourself to love it,” Hank says quietly.

“You mean – he does,” Howlett says with narrowed eyes. Hank nods to concede the point, surrendering the plaster bucket with a sigh.

Logan might be hiding, and Wolverine in chains, but the wall would soon look brand new. And he'd hardly be the first to turn to work as therapy, even if the warrior Hank has come to admire seems lost in a fugue.

*

Plastering hasn't changed much, at least. He stirs slowly, unwilling to hasten the job, and tries to remember when he last did something as simple as patch a wall. It's in there somewhere, cramped in amongst the years in Montana … his entire body bristles with horror, but it's too late. He's already gone.

The milch cows need to come in for the night, but this'll take another hour at least. Mona has been onto him to fill the gaps for months and now with winter coming, may as well get it done. He hollers for Tom and sends him out after the herd - “and don't be letting that sun get too low – you don't wanna be out there in the dark!”

Damn boy glowers at him under those heavy eyebrows but manages “yes, papa” after a minute. “Don't think I can't see that book!” he calls after his son, but he's only pretending to mind. Boy's as smart as Mona is pretty, and even if his name is Jimmy Logan now, there's enough of James Howlett left to value that. Not that there's much book learning to be had out here, breaking sod and trailing around after cows.

An hour later, the sun's sinking into the western horizon and there's no sign of boy nor cows. Logan throws down the trowel and heads out - that red shirt won't be hard to spot, even in the half light. Boy should be home by now. Probably hiding up a tree with that book, he thinks with a reluctant smile. God knows where he's finding the light to read by.

He sees the shirt first, fluttering against the black leaves of the big oak. There's a moment of confusion – how is he up there, why? - before the stink of soiled pants and terror reaches him. His heart is thumping even faster than his feet can run, and his anguish echoes through across the empty range.

Not empty enough, some cool, calculating part of him observes as he slashes at the noose with his claws. There'll never be anywhere you can escape this.

“No, no,” he pleads as he cradles the child in his arms, and he begs and curses and spits at God right up until the moment he accepts the boy is gone. He'll do it all over again later, when he discovers the words carved into the boy's belly.

“Demon seed” it said. If they could think that, if they could believe that of a small boy …

He would happily give them a demon.

“Wolverine?”

McCoy is standing several metres away, concern on his face as he signals towards the pool of plaster, now seeping all over the floor. Wolverine rights it with a curse, then tries to relax enough to retract his claws.

“Can I help ya?”

“You seemed … I had thought ...”

“Don't think,” he snarls, and channels his violence into slapping the plaster over the gouges in the wall. Don't look, don't think, don't feel.

Don't live.

The red mist lifts, and he is surrounded by bodies. He checks the doorway first, and they were men, at least. Not like the woman still spitted on his claws.

Not like her child, brains splattered all over the wall.

He forces himself to his feet, and stumbles outside to see if it will make any more sense out there. Had his unit been slaughtered? Had something driven him to this?

Or was he just like his brother, mouth red with blood and cock still pulsing from the corpse he had just fucked?

His legs were moving before his brain had fully registered the horror, stumbling and lurching over the rough ground towards the cliff face. Stupid cunts, to live on the edge of a fucking cliff, Sabretooth spat contemptuously. He had shrugged and gazed out at the blue-green precipice. Maybe they liked it, he'd said. Nice view or something.

Easy way to die, his mad brother had sneered.

Not if you were me. Or you, he remembers sourly, his brother's outraged scream still ringing in his ears, and the agony of their landing a phantom ache in every bone. Back then, before the adamantium, he'd broken easier, but healed quicker.

Already a killing machine, though. Already lost.

He hadn't agreed to it until they promised to take away his memories. What a dumb fuck he was. They'd taken them away, and he'd spent the next fifteen years searching for them.

Then he'd found her, and he'd been able to stop. She made being Logan enough. And in his gratitude, he made her into a monster.

He's praying the bubbles cover his rapidly stiffening cock when the hands kneading at his shoulders still.

“Is it hard to kill a man?”

It's not unexpected, exactly, but he hadn't expected her voice to wobble like that, or break with the emotional strain. He doesn't know what to say, so tells the simplest truth.

“No. The actually killing is easy. Living with it afterwards can be hard.”

“Can be?”

“Comes down to who you have to kill, darlin'.”

She's trailing her fingers in the tub now, massage completely forgotten, gloved hand brushing his thigh with every pass.

He's fighting the urge to pull her in altogether when she walks her fingers up his chest and looks him straight in the eye.

“My father.”

He can't bear to ask her why, so sticks to the practical stuff.

“Fast or slow?”

She'd been good with a knife, by the time they rode south. He'd made sure of that.

Bile rises in his throat and he has to brace himself against the wall to stop from emptying his shame all over the floor. When the retching subsides, he picks up the trowel again and slides it over the new plaster until it's perfectly smooth and unblemished, glaring white against the battlescarred surface.

He'll paint this wall, and the kids will never have to know what went on here. Never have to see the scars, and wonder what's underneath. What's the cliché?

“Ignorance is bliss,” he murmers to himself, sick with envy.

*

He's not sure why he came to the meeting. He's not an X-man. Now that the killing's done, there's nothing left here for him. So what's he doing sitting at the Professor's long table, listening to them make their plans?

Common sense, he decides. Knowing what they're up to will help him avoid them in future. Whatever that might be. Might even be able to get something out of it; make some contacts up north, or do the odd bit of work if they've got anything going on up that way.

Nothing to do with her. She's keeping busy, that's for sure, but there's a lot to do, and she was stupid enough to take it on. Not his business if she's looking fragile and too dark around the eyes – nothing a good night's sleep wouldn't fix.

Nothing he can do.

“I've been going through all the files that Gil brought us, and they know so much more ...”

“Why you?”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“Why are you doing that stuff? Why not someone who isn't running the whole place – Pryor, or one of the girls,” he snaps, yanking his thumb towards the young women at the other end of the table.

“Because finding out what information the federal government is storing on us is absolutely critical to our future safety! Because it's my job to keep us all safe!”

“No, it's not. You agreed to lead the Xavier Institute, and the X-men. Sure - lead them into battle. Talk the talk. But you can't do everything – the biggest part of your job is finding the right person for the job.”

Her mouth this and her eyes spit death, but she is forced to concede his point with a stiff nod of her head. He should have expected the follow through.

“That is true, Wolverine. And from what I can tell,” she shuffles several folders crammed with printouts from the Professor's computer, “you are currently our contracted head of security for the Mansion.”

“So?”

“So – secure! Work with Kitty and Gil on this lot and decide what threat this poses, and what we can do about it. I'll expect your report on my desk by Monday of next week.”

He stares, and fumes, then nods his head stiffly. He'll do her damn report, then he'll do what he should have done weeks ago. He'll leave.

*

Every day, she steals some time to sit by the lake. It's not like she can afford it, what with the government breathing down her neck demanding “assurances” before they return the kids, and half of the team suggesting they just turn Jean over and be done with it. Pryor's doing his best to keep everyone off her back, but there's only so much interference one super-diplomat can run.

She's it, now. She's the official leader of the X-men. It's her heat to handle.

They'd turned to Storm, first. The Professor's right hand in running the school. Scott's second in the field. But she had shaken her head, uncharacteristically blunt in her refusals, and the pain and regret in her eyes made it too cruel to ask why. Beast cited the need to concentrate on his research, and Scott – Scott smiled sadly, and fingered a tear in the knee of his uniform.

“I don't really have a right to wear this at all,” he said quietly, brushing off the denials that followed. “The X-men are a mutant force, and the Xavier Institute exists to show the world that mutants can and will protect their own. Especially now, Rogue,” he insisted when she opened her mouth to object.

“I'm not going anywhere. This is my home. But I can't be the one to stand up and say 'this is who we are.' It needs to be you.”

She'd sat there in disbelief, staring at the expectant faces around the table, and wondered how it had come to this, from public enemy number one to only logical X-men leader in one long week.

“Marie happened,” Rogue laughed quietly somewhere. “Face it, girl. You've got more resources than most. We can do this.”

Hard to say no when you've got your own personal pep squad rah-rahhing inside your head, but my God, talk about the frying pan and the fire. She knows things are getting too much when Rogue takes over wholesale, snapping and snarking and cursing up a storm. It's then that she heads outside, no matter that the wind from the north already tastes of snow.

They find peace here.

Mystique, in particular, finds it soothing. She points out the tree she used to climb to get a glimpse of whatever it was Marie might be doing in her life at the Mansion. Not spying, just … watching, she assures her daughter. Wanting to see.

Hope y'all didn't see too much, Marie says, alarmed. She can't see her mother smirk, but knows she is. Oh lordy, she thinks, and knows she's blushing.

They'd made love out here, her and Wolverine, more than once. Last time, they'd been walking back from a session in the Danger Room, so hot for each other that she'd ended up bent over a low hanging branch. He'd fucked her so hard that her legs wouldn't work afterwards, and her breasts and belly had been scratched up something shocking. Take a little, he'd begged, just enough to heal some.

Only if you promise to do it again, Rogue had purred, and that, ladies and gentlemen, had been that.

She misses that man so much.

Howlett has been watching her for a good ten minutes from the edge of the lawns, but hasn't plucked up the courage to come close yet. She grinds her teeth, and tells herself patience, but … fuck that. Just fuck it.

“You got something you want to say to me, old man?”

He looks back towards the mansion, obviously wondering if it's too late to escape, and then marches over to sit a few feet away.

“Just wondering how you're coping. It's a big load for a young girl.”

Marie snorts inelegantly and rolls her eyes.

“Oh, puh-lease, Logan. Get over yourself already. I'm fine – you're the one having problems.”

He's bristling because she refuses to call him James – let alone Mr Howlett - and also takes umbrage at the suggestion that anything is wrong. He still watches her, and she's seen desire flaring in his eyes more than once. Whoever this is, he refuses to acknowledge it, let alone indulge it. It's eating her alive, and she knows she's not the only one. He looks haunted.

Some of that my sins, sugar? Thinking about the things we used to do together?

Rogue's remembering the weight of his knife in her hand, and Wolverine-in-her-head is salivating at the way she tasted, that first time, in Havana. Logan is sneering at the man, too fucking good to give a girl want she wants? Trust me, bub, you couldn'a said no to this girl, and I know it …

“That much of a slut, am I sugar?” she murmurs, and Howlett harrumphs.

Prig, she makes the mistake of thinking, and Logan howls with laughter as she tries to smooth the feathers of the man in front of her.

“Sorry. Internal monologue. I do that,” she offers with a wan smile. “You out here now, two versions of you inside my head, and every one of you has an opinion.”

“What were they thinking?”

She's not sure this man, basically a relict of the nineteenth century, is ready to hear what his alter egos have to say. But … she's not ready to give up on Logan. He's whispering maddening little suggestions in her ear, and they're getting more tempting with every moment she looks at this not-quite-stranger.

Little push couldn't hurt.

“You gotta lot of new memories to deal with. I was wondering if it was the old ones, or the newer ones that were troubling you.”

“You mean the things I did to you.”

The repulsion in his voice cuts through her own issues on the subject. Makes her angry.

“What things, sugar? Making me the best little assassin there ever was? Keeping me at arms length as long as you could? Or ...” Rogue purses her lips into the pout she knows he loves and slides close, unable to stop her fingers from toying with the smooth flannel stretching across his chest. “Was it the way you made me shiver and shake and scream for you?”

She lays her hand flat over his heart and feels it pick up pace as she leans up to breathe her truths into his ear.

“Never come so hard, sugar. Not for anyone else. That's why I hated you so much. Because no matter what happened, you'd always be the best. First, best … “

“And only?” he asks with a sneer, and fuck him. She refuses to be judged by some antiquated morality that simply did not apply. Time for the big guns.

“Only one I ever loved, sugar. Only one I ever loved.”

His sound of disbelief has Rogue throwing herself forward to kick some sense into him. Hush, girl, Marie soothes. You come out swinging, we all know what's gonna happen. And he'll end up hating himself ever more.

She gathers herself together and lets every ounce of Marie's sweetness shine through trusting brown eyes.

“It's true. You know it is. And you think I don't know what the problem is, but I do.”

“I'm Marie, Logan. I'm in charge. I'm the one who loves you the most.” She presses a chaste kiss to his shirt-covered chest, and drifts her fingers down to take his hand.

“You take the time you need to figure it all out. Look at all those memories and see the good ones. And then look at the really good ones.”

“Then you come find me, sugar. I'll be waiting.” She bites her lip as a muscle leaps in the side of his neck and the need to have him back nearly swamps her. “We all will.”

*

Every night, he passes Jean Grey's room on the way to his own. He's got no reason to talk to her – she'd been his enemy twice as long as she'd been anything else – but it's becoming increasingly hard to ignore the stink of despair. Only himself to blame if he chooses not to do anything about it, he tells himself as he knocks on her door.

“Miss Grey?”

His knock is ignored at first, and he has already given up on her by the time she cracks open the door.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just ...”

“Wondered if I was okay? Thought there might be something you could do?”

She looks so weak he's astonished she has the energy for such scorn. Haunted eyes stare out of a deathshead of a face, and one lip quivers with some sort of palsy. How can her friends bear to look at her, he wonders, then realises with a jolt that they don't. Nobody visits. Scott Summers is the only one allowed through her door, bringing trays of food from the dining hall to serve in her room. Otherwise, she pushes people away, physically when she has to.

He understands, now, why Summers had laughed bitterly when Pryor had complained about the lack of restraints or a lock on her door. Jean Grey has no need to be kept prisoner. She's already locked in an unbreachable cell.

He knows it well.

“Too busy hating yourself to talk?” he sneers, and murder flashes through those once-brilliant eyes.

“Too bored, really. You're hardly the conversationalist, Mr Howlett,” she bites back. “If you're looking for someplace to hide from Rogue, try your own room.”

He's horrified by the growl that slips out, then decides if she's going for the jugular, so is he.

“Here will do just as well. Doubt she could stand the stink.”

She stiffens and moves to slam the door shut; he catches it easily and holds out a hand to appease her.

“Sorry. I was out of line. I was hoping you could help me with something.”

“You do have a funny way of asking a favour!”

“My social graces might be a bit rusty.”

Her lips manage to twitch at that and she moves aside, allowing him into the room. He takes the long route across to lean against her window, racking his brain for something sensible to ask.

“You're planning on leaving, aren't you?”

He looks up in shock.

“How did you know that?”

She shows her teeth in a caricature of a grin, and then shrugs. “Logic. I can't hear what people are thinking anymore, so I find I listen more. Work harder to catch the undercurrents. Watch more.”

“You've been outside a lot. Trailing around after her, but trying not to let her see you. Scott says you are doing a report for her, but refuse to take on anything else. It's fairly obvious.”

He wants to ask just what she thinks is so obvious, but he's a little afraid of the answer. And it looks like she has no plans to spare him anyway.

“You want her, maybe even love her, but there's something between you. Something you think you did, or you think she did, and it's bigger and more important than giving whatever it is a chance,” she says, dripping scorn.

“So what's that got to do with me leaving?”

She snorts.

“You're a man! That's what you do. You run.”

He isn't stupid enough to deny it. She can't know about the duffle bag already packed under his bed, but the witch knows people, he'll give her that.

“Some things – they can't be fixed. They haunt you, and poison everything, and when it gets like this – leaving is the best thing you can do.”

“Maybe for her. But what about for you? Take it from me, Wolverine. You can't run from your demons forever. Every time you do, they get bigger, and hungrier, and faster.”

Jean Grey steps closer with every word, until her face is just below his, dull green eyes burning with a fever uncomfortably reminiscent of the Phoenix.

“You either turn around and face them, or you get eaten alive,” she hisses, driving home the point by stabbing at his chest with a sharp finger.

His mind fills with Rogue, and Marie, and what might happen if he just took that advice. What they might be able to win if she can forgive him, and he can get past his shame.

What living a life might actually look like, if it was a life with her.

The madness passes while he's lost in fantasy, and when he looks back again, she is simply tired, and defeated.

“You can't go back, you know,” she says quietly as heads for the door.

“What?”

“The past is done. We can regret, and repent, and try to make amends, but we can't go back. Can't change things. We are who we are, Logan.”

The denials bubble in his throat, but this woman is so fragile he doesn't want to upset her. He simply nods and closes the door gently behind him.

It's not until he's falling asleep that he realises she called him Logan.

***
He was drunk on the feel of her skin. It crackled under his fingertips, more alive, more real than anything he had ever touched, but welcoming now. Yesterday, Marie's mutation had become more and more tractable as they tested her limits late into the Havana night; this morning, she had found him by the pool and practised, and practised, and practised until he came all over her bare hands.

She had licked her fingers thoughtfully, and the gleam in her eye had suggested exactly what she wanted to do next. His conscience chose that moment to object – she wasn't doing this to learn how to give a blowjob! - and he hustled them inside, breaking the moment. Food, he'd thought, desperate to give himself something to do that didn't involve fistfuls of mahogany hair.

He was digging in the fridge when her hand slid into the back of his cutoffs.

“I want to try something new,” she said, warm fingers tickling over his hipbone on a maddening path to the sensitive hollow beneath.

“This time, I want you to touch me.”

Logan growls in his sleep, the weight of the moment pulling him out of his slumber and into a strange sort of consciousness.

“Stop!” he wants to beg. “Don't do this! You're not ready yet!” But he's not really there; he can only watch them propel themselves towards destruction. And judge.

She lays back, a wet dream on white sheets. He tells himself he is doing this for her, because she wants him to. Just one more thing he does for Marie. Even as his tongue breaches every secret place she has, even as he sucks and bites and leaves a chain of bruises to mark his path to her pussy, even as he initiates her to pain and pleasure and the intoxicating territory in between … even then, he tells himself, it's all for her. His girl. His Marie.

“Oh God, stop. Stop!” she begs after she comes, and he forces himself to crawl up beside her.

“Too much?” he asks, stroking her hair, and she nods numbly, breaking into little whimpers as new waves of pleasure crash through her.

“Let me just clean you up,” he volunteers when she begins to quiet, then pushes her legs open again.

This time he ignores her pleas when she starts to come and makes her crash around him, teasing her with a finger or two, in and out, in and out, but never deep or hard enough to bring her the relief she needs.

“Please, please … more,” she mewls, and he smiles. All for her, he thinks as he shucks his cutoffs. For Marie, he tells himself as he slides his hands under her ass to tickle her opening with his cock, back and forth, back and forth until she begins to jerk her hips upwards in a desperate attempt to capture him.

My Marie, he exults as he slams home, rough fingers on her oversensitised clit tipping her over into insensibility as he roars his possession to the oncoming night.

“Mine!”

The room is ringing with sound when he wakes fully, the echo of his shout still bouncing off the walls. The blades are out and his body twitches with the need to slash and tear. But there's no one here but his ghosts - his own misgivings, and the parts of himself that he likes to deny.

His mouth turns up into Logan's sardonic smirk, because Howlett thinks he's so much better than this, so far past this. Well, he ain't. Howlett was lying to himself long before Logan ever did – he had walked away from love and family. Logan had never even known what those things felt like.

Until Marie. And she was young, and female, and beautiful, so his brain went places that maybe it shouldn't. In Logan's world, women were for just one thing, and girls didn't exist. Love didn't exist.

I am Logan, he thinks dazedly. I am Logan, and I fell in love with Marie, but I wronged her first.

Maybe it had been innocent, at first. She had been starving, and alone. Obviously vulnerable. It could have been the predator in him, but he remembers the prick of concern, and disquiet. What he now recognises as protectiveness.

But it was new, and confusing. And when she surprised him, and delighted him, and thrilled him with her ferocity, he'd felt something that he now knows was more a parent's pride than a lover's awe.

But underneath it all, under baths that shouldn't have happened and touches that lingered a moment too long and a man and a girl alone in a cabin together for four months of winter, he had wanted to help her. Wanted to protect her. And he had – until Havana.

One touch and nature had roared so loud, he hadn't been strong enough to protect her from himself.

Their bodies are still curled together in his mind's eye as he catalogues his crimes. Manipulation. Seduction. Lust. Blind arrogance.

Logan groans, shaking his head at all the ways he had found to ignore his own conscience. To drown it out, even - thrilling to her bloodlust, and stoking her infatuation.

He'd been too invested in building his perfect warrior to see the truth. She was already perfect. And she was never meant to be his.

The work would have killed her inside; twisted her in a way that even the psychopaths ranting inside her head hadn't managed to do. Sweet Marie died a little with every kill; Rogue had been eating her alive, and he'd sat back to watch it happen.

Nah.

He'd gloried in it, and helped it along, and then thrown her off the cliff altogether in the headlong rush to claim Rogue as his own.

Neither of them had counted on Marie.

*

The chairs still sit in the familiar half circle around the desk, and the window to the left still overlooks the western garden. Marie glances at the Professor's desk, at the messy piles of manila folders and the half-finished correspondence, and fear suddenly chokes her. She needs to get to work, but her feet simply won't allow it yet, so she crosses to the window instead. The view is so familiar, she has to close her eyes to rein in the tears.

Every time she had come to see the Professor, they would end up here. She would admire the serenity of the reflecting pool, and the dizzying beauty of Storm's rose walk, but he – he was drawing his strength from watching the kids play, she realises with a pang.

She had hated the catcalls and the raucous commentary that had drifted over from the basketball court at the far end, but the stillness is obscene in contrast. She hadn't even known the names of the children who made so much noise, but her heart aches for them now, knowing what they've lost.

I'll get them back, she vows fiercely. It'll be downright noisy here again soon. Not this quiet, cold grave of a place.

The responsibility sideswipes her, and she gasps as the realisation presses down.

It's more than just the teams. More than just fighting.

It's a school.

She's stepped into the shoes of the single greatest educator her kind has ever seen, and she hasn't got a fucking chance of being what they need.

The tears refuse to stop this time. Marie wipes them away but allows herself to feel it. Grief and rage and sorrow, and fuck, how stupid was she?

“Find your centre, child,” he had said, the last time they stood here. “Meditate upon your strengths.” Her smile had felt like fangs in her mouth, and it makes her shudder, now, to think of all the wisdom she had just brushed off.

She had been so angry. So damaged, she wasn't even aware of how fractured she was.

Had Professor Xavier seen the other parts of her? Had he somehow known the battle they would face? Maybe, Marie thinks tentatively, he saw Rogue as his champion.

A threat, more likely, Rogue interjects. He needed to keep us sweet, she suggests, and Marie wants to deny it, needs to believe that was never it, but …

It makes no difference, she realises.

She is standing here, now. What's done is done.

The blur beyond the window sharpens into resolve, and she turns towards the desk. She can steal a chair from the computer lab later, but one of the armchairs will do for now. Accounts first, to see who's handling all that, and then she'll tackle the correspondence.

Time to get on with it.

*

“Yes, Wolverine! Your growl is my command,” Kitty mutters as she shuts the door behind the surly feral.

Jubilee snickers with amusement, but they both freeze when a muffled thud from the hallway reminds them the man can hear through walls. He doesn't come crashing back into their room, so maybe he just fell over something, Kitty tells herself.

“Piotr wrecking shit again,” Jubilee says, voice so bored that Kitty laughs out loud. As if Jubi hadn't been wide-eyed with panic at the thought of being keel-hauled by the Wolverine.

“Yeah. Of course,” she retorts, sticking out her tongue as she boots up her laptop.

“Probably doesn't care about a bit of sass – after all, he lurves Rogue,” her roommate teases.

“Are we in middle school or something? Puh-lease. Let's focus on the fact that maybe he didn't kill us because he came to us for a favour.”

“Even if he did bark it like an order.”

Kitty can't disagree with that, so she simply logs on, praying that the Mansion's network survived the armageddon in the sub-levels.

“Annnnnnd … thank goodness. My stuff is still here. And we have wifi.”

“Praise Jesus.”

Kitty rolls her eyes and fires up the the little search program she'd written for herself. It wasn't exactly legal, but that was nothing compared to what he's asked her to do.

“Find out what they know about us,” Wolverine had grunted, frowning at her when she needed more details.

“You mean – the government? And by 'what they know' – our codenames? Records? There's really not all that much data they can collect, legally, although there have been some rumours of medical staff supplying information in violation of the privacy regulations,” she had protested.

The derisive curl of his upper lip had let her know exactly what he thought about 'legally'.

“You think they care? Fuck, girl. Just do your computer thing. And when you find all the shit they've got on us, do something to stop it. Figure you're the expert,” he'd shrugged, then stomped out.

Well then.

Kitty bites her lip for a moment, then inputs a string of code words she shouldn't even know. The portal moves around so much that even finding it is a challenge, but for a few hundred dollars (roubles some weeks, rupiah others) you can access the type of programs that governments preferred didn't exist.

She hesitates for a moment, before selecting the three most effective viruses. One to crawl them out. One to eat them up, and another to scurry back. By the time the federal eagle fills her screen, her trepidation has vanished. They really shouldn't make it so easy, Kitty smirks as the mainframe invites her query.

ALL KNOWN MUTANTS, she types, and the data spews up onto the screen, so detailed that her hackles rise in horror.

“Wolverine was right,” she says quietly, and Jubilee gasps as she leans over to check the data.

“Oh my gosh. So many names – Jesus. The names of our parents and brothers and sisters! What's that tab behind?” Jubilee asks, and Kitty clicks.

“The fucking fuckers. My credit card statements! Holy shit – even that Facebook blow up when Pyro left!”

The next screen leaves them silent with horror. Powers. Weaknesses. Genetic vulnerabilities, catalogued over years and years of observation.

“Who needs to know that?” Jubilee rages, then crosses to her desk to find the external hard drive. “We take a copy for proof, then you delete it all,” she says through gritted teeth.

Kitty can only nod, fingers stabbing at the keyboard as she inputs the lines of code to target her attack. She watches with glee as the virus uploads, flashing through through directory after directory, crawling out every mention of those thousands upon thousands of names.

When it's done, she queries it again.

ALL KNOWN MUTANTS

0 FILES FOUND.

“Fuckin A,” Jubilee breathes over her shoulder and they high five, celebrating the success of their mission. “You wanna tell the Wolverine?”

“No – you do it. He scares me,” Kitty confesses, and it's not like it isn't true. But she's an X-man for God's sake, and she's met scarier. But Jubilee needs this victory far more than she does right now.

Kitty was logging on as Shadowcat even before her powers came in. She might not be able to walk through walls anymore but she is still Shadowcat. And this morning, the girl she had never called anything other than Jubilee had flinched when she had said hello. “My name is Jubilation,” she had muttered, and Kitty had flapped helplessly, too shocked to make a decent response.

But give the girl a mission, and sharp-talking, straight-shooting Jubilee was back with a vengeance. They could shut down their X-genes as much as they liked, Kitty thought grimly. That wasn't what made them X-men.

The world had wronged them, yet the Professor had given them the strength to stand up and make it right.

To fight, Kitty thinks. However we know how.

She chews her lip as she mulls over a final salvo, then uploads it in a flurry of commands. It's just a little message for other hackers, she tells herself. Maybe someone will care.

Kitty is washing dishes later when Jubes comes in with her phone.

“Hey. Have you seen this?”

Someone had uploaded her message to twitter, and someone else had coded it to flash up in front of every single torrent. Her words are on tumblr, and on reddit, and forums she's never heard of. Half a dozen memes are going around Facebook. Some even stick with exactly what she wrote.

MUTANT AND PROUD! FIGHT THE CURE. FIND THE ANTIDOTE. WE ARE NOT SICK!

“Do you think they will?” Jubes asks quietly, and Kitty's heart nearly breaks at the longing in her voice.

“I don't know. Maybe. But at least people know to try now. And other people know that no matter what they do to us -we are still mutants,” she says pointedly.

Jubilee looks away, but Kitty suspects she's hit target. Suspects, that is, until two hours later, when a new hashtag starts trending on twitter. Fight the cure #morethanmyxgene. Find the antidote #morethanmyxgene.

It's the last one that leaves her drenched with happy tears.

Sorry I'm an idiot#morethanmyxgene

*

Light floods the room, slamming into all of its comforting, dark corners. Scott looks panicked as he scans the room looking for her.

“Jean? Why were you sitting in the dark?”

He sounds so puzzled, poor man. What's left of her heart aches for him.

“No. Not Jean. There's no one here, now. No one at all.”

“That's not true! Everything that made you you is still there, Jean,” he protests. He might even believe it. “All that's gone is your mutation, and the danger it puts you in. Everybody here loves Jean, and they're waiting to see Jean again, after the Phoenix took her away from us,” Scott pleads.

The guilt presses down, rendering her mute. Reason, however, still cackles inside her head - the Phoenix had taken so much, destroyed so much, and everyone understood that it wasn't Jean, hadn't been Jean, but … they still flinched. They still watched her every move, wariness hidden by understanding smiles. The government was still sending a doctor to officially sanction her as harmless, neutered like a dog.

Scott slides her dinner tray onto the bureau nearest her chair, and does a spot check of the room – no pills lying out, no weapons, no long cords to dangle from or ligatures to tie. Hank has briefed him well.

“Come down soon, love. Just to say hello. You can come back up to bed if you feel uncomfortable,” he offers, removing her breakfast and lunch trays. He hovers by the door, obviously seeking an invitation to stay. She looks away.

“Tell me you'll try?”

“All I can do now is try, Scott,” she tells the room when he has gone, biting down on her annoyance at the door left ajar.

“I'll keep trying. And the day it works ...”

She stares at the obstinate door, refusing to bend to her will. Less than an inch between door and sill. Inside her, it's twisting and clenching. The power, so desperate to get free.

Just one more taste, she vows. One more moment of being Jean.

The tiny click resounds through the room as the door snicks into place, seemingly unaided. Jean feels the unfamiliar stretch of her own smile, a heady rush of joy and satisfaction blasting away months of cobwebs.

She rises from her chair, crosses to her bed, and draws the tiny packet of razorblades from out of her pillowcase. It was the only way to be sure. And this time, when they speak of Jean Grey, they will say it was she who defeated the Phoenix.

Jean.

“Dr Jean Grey,” she tells the silent room.

It had always been Jean ...

*

Proud as punch, those two. Not that they shouldn't have been – when Shadowcat had succumbed to a fit of the blushes, Jubilee had explained exactly what the quieter girl had done. Deleting the data was one thing, but the tracker, alerting them to anyone poking around in those files – touch of fucking genius, Logan thought. He had told them so, too.

Dinner had turned into a makeshift celebration when the word had got around – they were ghosts, now, every single one of them, and much safer for it. He had a bunch of other stuff to put in his report – keeping everything centralised, for one, left them vulnerable, and if they all had to be together, then it probably couldn't be here. Convincing the X-men to relocate the whole school, however – that would be hard.

Logan is still contemplating that challenge when he rounds the corner into the guest wing, subconsconsciously bracing himself against the waft of sadness and desperation from Dr Grey's room. It never comes, and he wonders, for a moment, if Scott has been successful in convincing her to visit the library, or the gardens. Then he smells the blood.

He knows what has happened even before he kicks the door open. You can't keep running, she had said. Sooner or later you have to turn and face them.

And this was how Jean Grey had chosen to face down her demons.

“Hope it works out better for you than it did for me, doc,” Logan mutters as he gropes for her pulse, already knowing her heart is too quiet.

Afterwards, after the griefstricken boyfriend and the dumbstruck students and the suspicious government agents and the blithely ignorant human undertaker, he finds himself in Marie's office. More than 24 hours of grim competence have left her white and drained, and he ignores her increasingly sharp commands to just sit and wait.

“What? You want to play secretary, Wolverine? Is that it?” she snaps as she rifles through the desk drawers looking for the key to the filing cabinet.

“How, exactly, would you file someone's death certificate? Any thoughts on that?”

“Just put in on the top of the fucking pile and let someone else do it later, kid. Don't expect the Professor did his own filing,” he points out.

“I can't! I can't ask anyone else to do that!” she rages, shaking so hard that the document slips from her fingers and flutters to the floor. She stares at it for a moment, then lifts her eyes to his. “I … just … can't,” she moans as her knees begin to buckle.

He leaps to catch her, scooping her into his arms as they tumble back into the armchair.

“You can. You can! You're the only one who can,” he murmurs into her hair as he wipes away her tears.

“You're so strong, girl. The strongest person I know. You survived your father, and Sabretooth, and me – fuck, anyone else would be utterly insane by now. All these pyschos in your head and you're just amazing. Perfect,” he rambles and shoot him now, but he just can't stop.

“Rogue's a kickass bitch, but it's Marie that's real, darlin'. It's Marie that cares enough to bother. Rogue'd turn tail and run at the first hint of this crap, but Marie's gonna stand strong and say 'get the fuck back here, girl!' There's work to do!”

She snorts at that, half laugh and half sniffle, then twists in his arms to bring her head onto his chest.

“Wouldn't put it exactly like that but she does like a firm hand.”

“Too much time in bad company. Marie knows better.”

She rears up at that, practically kneeling in his lap to look him straight in the eye, hands tugging at his hair to make her point.

“Marie knows no such thing, sugar. It's Rogue who couldn't handle being beholden to you, couldn't handle … what happened. Marie knows she owes everything to you. Marie ...”

His hand clamps over her mouth, desperate to keep the words in. They would change everything. Make it impossible to leave. And his life was out there, waiting.

He needs to go, he thinks as she presses a kiss into his palm. He needs to go, his stubbornness insists, as her tongue darts out to caress the dips and hollows between his fingers, then traverses the expanse of his hand to circumnavigate his thumb. He needs to go, he reminds himself, needs to, but then she begins to suck at the sensitive webbing between thumb and first finger, and he is overtaken by another kind of need altogether.

“Marie!” he begs, but she only sucks harder.

The pressure building behind his knuckles is barely noticeable against the shrieks of his conscience. She's tired and stressed and grieving, he knows. He'd be taking advantage. He's not even the man she wants, not really.

But her free hand is pulling his shirt free of his pants, fingers splayed to touch as much skin as she can reach. His lips have found their way to her neck, and when she uses her teeth, he uses his. She scrambles to press herself up against him, chest to chest, belly to belly, sex to sex, and fuck, if this is going to stop …

“This isn't right!” he grunts, yanking his hands away from her, the strain telling in every muscle. “It's not me that you want, girl. I'm not that man.”

“Which man, Wolverine? These are the hands that taught me Snake-Creeps-Down,” she argues, forcing his hands overhead and holding them there, fingers tangled with his own. He shudders as her mouth drops to his neck, finding a pulsepoint and laving it with her tongue before she bites down. His claws spring free, and it's an orgasm all of its own, that momentary release. He struggles, scared for her, but she refuses to relinquish her hold.

How is she stronger than him? When did this happen, his overtaxed brain demands, before surrending completely to the madness of the way she makes him feel. Five years apart, it reminds him. Five years of mystery and hurts and demons of her own.

“These are the claws that kept me safe. These are the arms that held me when I cried,” she chants into his skin, her mouth travelling higher to pull at his ear as she makes her point. “This is the animal that I knew wanted me right from the beginning, but the man told him 'no'. This is the face that I dreamed about every night you made me wait,” she confesses, and he'd known, but not really. What he'd thought of as restraint, she remembered as torture.

“This is the body that gave me touch,” she whispers, and the reverence in her voice is a revelation. What he'd thought of as failure, she remembered as glory.

She wasn't necessarily right, and he wasn't necessarily wrong, but they're both adults now.

He surrenders.

His white flag is a growl, and his submission is to haul them upright and stumble towards her desk. He'd called her mule-headed, earlier, when she insisted on ignoring her grief to work her way through the Professor's piles of paper – now, he's thankful for her diligence as her stapler set flies off the end, and the phone is knocked off the hook.

“Watch that pile of papers on my chair!” she yelps even as she yanks at his zipper and starts to push his jeans down over his hips.

“Wasn't planning on fucking you on the chair,” he smirks, and pushes her backwards onto the glossy wood, hooking his fingers into the top of her panties to remove underwear and outerwear in one quick pull.

“Lo ... Howlett,” she breathes, and it's the first time her mouth has been kind to the name he was born with. Doesn't sound right, though. It doesn't fit the need that's possessing him, or the new awareness filtering in around the edges of this lust.

It's not Howlett who's been in love with her all these years.

He slides his hands up her body, rediscovering half a dozen secret places on his way to framing her face in his hands.

“That who you want, darlin'?” he asks, and she shakes her head wordlessly, and feathers a kiss over his knuckles, right where the blades spring out. He groans and drags their bodies together, the tip of his cock burrowing in between her legs to nestle into her damp folds. She bucks, driving him a little deeper, but not deep enough. Still not quite together.

“Who, darlin? Tell me!” he growls, and she throws it at him, sorrow and loss and need and want tangled together into one long string of sound. His name, over and over.

“Logan. Logan. LoganLoganLogan,” she chants, locking her ankles behind his back and chaining her arms around his neck to make him push into her, to bow his back and sink home in one long, sure slide. The hot, wet clasp of her claims his every neuron, forcing his eyes shut for a long moment until he succumbs to an urgent need to see her face.

They are writing a treaty with their bodies. Making promises. He doesn't know if he can keep them, but he wants to try. He wants nothing more than the feel of her around him – in his soul, in his heart, in his shabby excuse for a life.

Maybe he can trade his for hers, he thinks. Become an X-man. Fight the good fight. Could it be so hard? The cynical part of him scoffs at the idea, but there's too much joy in him to entertain the curmudgeon for long. It vanishes with the press of her around him, with the slam and the slide home, with the knife-edge tension that will never let them be just friends, or even enemies.

They fuck slowly at first, savouring each other, scents and sounds and slippery need building between them until she scrambles backwards to turn over and present him with her ass. She looks over her shoulder in entreaty, and he knows she needs the Wolverine's fury. He's more than willing to give it her, but the look in her eyes is so wild, his claws spring to attention.

He tries to retract them, but his straining muscles are beyond cooperation. Her name rips from his throat in a howl of frustration, but she has impaled herself on him already, slamming backwards to force him deep. She's already rising on him again when the plea comes, she needs more, she needs it harder, and his fingers itch for her, but he can't …

“Invulnerable skin!” she pants. “Please, Logan!” and he takes her at her word, praying she's right. He suspects she is, because any other woman would have bruises by now, the way he's gripping at her hips. Adamantium scrapes across her ribcage, then bounces off her shoulder, but there's no bloody death today, merely fine pink lines that fade within seconds.

Once he would have taken it as proof that she was made for him, he thinks wildly as his balls tighten and his body starts to shake.

Now he just takes it as her gift, and is thankful.

He clings to the thought as she shudders around him, keening with the intensity of her orgasm, undulating up into his hands and grinding herself onto him as he strokes her through it, nudging at her clit with his thumb to trigger a second round of shallow explosions, then fucking her fast and hard to throw her back into bliss a final time.

She's crying by the time he curls himself over her, body spending in long, hot shudders. Her tears fall onto adamantium as he cradles her to him, wrapping her tight in his arms, sending up a prayer of thanks that she still feels able to do this with him.

“Marie. My Marie,” he croons, and in this moment, it's true. In this moment, it's everything, he thinks desperately, but James Howlett is waiting to tell him otherwise.

Immortal freak. One day you'll watch her die, his fears scream. You are the Wolverine. Time is not your friend. This moment means nothing next to all of the others.

So maybe it's time I learn to make it something, Logan vows, and gathers her closer.

*

They bury Jean Grey next to Professor Xavier. Her headstone is stark and simple, as restrained as the ceremony itself. No gushing tributes, no wise words, nothing except her name, and the dates of her birth, and death.

It's not right, Marie finds herself thinking as the coffin is lowered into the lawn. She was as much a part of this place as Xavier. The very first X-man she had met, in fact, if not the most welcoming. She and Jean had never connected, but the others – Storm, Kitty, even Jubilee - had loved her before they feared her. Scott had loved her to the end.

She can't ask Scott to speak. He is barely capable of standing, his eyes glazed with disbelief, refusing to look at anyone. She would ask Storm, but the goddess had seemed almost indifferent when informed of Jean's death. “How very Jean,” she had shrugged, then walked away, leaving Marie to goggle in shock.

It had to be Hank, of course. He could always be depended upon for some wisdom, if only she could catch his eye … it's Logan, though, who sees her. Logan who is watching her the same way she is trying not to watch him.

Logan who rises to his feet and clears his throat.

“I didn't know Jean Grey very well. Or at all, really,” he admits. “But she said something to me a few nights back that I think needs to be remembered.”

“I thought she was raving at first, but it turns out, it was something from Shakespeare. Julius Caesar, apparently.

And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice 
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth 
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

“See, Antony is regretting what they've done to Caesar, not just the personal betrayal, but the fact that it's going to bring war on Rome. He thought he was doing the right thing, but it turned out to be far worse than the alternative. And now, he's got no choice but to deal with the shitstorm.”

“So Dr Grey's telling me this, and I'm thinking – what? Why are you quoting Shakespeare, woman? - and then she just looks at me, and says the most useful thing I've ever heard.”

“Let them go, she told me. If we spend all our time fighting those demons, it'll eat us alive. Sometimes, you've just got to let them go. Let sleeping dogs lie. Let the past stay in the past. Draw a line. Move forward.”

Logan kicked at the ground a little, then lifted his head to address his remarks to Scott and Storm.

“So I guess that's what I'm trying to say. We've all got our demons. You can make peace with them, or you can let 'em tear you apart.”

“This was her way of making peace. Let's respect that.”

Marie tried to push down the astonishment she was feeling – who knew that Logan did speeches – and concentrate on the impact of his words on her colleagues.

Kitty and Jubilee were sobbing openly, now, and Scott had sagged against Storm, who struggled to hold his weight. Gambit shot forward to help her, and in that moment of gratitude, her grief and shock peeped through for the first time.

Storm isn't herself, Marie thinks worriedly. How do I help her? And later, she'll realise that's why she hadn't given her full attention to what Logan was saying.

Because they had been reunited, and she needed him, and it was time – surely it was their time now?

*

He needs to take his own advice.

He needs to make his own peace.

His animal is howling for Marie, and it's not that he doesn't want to bury himself in her sweetness. He could pass entire days in her bed, months and years, and never grow tired of the taste of her, the way she smells or the way he finds himself smiling for no reason at all when he's with her. He could lose himself in that.

That's the problem, he realises. Marie doesn't deserve that. It would only ever be temporary.

Join the team, and he'd be right for a while. Take the job, get a life. Win the girl.

Whose life, though? And for how long?

Logan lets himself sink back down onto the bed, the luxury all around him feeling foreign and unfriendly. Even in the wee hours of the morning there's a distracting buzz to the place; even with just a handful of people in residence, the concentration of sounds and smells in the Mansion is inescapable.

He's not made to live cheek by jowl with other people. It's not the life he wants for himself. He doesn't know what he wants yet - doesn't even know what he's gonna call himself, or who he wants to be.

But he knows where he needs to be to figure it out. And it's not here. Not yet.

She's found her life. Now it's time to find his.

*

Marie finds the report on her desk. On top is a single page with just a few typed sentences, and his signature scrawled beneath. She spends precious moments wondering about his choice of name – James 'Logan' Howlett – before it dawns on her. It's a letter of resignation.

She finds him out by their tree, head back against the newly-scored trunk.

“Let sleeping dogs lie?”

“Yeah. Figured Doc Grey needed a proper epitaph.”

“And us? Is that our epitaph too, Logan?”

He tilts his head back to look up at her, and the warmth and love in those sherry-brown eyes makes her gasp.

“No, darlin'. It's a fucking promise.”

She doesn't understand. All she knows is that he's running – again – and she's supposed to be happy about it? Really?

“I'm not an X-man. I'm in no shape for it – up here, I mean,” he says, tapping the side of his head.

“There's just too much … too many memories. Too many bad things. And I look at you, and it hurts.”

He catches her squeak of distress and moves to get up. If he touches her, they'll never get to the bottom of this, so she waves him away. He grimaces and then does the least Logan-like thing possible. He explains.

“I spent so much time hatin' myself for wantin' you, girl. The things we did, things I made you do – they weren't right. But they made you who you are now, and you're fuckin' magnificent, so I just don't know ...” his words dry up, and he looks up into the canopy of the tree, searching for understanding.

“Maybe we are right, but it just wasn't the time. Maybe I was wrong, but we were right. Maybe you weren't right then, but now – you're the person you need to be,” he says, and she can hear the pain and confusion in his voice. And love. She can hear the love.

She relents to drop down next to him, her head pillowed on his chest. His hands immediately move to her hair, fingers sliding through the waves, tugging here and there as he encounters a snarl, mental or physical. She can tell he has more to say, and when she turns to look him in the face, his eyes are sad.

“I need time. Some distance. And you've got a lot on your plate here. But maybe, by September or October ….”

Before the pass became blocked completely with snow. Early in the winter, when you could still get in and out by skidoo. Before the long months of darkness, when the difference between death and bliss was a well-stocked larder, a huge pile of firewood, and a bed piled high with blankets.

“I never did master that last kata, did I?” she says ruefully, eyes misty with the memory for a moment. But things would be different, if she returned to that cabin. Too much had changed for them to step back into the past. “I don't need a teacher, Logan.”

“No. But I think I do,” he admits, and she can see the vulnerability rubbing him raw. “Lot I could learn from you, kid.”

His chest swells underneath her as they teeter on the edge of something extraordinary. Soft, whole things that her lover has never allowed himself to consider before. Forgiveness. Redemption. Something that might even pass as normality.

“I'm needed here,” she says, and his nostrils flare, weighing the yearning in her scent against the finality of her tone.

He gets it now, though. She needs to stay. He needs to go. She hates it, but that doesn't mean she can't accept it.

“This isn't over.”

“I know, darlin'. We never were. Don't think we ever will be,” he says, and the look on his face tells her he's thinking of that first time, and all the times in between.

Soon, she wants to promise. Soon we'll make some better memories.

But she's got a job to do first.

Six months later ...

Rogue dragged in a breath, let out another, and raised her face to the sun. She sighed with pleasure as she let the warmth wash over her, and thought of long Canadian winters, in a small cabin, with a open fireplace and a punching bag. But just one bed.

Just two more weeks, and they'd take her as far as Juneau in the jet, and she'd overland it from there. She'd cleared it with Gil already - he'd run the place for however long she needed to be gone, and Jubes was gonna rock it as his deputy. Gambit had agreed to cover her combat classes, and she'd already handed civics over to Hank. There was the orientation process still to think about, and she really needed to see about the new uniforms before she left, but ...

Everything else could wait for the spring.

fin


Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.