"I'll take night watch," Logan announced, striding past Storm and Jean, who sat protectively on either side of Kurt. The blue German was still a little jumpy and distrustful -- not to mention somewhat odd -- but Logan was willing to ignore all that since he'd saved Rogue.
Jean looked up at Logan, surprised. "I thought you'd already turned in."
"No." Logan nodded to the group by the fire. "But you all should get some sleep."
Jean and Storm exchanged a look, and it was exactly why Logan avoided relationships with people in the first place -- they always second-guessed your decisions.
"I'll be fine," Logan grumbled, ignoring the flare of irritation. "Go."
"The Wolverine," Magneto's amused voice said from behind Logan, "is uniquely suited to the task."
Logan shot a glare Magneto's way, his temper flaring. He still owed Magneto some serious hurt for what he'd done to Rogue, and today's close call with the plane had dredged up memories from the Statue of Liberty. Memories that Logan had done his damnedest to forget.
He usually did pretty well, repressing the image of Rogue strapped into that fucking machine for weeks until they manifested in his nightmares. Then today she'd nearly died -- again -- and it wasn't his fault, for once, but he wouldn't have been able to save her. That possibility was unacceptable, and Logan didn't deal well with frustration. It was pretty easy to turn his panic and rage into murderous inclinations towards Magneto. Only problem was that they were working with Magneto. They actually *owed* Magneto for saving their lives. It was an ongoing hell, being nice to the bastard.
And "nice" in Logan's world meant "not slicing that fucker into hundreds of little pieces," which was hard, because he really, really wanted to.
Avoidance was his preferred method of coping. Stalking off, Logan skirted the dwindling campfire and settled against a tree on the far side of the clearing. He shifted, planting his back solidly against the bark, digging his heels into the ground. Arms crossed, he scanned the clearing slowly, committing the details to memory.
Magneto was an ass, but he had a point -- Logan *was* uniquely suited to one-man surveillance. Who needed a four-person guard when his senses could pinpoint intruders 100 yards in any direction? Efficiency was the only reason he'd volunteered for night watch. Or so he tried to convince himself.
No other reasons he cared to think about for avoiding sleep.
Nothing to do with that horrible moment where he'd turned to see Rogue sucked out of the back of the plane. Nothing to do with the impotent panic he'd felt. Nothing to do with her terrified scream echoing in his ears hours later.
The residual effects of *that* particular adrenaline rush plus the situation with Magneto and Mystique -- Logan knew if he slept, he would have the nightmares. And he'd be damned if he'd show that particular brand of weakness to Magneto, of all damn people.
To occupy his mind, Logan concentrated on the women across the clearing, watching Jean's lean form appreciatively as she stood and stretched. Firelight did good things for her. She glanced over at him and away, flashing him that soft smile as she hurried to her tent.
Oh, yeah. She wanted him. He grinned smugly.
Of course, she was in love with the Fearless Leader and she seemed to have her attraction to Logan fiercely under control, but a guy could dream. In fact, he'd entertain himself with thoughts of Jean. Jean emerging from her tent to join him under the night sky. Jean looking at him with that undercurrent of lust. Jean pulling her shirt over her head and pushing him down into the grass.
Simple, harmless fantasies. Adult fantasies, featuring a gorgeous redhead.
Logan closed his eyes and let his mind drift, watching Fantasy Jean slide her pants down. Watching her smile at him. He imagined the sounds she'd make, the moans and the supplications and the --
"Oh, God," Jean said, but it was the wrong tone of voice. It was panic and failure and impending death, and then the back of the plane exploded and Rogue screamed and--
Eyes snapping open, Logan gave himself a little shake. He scanned the makeshift campground and shifted positions, telling himself to forget the sound of Rogue's scream. He'd just sit here by the fire and think about nothing. Embrace emptiness.
Meditation was a habit he'd picked up from a martial arts master in Vancouver, though it wasn't something he did all that often, and it certainly wasn't something he advertised. After all, eastern mysticism didn't mesh well with his hardass killer Canadian image. As incongruous as it may seem, meditation did help on occasion, on nights when the nightmares were too close and he knew he wouldn't get any sleep.
With a small grunt, Logan moved his legs, sitting cross-legged in the quiet night. Logan inhaled slowly, straightening his spine, feeling the muscles in his shoulders loosen. His hands lightly clasped his knees, and he concentrated on the feel of worn, soft denim under his fingers.
Letting his eyes drift shut, Logan focused on the night's soft noises.
A twig snapping.
The rustle of fallen leaves.
An owl's eerie hoot.
Raccoons, the occasional deer.
No humans.
Logan reveled in the darkness, the soothing sounds of nature. It was starting to work. His mind began to clear of the panic and the fear and the rage.
And then, with a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach, he was --
He was draped over Rogue, settled comfortably atop her lush body, his weight on one elbow as his free hand reached for her. For Rogue.
*Rogue*?
Disoriented, he blinked, but it was still Rogue underneath him. Rogue, in that way-too-sexy nightgown, cradling his body with hers and staring intently up at him. Her eyes were dark and soft, her mouth curved slightly in a satisfied smile -- she looked like a woman luxuriating in being exactly where she was supposed to be.
Logan didn't have the presence of mind to wonder what the fuck was going on, but the situation felt... good. *She* felt good, like maybe she*was* exactly where she was supposed to be.
His eager gaze slid over her curves, up that long, untouchable neck, past the soft smile on those luscious lips, to his fingers tracing lines on her cheeks. His bare fingers touching Rogue's--
What the hell?
Logan's eyes flew open, and he was still sitting cross-legged by the fire. He could see the tents, could hear the nighttime sounds, could smell the damp earth. But in some sick kind of double vision, he was also sprawled atop a barely clad Rogue, feeling her breasts press against his chest with each quick breath. Her bare hand covered his, pressing his fingers into her skin--
Her bare hand. What the fuck kind of trick was this?
"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, his mental faculties kicking sluggishly into gear. Was there a mutant out there in the woods with the ability to project hallucinations? Did Mystique have some telepathic powers they didn't know about? Were they under attack?
Logan tried to concentrate on the fire, tried to anchor himself to reality, but Rogue's eyes went wide and her mouth opened in a soundless "O" as she froze underneath him.
And with another sickening lurch like that damn plane rolling over, she was gone. Just… gone.
Sitting upright, Logan blinked, but half-naked Rogue was gone and all he was left with was the night. His entire body rigid, he checked his surroundings.
Sight: tents, campfire, dark forest.
Scent: fire, damp earth, animals.
Sound: leaves rustling, nocturnal animals moving around in the forest.
No nightgown-clad Rogue. Everything was just as it had been five minutes before.
Except that he'd just had his hands all over Rogue in a very possessive, very comfortable, very sexual way.
At least he'd been all over her in some sort of waking dream. A very disturbing dream. Unless he was still--
Logan popped the claws in his right hand, the familiar burst of pain assuring him that he was, indeed, awake. How was that possible? He'd just had Rogue's pliant body beneath his own. He could still feel her skin under his fingertips--
Her skin.
He'd touched her skin and nothing had happened. No pull, no paralyzing suction. Nothing. Just… soft skin.
"What the fuck was that?" he muttered, not sure what was more disturbing -- the idea that it was some sort of projected hallucination, or the possibility that whatever the hell he'd just seen was a something that he thought up all by himself.
He tried to ignore how much he wanted to touch Rogue's skin again.
He heard movement in -- damn -- Rogue's tent and froze. The zipper slid down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet night, and then Rogue was peering out, blinking against the firelight. His gaze dropped immediately to her neck, to her chest, but she wasn't wearing that nightgown. She was still wearing Bobby's mother's jeans, with a standard issue X-sweatshirt zipped up to her neck.
Unmoving, Logan watched her, taking in her flushed face, her harsh breathing, waiting for her to notice--
Their gazes collided.
Logan stared hard, studying her face, still stuck halfway between reality and whatever the hell had just happened in his imagination. Then the shaken look on her face registered and Logan had the sudden, absurd thought that she'd experienced... whatever the hell that had been, too.
Maybe it *was* a psychic attack and not his own sick fantasy. Maybe she'd been in that fucked up little mind-meld moment, too. Even from across the campsite, Logan could read the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He wanted to ask her if she'd felt it, too, but couldn't find the words.
Because if he said it out loud and it hadn't been real, he'd be publicly admitting that he wanted Rogue.
He wanted Rogue? Logan took a moment with that thought, but it didn't feel wrong. It felt true. It felt like maybe he *did* want her.
God. He wanted an eighteen-year-old girl. The girl he'd picked up on the side of the road in Canada after she'd tucked her small, underfed form into his trailer. The girl he'd promised to protect. What the fuck kind of pervert was he, anyway?
They watched each other warily until Rogue broke eye contact, retreating into her tent without a word.
Storm relieved Logan around 4 a.m., and he debated taking a nice, long, feral run in the woods to clear his head of the images of Rogue in that nightgown. Probably wouldn't help, though, 'cause that Dream Rogue was burned into his brain.
Fuck. He really was a sick bastard.
He nodded to Storm and headed for his tent with a curt, "Night." Determined not to think about Rogue anymore, he lay down on top of his sleeping bag, not bothering to shed any layers. He didn't really want to have to fight off an ambush in boxer-briefs. Staring up at the blue nylon, he was convinced he'd never fall asleep. What little rest he got was so fitful that he was spared the nightmares, and, thankfully, any inappropriate dreams about Jean or -- anyone else.
When he woke, the awful wrenching feeling in his stomach, the inexplicable double vision, the warm, non-lethal softness of Rogue's skin -- it all seemed like a particularly perverted fantasy, not nearly as vivid in the cold light of day.
Well, the feel of her skin was still very fresh in his mind, but only if he let himself think about it, which he tried very hard not to do. Because remembering the wanton image of Rogue he'd conjured up reminded him that he was a sick, twisted man, lusting after a girl who was way too young for him.
He didn't like to think of himself as a pervert, so he decided to push the whole thing out of his mind. He'd just forget about it and concentrate on the task at hand -- repairing the jet.
Luckily, Logan had quite a bit to do, what with standing around uselessly while Jean and Magneto tried to put aside their resentment to work together.
"I'm pretty good with engines," Logan said, his way of begging for something to keep him occupied. That image of Rogue sprawled beneath him in a nightgown -- it wasn't doing much for his sanity.
Jean smiled softly. "Jet engines?"
Logan shrugged. "Possibly."
Her smile widened into one of sheer amusement. Damn, she was beautiful. "The problem is mostly structural, Logan, but thank you."
"Structural?" he asked, not willing to let the conversation end just yet. If he could occupy himself lusting after Jean, he wouldn't have to think about Rogue's pale skin under his fingers--
Damn it.
"The engines are working, for the most part, but the plane has to be aerodynamic," Jean answered, and it took Logan a moment to regain the thread of the conversation. The jet. Right. Aerodynamic. Jean gestured at the gaping hole in the plane. "And the cabin has to be airtight or we can't fly high enough to avoid radar detection."
"Ah," Logan answered. Made sense. Now, he told himself, concentrate on the way her pants fit that body of hers. Concentrate on her breasts. Her *adult* breasts.
Jean touched his arm and said, "I'll yell if we need help."
With a curt nod, Logan went back to standing around watching. He studied Bobby where he sat with John, joking and snickering. He glanced over at Kurt and Storm, who were sitting in silent companionship.
And then Rogue emerged from her tent, sleep-tousled and uncertain and studiously avoiding his gaze. Why was she afraid to look at him? She couldn't really have been there with him. He found himself watching her somewhat obsessively, searching for a clue in her behavior.
He watched Rogue disappear into the woods with Ororo in search of the nearby stream. Forty minutes later, they reemerged, shivering, with wet hair. He gaze caught on the swing of Rogue's hips as she walked. When had he started thinking of her as a woman? A *desirable* woman, no less?
He watched Rogue as she and Bobby and John attempted to make a decent lunch from the MREs stashed on the jet. They found sticks and held beef jerky over the fire, alternately laughing and grimacing at the awful smell their efforts produced. Frowning, Logan accepted his meal from a sullen John, since Rogue was still avoiding him.
He watched as Rogue sat quietly on a log at the edge of the clearing, her face turned up to the sun. She really was quite beautiful, and she was so much more confident, so much more assured than the girl he'd comforted on that train car. Trial by fire, he figured. Or, really, trial by Magneto. Rogue had been to hell and back, and she didn't talk about it, but she'd told Logan enough about her mutation for him to conclude that Magneto's sick self was probably still banging around in Rogue's head. Another debt Logan owed Magneto, one he planned to repay with new and unusual ways to break bones.
Rogue didn't seem bent on revenge. She regarded Magneto with a haughty distaste, not bloodthirsty vengeance. Logan wondered if that made her a better person than him. He wouldn't be surprised.
He studied the fall of Rogue's hair, comparing it to the Dream-Rogue's. That damn streak was simultaneously alluring and a reminder of how he'd let her down. It somehow fit her, though. Marked her as special.
He watched her rise awkwardly to her feet, a strangely blank look on her expressive face. Her gait was uneven, nothing like her usual graceful walk, and Logan sat up straighter as she stumbled to a halt near the treeline. She dropped to her knees, one gloved hand landing in the snow.
Logan vaulted to his feet, growing more and more worried when she didn't seem to notice his rapid approach. Another form of psychic attack, maybe? What the hell was wrong with her? She was just kneeling there, head bowed, not moving, and Logan quickened his pace, waving Bobby off.
A little panicked, Logan hauled Rogue to her feet, his hands curling around her upper arms. He studied her face, watched the blankness melt into something that looked like alarm. She stared up at him, her mouth slightly open, while he struggled for something to say, some way to ask her if she'd had some crazyass vision.
Then she looked away, looked over his shoulder, an angry twist to her lips. With a small growl, Logan shook her to get her attention.
She stiffened in his grasp and gave him a glare. "What?"
The short, annoyed tone calmed him. He knew this Rogue; he could handle this Rogue. If she was irritated, she was fine. Or close enough for him to be able to fix whatever else was bothering her. He quirked an eyebrow at her and pointed out, "You were the one kneeling in the snow." His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, residual panic roughening his tone. "What's wrong with you?"
She studied him, confusion and hope and fear and something Logan couldn't quite name flashing across her face in quick succession. But she chose not to share whatever was running through her head. Instead, she gave a little shrug. "I tripped."
She tripped. Right. Logan watched her walk away from him, brow furrowed.
What the fuck was going on?
By nightfall, Logan's irritation was reaching new heights. Rogue was avoiding him. Magneto was annoying him. And the day's inactivity had left him with nothing to do but mull over what Magneto had told him about Stryker. Specifically, that Xavier had known Stryker was responsible for Logan's physiological enhancements, but hadn't bothered to tell Logan.
Man, did that piss him off. The cardinal sin someone could commit with Logan was to presume to make his decisions for him. Which was exactly what Xavier had done when he'd chosen not to tell Logan the truth. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, and he didn't even have access to the Danger Room or a good bar fight to work it off. He would've loved to take on Mystique, but the temporary X-Men-Brotherhood alliance would probably be jeopardized if Logan killed Magneto's plaything.
He wasn't in the mood to be around anyone, so Logan dug the last cigar out of his jacket and headed for the woods. Brooding on Stryker and his own missing past, Logan did a perimeter sweep, but the only enemies nearby were the two the X-Men were harboring in their camp.
Eventually, Logan came back into the clearing, walking under the jet to check on the progress. Looked pretty aerodynamic to him, but then, he wasn't a damn engineer.
Footsteps on the gangplank heralded Jean's arrival. Logan blew out an annoyed plume of cigar smoke and didn't bother to turn around.
"Are you okay?" Jean asked.
Logan took another drag, rolling the smoke around in his mouth. "Yeah."
"You sure?" she pressed softly.
His restless anger hadn't dissipated during his walk, and his temper was frayed. The last thing he needed was a psych evaluation from Jeannie, so he turned to face her and changed the subject. "How're we doing?" He tossed the cigar to the ground, stomping it out with his heel. Without the smoke clouding around him, he could smell Jeannie more clearly, a combination of engine grease, frustration, and her own scent.
"Not good," she admitted, coming down the last couple of stairs to join him. She wiped grease from her fingers with a rag. "It'll take four or five hours before I can get it off the ground."
"That's not what I meant," he answered recklessly, stepping closer, crowding her. He was burning for action, any action.
"I'm just worried," she said. "About Scott."
The one name Logan didn't want to hear. He ignored her comment. "I'm worried about you. That was some display of power up there."
"Obviously, it wasn't enough."
He reached out, placed a hand on her shoulder. He wanted her, but he liked her, too. Cared about her. Didn't like to see her upset. And whatever it was he felt for her made him want to be a comfort, even if she wanted comfort from another man. "C'mon," he chided, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingers, and he could hear her heartbeat kick up a notch.
"I love him," Jean declared softly, and he wondered if she was reading his thoughts. He wanted her, but the one thing he couldn't change was that she met Scott first.
"Do you?" he asked, his tone challenging. Even as he spoke, he was wondering why he'd picked this moment to push her. Scott was missing, possibly dead, and Rogue was two tents away. It was stupid, but Logan couldn't seem to stop himself.
Jean looked down, a coy smile on her lips. "Girls flirt with the dangerous guy, Logan. They don't take him home." Her smile softened when she said, "I married a good guy."
She really did love Scott, Logan could tell. But maybe she wanted Logan more. And so he gave her a look and said, "I could be the good guy."
She smiled at him, and, damn, she was so beautiful. "Logan, the good guy sticks around."
He leaned in and kissed her. She was warm and willing, and for a few moments, he thought maybe she loved him a little bit, too.
Then her hand pressed against his chest and she pulled away.
"Jean," he protested, but it was exactly what he'd been expecting.
"Please," she said, her palm flat against his chest, holding him at a distance. "Don't make me do this."
"Do what?" he challenged, not sure if he was angrier at her or at himself.
"This," she said, and walked away. The worst part was, he knew it hurt her to do it. She may not have loved Logan, but she liked him, cared about him. Jean walking away hurt them both, but she did it because anything else would hurt Scott.
Logan retreated to his tent and ended up lying on top of his sleeping bag, fully clothed. He was annoyed by Jeannie's rejection, but not surprised. In a strange way, he felt like they'd settled something between them, that they'd come to some sort of understanding.
Unfortunately, without Jeannie to occupy his body, he was stuck with his dark thoughts. He tucked one arm behind his head and studied the tag Rogue had handed him.
It used to mean something simple -- a link to his past. He hadn't known enough to conclude whether his past was good or bad or indifferent, but he'd had this tag. The small bit of metal was hard evidence of what had been done to him, and he'd protected it with ferocity, because he'd be damned if he'd lose it right along with his past.
Then a skinny girl had climbed into his truck and pestered him with questions and somehow clawed her way into his life. When he'd given the tag to her, it'd been a promise -- to protect her with the same fierce passion he'd protected the tag.
But there was more. He'd also promised to come back for her. He didn't examine what else had been implicit in the giving, but he wondered what she'd meant handing the tag back to him. Was she releasing him from his promise? Because he didn't particularly want to be freed. And considering she'd been wearing the tag wrapped around her wrist when she slept...
Logan shifted uncomfortably, unable to picture Rogue in that nightgown without remembering the feel of her beneath him. So he forced himself to think about something else.
Like who the hell was Stryker? Aside from the man who'd poured molten adamantium onto Logan's bones, Stryker was as much a mystery to Logan as his past. Magneto's cutting words suggested that there *were* people out there who knew what Logan had been before Stryker. The only conclusion Logan could come to when he asked himself why Xavier hadn't told him was that his past was not something he'd be proud of.
He ran a finger over the name in the metal tag.
He was so preoccupied with his musings that the sound of the tent's zipper startled him. Jean slipped inside, silencing him with a kiss. It was everything he'd wanted since he saw her, and he didn't stop to wonder why she'd changed her mind. He closed his eyes and let his body take over, pushing away all the uncomfortable, inappropriate thoughts.
She felt amazing, her warm mouth against his and her smooth skin under his fingers.
Scars.
Three scars. Just the right size for -- Fuck.
Mystique. He froze and she knew the game was up.
"No one's ever left a scar quite like you," she said in her own voice, still wearing Jean's body.
"What do you want, an apology?" he shot back.
"You know what I want." She leaned in and ran her tongue over his ear. Logan flinched away, then stiffened as she shifted into Storm's form. "But what do you want?"
A ripple, and then Rogue was looking down at him, and it was so much like the night before that he gasped, just a little.
Then she was gone, and it was Jean again. Logan shoved Mystique off of him, away from him, and wondered if whatever the hell had happened with Rogue was really that blue bitch's doing.
"What do you really want?" she taunted, taking Stryker's form. But she left when he sat up in preparation for kicking her ass. The Dream Rogue, Jean's rejection, his own confusion -- it all coalesced into a burning, raging fury aimed at Mystique, but she was smart enough to recognize that and disappear.
"Jesus Christ," Logan muttered, running a hand over his face. No way in hell was he going to be able to sleep. He cursed again under his breath and rolled to his feet, jerking the edge of the tent aside. He scanned the campground and saw Mystique's dark form in the shadows. She didn't speak, but a change rippled through her form quickly, too fast for Logan to tell whether she'd chosen Storm's body or Jean's or--
Logan fought the sudden urge to plant his claws in her midsection again. It hadn't done much good the first time, and there was no need to let her know just how much her little slide show bothered him.
He growled low, then turned his back, stalking off into the woods to work off some of his fury.
Logan took night watch again, ignoring the anticipation pooling in his gut. He told himself it was because he wanted to know what the fuck was going on. Nothing to do with the image of a certain girl looming over him, eyes wide and dark and--
Fuck. He needed to know what the hell was happening to him. If he came face to face with the Fake Rogue again, he'd get some answers.
Maybe after he'd taken a few minutes to assure himself that he could, indeed, touch her. Just to prove that it wasn't really Rogue. No other reason.
Logan fixed a glare on Magneto and Mystique's tent -- and there was a relationship he didn't want to ponder too closely. Damn Mystique, anyway. That blue bitch. Was it that obvious that he'd been having inappropriate thoughts about Rogue? Could Jean and Storm tell? Was Bobby's obvious jealousy based not on Rogue's feelings, but on Logan's inappropriate lust?
God, he was a fucking pervert.
Impatiently, Logan stared into the fire, every sense alert. Waiting. Around him, the darkness hovered. He was a man of action, of instinct, and waiting was pretty high on his list of least favorite things to do. He knew it was pointless to try to meditate in his current state, but sitting on his ass waiting for some phantom Rogue to appear was driving him mad.
The night dragged on, agonizingly slow. By the time Ororo emerged from her tent around three to relieve him, Logan was seriously pissed. He muttered something to Storm and stalked into his tent, yanking it closed behind him. He lay down stiffly on the unyielding ground, knowing that sleep would be long in coming.
He glared at the material above him and willed the Fake Rogue to appear again. Waiting around all day doing nothing to help with the jet and then waiting around all night to solve the mystery of Fake Rogue had frayed his temper. Add to that Jean's rejection and Mystique's little mindfuck, and he was about two seconds from some sort of berserker rage.
When that horrible wrenching feeling finally, *finally* happened, he was primed for action.
It was different this time. The Fake Rogue was standing two feet away from him, facing away. The fall of her hair, the way she stood -- he didn't need to see her face to know it was Rogue, and he thought maybe he should be a little surprised by that. No nightgown; this time, she was in her standard issue X-Men sweat suit. Just like what the real Rogue had been wearing all day.
Logan grabbed her arm, whirling her around to face him.
Startled, Rogue stumbled a little as she turned. When her wide brown eyes met his, she gave a small gasp and backed away. She looked frightened, and it pissed him off. Rogue would never be scared of him, because he'd never hurt her and she knew it.
"Who are you?" he demanded. One chance. Just because she looked like Rogue, he'd give whoever the fuck it was one chance to explain.
But the Fake Rogue only blinked up at him, her face a study in bewilderment. "Logan?" She sounded just like Rogue. How the hell could she sound just like *his* Rogue? How dare this bitch use *his* Rogue against him?
His fury boiled over and he moved, knocking the Fake Rogue off balance with a quick blow and getting her into a chokehold. He squeezed mercilessly, his attention shifting to her bare hands scrabbling at his. Skin on skin contact, and nothing was happening.
Whoever it was, it wasn't Rogue.
Logan leaned in close, increasing the pressure on her windpipe. "Who the fuck are you?" When he inhaled, his senses were flooded with her scent. With Marie's scent. It was easy enough to fake someone's look -- Mystique had proven that earlier. But a person's scent was unique, and she smelled *exactly* like his Rogue.
"Logan, it's me," she managed, her voice reed thin.
He couldn't hurt Rogue. Whoever the fuck was orchestrating this must have known that, because the sound of her voice, the scent -- it overwhelmed him and he shoved her away, away from him, out of his reach.
She slammed into a wall that materialized behind her.
Logan advanced slowly, breathing hard. "Bullshit," he growled, determined to conceal his weaknesses. "You think I won't kill you because you look like her?"
Fake Rogue was shaking her head, her bare hands raised protectively before her. She actually looked... scared. "I don't know what you're talking about," she protested, her words tumbling over each other. "I don't know what you want."
"I want to know who you are," he told her, wrapping a hand around her throat and lifting her until she was closer to eye level, searching her face desperately for any difference, anything that was *wrong* so he'd be able to kill the illusion. "I want to know why the fuck you're in my head," he growled. "I want to know what you want."
Her fingers were warm on his, pulling desperately against the hand that held her trapped against the wall. Up close, she looked so damn familiar -- those intelligent brown eyes, those full lips, that pale, pale skin, that perfect scent. She was so *Marie* that he had to let her go.
Logan turned away, struggling against his instincts. It couldn't be her. It couldn't be real. "And I want to know why you decided to use *her.*"
Her voice shook when she answered, "But I'm--"
"Rogue!" Bobby yelled.
Logan felt that horrible lurch in the pit of his stomach and opened his eyes.
His tent. He was in his tent.
Fuck.
He'd been with the Fake Rogue and then Bobby--
Bobby? What the fuck was Bobby doing there? No matter how sick Logan's fantasies about Rogue might be, there was no way in hell that Bobby would ever be involved.
Logan sat up as the ruckus outside his tent registered. Voices. Loud voices. He could hear Bobby and -- Rogue?
He rolled to his feet and burst out into the night, his gaze going immediately to Rogue's tent. The flap hung open, the firelight illuminating two struggling figures.
Bobby and Rogue.
Logan was already moving, claws unsheathed. He'd kill the little shit. Cut him into ribbons and then toss him into the fire. No one touches Marie. No one hurts--
Rogue knocked Bobby's hands away and gripped her sweatshirt, pulling it up to cover her--
Oh, God.
Her neck.
Logan stumbled to a halt, unable to move. No. It couldn't have been her. Absently, he withdrew the claws. It couldn't have been Rogue. He'd touched her skin and lived to tell about it. He'd -- he'd hurt the Dream-Rogue, not--
Please, God, let him not have hurt her. He couldn't bear it if he'd hurt Rogue.
Bobby stomped out of Rogue's tent, sending a murderous look Logan's way. It barely registered. Logan was still trying to make sense of the situation, still trying to come up with plausible reasons why Rogue would be hiding her neck.
Rogue retreated into the depths of her tent, zipping it closed with a decisive yank.
Oh, no, you don't, Logan thought. We're going to figure out what the fuck is going on. Because he'd be damned if he'd risk hurting her again.
"Logan?" Ororo asked, her tone low.
He paused, sparing her a distracted glance. "What?"
"This situation has been difficult for them. Perhaps Rogue needs some sleep."
Logan frowned, wondering what, exactly, Storm had seen.
"Perhaps," she continued, her words conveying compassion and authority, "you could use some rest as well."
Logan looked once more at Rogue's tent, wanting nothing more than to slice through the material and force Rogue to explain what the fuck was going on. He'd force her to let him heal her, heal whatever damage he'd caused. If it really was her in his head.
But he was so furious -- at the situation, at himself -- he wasn't sure any confrontation right now would be productive. Plus, Storm had a point. Rogue needed her rest; she'd looked exhausted all day. So Logan gave Ororo a curt nod and stalked back over to his tent, convinced he'd never fall asleep.
Three hours later, Logan emerged from his tent, exhausted and pissed off. He grunted something unintelligible to Storm and strode into the woods, heading for the stream. He peeled off his clothes and waded into the water, gritting his teeth against the bracing cold.
It helped to clear his head. A little. But he kept turning his two encounters with Fake Rogue over in his head, and even in the clear light of day, they made no damn sense. The only thing he was sure of was that he and Rogue were going to have a talk, and they were going to have it as soon as she walked out of her tent.
First, he was going to make sure she wasn't hurt. Then, he was going to ask her what the hell was going on.
Logan dressed quickly, shivering a little in the cool morning air, and headed back to camp. No sign of Rogue. He crossed his arms and leaned back against a tree, standing guard about twenty feet from her tent.
"Logan?"
He didn't even glance over at her. "Morning, Jean."
"Did you get any sleep?" she asked, exhaustion in her tone.
"Not really," Logan answered. "How's the jet?"
Jean sighed. "Almost there."
"Good." Logan straightened as he caught movement in Rogue's tent. She emerged slowly, warily, her gaze finding Logan and then skidding away. She was bundled up in her X-gear, the sweatshirt zipped all the way up to her chin.
Logan moved to intercept her when she headed for the jet. Rogue wasn't a morning person, and her reaction time was sluggish before she'd had her coffee. In this instance, it worked in Logan's favor, since she didn't have time to pull away from him before he yanked down the collar of her jacket.
Bruises. She had bruises on her neck.
"Fuck." He stared at her throat, at the finger marks -- *his* finger marks -- highlighted in angry blue and black. Regret was sharp and bitter in his throat, making him nauseated and preventing him from speaking.
Logan didn't want to look at her, wasn't ready to meet her eyes yet, but he couldn't help himself. He glanced up at her and then immediately away, staring blankly at a pine tree.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now? How do you apologize for beating the shit out of someone in some sort of dream state?
Still avoiding looking directly at him, Rogue tried to move away, but he caught her arm, carefully. Gently. He wouldn't hurt her again. Logan glanced around to find Jean watching them, an odd look on her face. Almost… knowing.
Logan's voice was cold when he said, "I've got to talk to Rogue."
Jean nodded once. "Don't go too far away," she warned. "I think we're almost finished."
Logan looked down at Rogue, who was staring studiously at the trunk of a tree. "C'mon," he murmured, applying the slightest bit of pressure to get her moving. She went willingly enough, and he wondered what the hell he was going to say to her. How exactly do you start a conversation like this?
"What's going on?" Bobby asked, appearing suddenly at Rogue's side, a small frown on his face. His gaze flicked back and forth between Rogue's blush and Logan's irritation.
Logan bit back his instinctive response and gave Bobby an annoyed look. "Go stay out of trouble," he suggested, trying for Rogue's sake not to be rude to her little boyfriend. "I need to talk to Rogue."
Resentment flashed across Bobby's face. "I'm not--"
"Go," Logan ordered, his tone unyielding. He had no patience for misplaced chivalry, especially when he was about forty-seven times more qualified to protect Rogue than Bobby. Protect her from anyone except himself, anyway, he thought, the ugly sight of those bruises on her neck flashing across his mind. Fuck. Logan turned his anger on Bobby. "Or you think I can't take care of her?"
A flush stole across Bobby's face and he glared at Rogue. "Fine," he answered, his tone clipped and angry, and Logan knew he'd managed to break something between the two teenagers.
Rogue knew it too, and she glared up at him as he guided her toward a nearby clearing. "What is your problem?" she demanded, overtly hostile. She had a right, he supposed, considering he'd tried to strangle her in his dreams and then ruined her relationship with her Popsicle of a boyfriend. Still, he wasn't pleased with the way she was glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest, posture rigid.
This was not going well. Logan reached out and unzipped her jacket a couple inches, running his gloved fingertip over her bruises. He still couldn't quite make himself believe it was real. But the proof was there in black and blue, and in the stiff lines of her body as she leaned away from him.
"It was you," he managed, his voice sounding oddly strained.
Without thinking about it, he reached for her, pulling her tight against him, wrapping her up. She was so small against him, so easily broken, and his grip tightened a little desperately as her hands slid around his waist to squeeze him back.
"Shit," he mumbled, turning his face into her hair, "I didn't know it was you. I wouldn't have--" He pulled back a little, one hand moving to cradle her face. "How did you get in my head?"
As she looked up at him, her expression shifted. From shock and gratitude to something --
That horrible lurch in his stomach, and then he was kissing her. He was kissing Rogue, and it wasn't killing him. Her lips were soft and yielding and it was -- it was --
He tilted her head, leaned in to get a better angle. Her mouth opened for him and, God, it was so good. So good and he could *feel* her desire, mixing with his own, heightening his senses. She was passionate and so willing, and when he paused briefly to look at her, he noticed his fingers were on her cheek.
His bare fingers.
He let go and --
God, he fucking *hated* that sick, tumbling feeling in his gut.
He was in the forest again, her flushed face cupped in one of his gloved hands. Wide, brown, panicked eyes stared up at him, and the pieces slid into place.
Logan backed up, dropping his hands from her, moving instinctively away. "I was--" He shook his head, still trying to make it make sense. "I was in your head."
She was trembling as she stood there, looking lost and broken and scared. And angry, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Rogue's voice was accusatory when she said, "You're *always* in my head. I live with it every day."
Logan hated when he didn't have control over his own life, his own body. He still wasn't sure how she was doing it or why, but she was pulling him into her head. And it had nothing to do with what had come before. "Not like that," he shot back, his body vibrating with fury. How the fuck did she do that? "*I* was in your head, Rogue. Not some memory. Not some shadow." He pointed at her head. "That was me."
Rogue -- shattered. There was no other word for it. One moment she was anger incarnate, the next she was shaking, self-loathing evident in every word she threw at him. "Well, what do you expect? I'm like a parasite! Only a matter of time until I started sucking people's minds up along with their bodies!"
She collapsed, her body folding in on itself until she was kneeling in the snow, crying into gloved hands. And Logan's anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He couldn't stand to see her hurt, and he moved without thinking, dropping to his knees beside her, ignoring the cold seeping into his jeans as he hauled her up against him in an awkward hug.
He remembered doing this once before, in a moment of blinding panic. This time he wasn't afraid as he tugged one glove off with his teeth, tossed it onto the ground beside him. He knew, as he moved to touch her skin, that this would be different.
When she understood what he was about to do, Rogue jerked away, trying to avoid his bare fingers. He reached for her, and she shook her head, leaning back, arching away. "Don't, Logan," she pled, desperation in her tone. "I'll only hurt--"
This time when he touched her, it didn't hurt. And this time, when she pulled him into her head, it didn't leave him nauseated. It was like double vision, like--
High school biology?
Logan frowned, trying to figure out why he was thinking about biology. He didn't remember high school, didn't know anything about cell linings, so why--?
Rogue's thoughts.
He was hearing her thoughts. She was thinking that her cells were saturated with him. And she was... happy about it. She glanced down, picturing a mirror, seeing their forms kneeling together in the snow. Logan didn't follow her gaze, preferring to watch her face and see what she was seeing through this strange mind-meld thing they had going.
At a complete loss, Logan tried to figure out what to do next. He didn't know who should act -- the half of him kneeling across from her in the snow in the real world, or the half of him in her head.
Her thoughts were fast, panicked, scattered, but he caught something about a disease. Something about her thinking he'd built up immunity from her, and it broke his paralysis.
"Did you ever consider that you might be controlling it?"
Startled, she looked up from the Logan-and-Marie in the snow to meet his gaze. To look at the Dream-Logan.
He smiled, because that was exactly what he'd thought at first. That she was a Dream-Rogue. "Not a dream," he told her. "And I can hear everything you're thinking, so you might want to be careful."
"How--?"
"You're controlling it," he repeated. She was in the nightgown again, he noticed belatedly, that damnably sexy nightgown, and he couldn't stop his gaze from sliding down her body. She was controlling it, and she'd been controlling it the other night when he'd been sprawled on top of her.
He'd always known, in a sterile, academic sort of way, that she had a crush on him. But knowing it and *feeling* it, hearing her thoughts -- it was different. And it wasn't anything like a crush. It wasn't anything like hero worship.
Whatever she felt for him was deep and warm and it snuck inside of him, soothing some of the pain and fear he carried around every day. He could feel the way she thought of him, and it was so much better than what he was that he was embarrassed. But he also wanted very badly to be the man she thought he was. For her. Because she deserved that.
And feeling what she felt made it real for him, too. Those thoughts he'd had about her -- for the first time, he let himself consider them. He let himself want her, without all of the guilt and the self-loathing and the certainty that she could do so much better than a sick, perverted old lecher. He just let himself feel what he thought about her, how she looked to him, how much he wanted her.
And when he looked back up at her face, this Rogue was blushing and then--
He was crouched in the snow, staring at her, contemplating the new possibilities. And he could tell she'd felt what he was thinking, what he wanted to do with her.
She could control her mutation. She could control her skin. She was... touchable.
Back in the real world, Rogue met his gaze, eyes wide and panicked, and then she fled, running away from him and into the trees. And he couldn't help but laugh.
Because she could control it.
When Logan emerged into the clearing, he knew instantly that the jet was flight-ready. Jean gave him a querulous look, but he merely dipped his chin once and headed for his tent to gather his things.
He wasn't wild about going back to Alkali Lake, not this time. Not when they had to work with Magneto and Mystique to stop whatever anti-mutant action Stryker had in the works. Not when he couldn't concentrate on the proper planning for more than a few minutes without remembering the feel of Rogue's skin beneath his fingers.
So despite his loathing of the leather uniforms, he donned one, hoping it would help armor his thoughts as well as his body. The situation was perilous, to say the least, with a brutal enemy awaiting them and another fighting at their sides. The possibilities for double cross were endless, and Logan needed to be on top of things. So he took the new possibilities he'd discovered in the forest and locked them up in a box, not to be disturbed until after they were safe on the jet on their way back to New York.
Problem was, he could feel Rogue's hurt gaze following him -- she watched him when she arrived back in the clearing, she glanced at him as she helped fold tents, and she stared at him during the briefing on the jet. His tension boiled over and he snapped at her about the uniforms, insinuating that she was too young, not letting himself acknowledge the look on her face.
And so he immersed himself in the preparations, locked Logan away and concentrated on being the Wolverine. When he followed the others off the jet, he couldn't look at Rogue, couldn't bear to see the hurt in her eyes.
It happened fast. They got into the complex easy enough, and he decided to leave the idealistic shit to the X-Men, because he was no good at it. They would rescue Xavier and the kids; they would save the day.
And Logan, who was a pragmatist, would kill Stryker to make sure this never happened again. Because Stryker attacked the mansion, Rogue lived at the mansion, and no one hurt Rogue on Logan's watch.
He didn't want the X-Men to wait for him, or to launch some harebrained rescue attempt, so he left his earpiece and disappeared, knowing Jeannie, at least, would understand. He'd do what he needed to do, and he'd find his own way out.
It was a perfectly good plan, except that instead of Stryker, Logan found the torture chamber from his nightmares.
The sickly green tile, the forgotten wall of x-rays, the water-filled coffin -- it was all there. All except the champagne-swilling crowd he'd longed to kill. Being in that room, inhaling the bitter scent of boiling adamantium, brought back a scattered rush of memories, horrible images that left him disoriented when Stryker actually did appear, his pet project in tow.
Logan didn't remember much about the fight. It was dirty and brutal and it lasted too long. Before her, Logan had thought that skewering himself with his own claws was about as bad as it could get. Then she'd punctured his lungs in dozens of places with her adamantium spikes, and the rest was a blur.
Until the end. Until her eyes were brown, not silver. Until understanding and regret animated her delicate features.
Logan had killed more people than he could really remember, but he'd never felt it the way he did with this woman who had suffered the fate he'd managed to escape. She'd been Logan, or what Logan was supposed to be. She'd been a killing animal, under the command and control of Stryker.
The thought that he could've turned out that way, that he very nearly did... He wanted to kill Stryker; he *needed* to kill Stryker.
Logan rolled off of her watery coffin and made it four steps before the debilitating pain hit. He crumpled onto the tile steps, his elbow jarring painfully against the floor.
He knew what was happening, knew he was going to die, and more than anything, he was pissed that he ended up in this hellhole. He'd never cared too much about dying; many times over the years he would've welcomed death. But dying in this lab that made him what he was -- that was the kind of irony he hated.
The pain was almost unbearable, and then, underneath it, he felt his stomach do that familiar flip and he was standing in front of Rogue. She looked frightened, her attention split between his face and the sight of her own writhing body on the floor of the jet.
Logan didn't question how she'd found him, or how he'd found her. He just reached for her, cupping her cheek in his gloved palm. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know--" Her words cut off as she shuddered in pain, stumbling a little. She inhaled sharply. "It hurts, Logan."
Her words hurt him more than the forgotten pain in his body and he engulfed her in a hug, pulling her tight against him. He could heal her from any physical wound she received, but against Xavier's psychic attack, he was powerless.
"It'll stop," he told her, his words hollow. It *would* stop, but Logan didn't want to think about what that would mean. The pain increased and then they were kneeling together in this dream refuge.
He pulled back and stared at her, desperately trying to memorize her face. Her brown eyes were troubled, her mouth pursed into a slight frown. "Logan, what--?"
He couldn't answer her, so he interrupted her question with a fierce kiss. One hand slid through her hair, the other circled her waist, yanking her closer. Everything he'd ever wanted to say to her, how much he loved her, how much he wanted her, how much he admired her, how much he regretted waiting until it was too late -- he poured it all into that kiss.
Her hands tightened on his biceps and she kissed him back fervently. For an endless moment, the intensity of their connection was enough to block out reality, to block out the pain.
It ended too soon, another wave of pain sending Rogue tumbling to the floor. Logan leaned over her, cradling her head, absolutely terrified that he was about to watch her die. It was selfish and cowardly, but he wasn't sure he could handle that a second time.
"What's happening, Logan?" she gasped, grimacing against the pain. Even in the middle of this insanity, she wanted to know everything, wanted to be treated as an equal. In any other circumstance, he would have been proud of her; now, he was just scared she'd make him tell her the truth.
"Don't think about it," he pleaded, staring down at her, tracing the lines of her face with unsteady fingers. "I had to find you. I had to see you in case--"
He stopped before he said it out loud, but she'd always been too perceptive.
"In case what?" she asked, but the pale expression of terror on her face told him she'd figured it out. She may not have known the specifics, but she'd inferred enough to know they were dying.
Logan shook his head in lieu of an answer, giving in to the urge to kiss her once more. If he had to die, he wanted it to be here with her and not in that fucking nightmare of a lab. He pushed the dark thoughts from his mind and concentrated on Rogue, sliding one hand up under her shirt, touching her skin-to-skin.
It was becoming increasingly hard to breathe, so he broke the kiss, leaning his head against her temple. Quietly, he said, "If I'd had time, I would have loved you." He owed her at least this. "I would have taken care of you."
Her hands tightened on him, holding him close, and he could feel her gaze on him. He tried to stay with her, tried to anchor himself to this unreality, but the real world was calling him.
Against his will, Logan left Rogue, crashing back into his pain-wracked body just before the world ended.
They survived, all but Jean.
The X-Men saved the day, rescuing the children. Even Jean's death was an act of heroic self-sacrifice.
Logan supposed he should be proud of them. But he wasn't, not really.
He'd run for the dam that day, for Alkali, determined to stop the X-Men from walking into certain death. He'd been outside and he could easily have made it to safety. He could've dragged Stryker with him and convinced the bastard to talk. Instead, Logan had run back into danger, wondering when he'd became the kind of man who'd risk his own life for other people. Before Rogue, he wouldn't have considered risking himself like that, not for a bunch of idealistic fools scampering about in leather.
But he'd always been willing to die for Rogue, and now he was willing to die for the people who'd kept her safe. So he'd left revenge tied to a helicopter and run, telling himself that if it turned out he that died in there with the rest of them, at least he'd told Rogue goodbye.
Logan supposed he should be proud of himself, too. He wasn't.
Stryker was dead, and that was about the only thing that Logan took pleasure in. He couldn't hurt them anymore. Of course, he couldn't be persuaded to tell Logan about his past, either, so there was quite a bit of regret mixed in with Logan's grim satisfaction.
He remembered the smug look on Stryker's face, remembered his words.
*You were an animal then, you're an animal now. I just gave you claws.*
The words haunted him. They echoed in his nightmares, and they kept him from everyone. They kept him especially far from Rogue.
The evening of Jean's memorial service, Logan confronted Xavier with what Stryker had told him. Xavier's remorse did nothing but confirm what Logan already suspected -- Xavier knew more about Logan's past, but wouldn't tell him.
"You're not that man," Xavier told him instead, with that placid certainty that made Logan want to break something. "What happened two decades ago has no bearing on the man you are today, Logan."
"Bullshit," Logan snapped, pacing Xavier's well-appointed study. "It has everything to do with who I am. If I was an animal--" He broke off, staring out the window at the woods below. He refused to say more even when Xavier pressed him.
"You're a man, Logan," Xavier said, his tone soft and sure. "You're a good man. You're the only one who doesn't know that."
Logan was such a good man that he hadn't said one word to Rogue since his dying declaration. He was such a good man that he tracked her the next day, familiarizing himself with her patterns and habits so that he wouldn't stumble upon her by accident. He was such a good man that he *knew* he was hurting Rogue by shutting her out and he couldn't make himself stop.
Because this way she might hurt for a while, she might mourn the loss of something that had never really started. But the very least he could do for her was let her find someone worthy of her love, and no matter what he felt for her, that person wasn't Logan.
He wasn't sure whether Bobby fit the bill, either, but Logan hoped the kid would step up. Bobby was a solid, decent kind of kid, the product of a solid, decent, middle-class family. Logan might find Bobby something of a bore, but the kid could maybe be the kind of man Rogue needed, if only he'd grow up.
SSo Logan watched from the shadows, as Rogue and Bobby imploded, angry that Bobby wasn't mature enough to see past petty envy. Logan had hoped a brush with death would've changed Bobby. He'd hoped the sobering reality of the kind of life the X-Men led would've shown Bobby what was important.
Rogue.
Rogue was important.
Bobby and Rogue were together, and she may not have loved Bobby with the fierce intensity that Logan knew she felt for him, but Rogue *did* care about Bobby. Once she got over Logan, she could probably love Bobby. And Bobby clearly loved Rogue. Problem was, he was too young, too inexperienced to see the situation clearly; he was too hurt.
And so Bobby grew increasingly cold toward Rogue, and she seemed to have lost the will to even try to fix things. Logan wouldn't pretend to be sorry her relationship with Bobby had ended, because the snowflake had proved himself too immature for Rogue. But maybe in time she'd find someone, a man who was good and kind and all of the things that Logan wasn't.
When he was writhing on the tiled floor of the lab that scared him more than anywhere else on earth, he'd sworn that if he lived, he would love Rogue the way she wanted him to, the way he wanted to. Then Stryker's taunting words confirmed everything Logan had ever feared about his past, and he'd made another vow on the jet after Jean's death. He'd sworn to let Rogue go, even if it killed him to lose both of the important women in his life.
Logan was, after all, a failed experiment in humanity. The kind of man who would volunteer to be sliced open, to be upgraded into a killing machine.
*You were an animal then, you're an animal now. I just gave you claws.*
Rogue deserved better.
A month after Alkali Lake, Logan woke with a roar, claws unsheathed. The nightmare was another hellish replay of that fight in the lab. This new horror had supplanted the old dreams about being cut open, about being altered. Now, his nightmares focused on killing the woman Stryker had used as a trained assassin.
Some nights, like tonight, he'd plunge the nozzle into her stomach and then look up to see his own tortured face staring back at him.
Logan rolled out of bed and stepped into the shower, washing away the cold sweat. Tugging on a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, socks, and boots, he headed out into the evening air.
It was only a little after midnight, and the moon was just past full. He stalked through the woods, inhaling the familiar scent of earth, of nocturnal creatures, and he remembered those couple of nights he'd spent waiting for Rogue to reach out for him in her dreams. He remembered lying on the ground studying the tag that branded him an animal. That branded him Stryker's animal.
The Wolverine. The ferocious superhealer with retrofitted adamantium enhancements. The killing machine.
Logan wondered what kind of man would volunteer for that. What kind of man would choose to be nothing more than a dangerous pet, an assassin on a leash.
As hard as he tried to concentrate on the tag, on the past, he kept thinking about Rogue. He remembered their brief, strange connection with startling clarity. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, the way she moved eagerly against him. But more than that, he remembered the way she saw him, the way she felt about him.
Since Alkali Lake, he hadn't come close to living up to the man she thought he was because he'd been too focused on brooding about the man he might have been before. But maybe if someone like Rogue, if someone with such passion and vivacity could love him, could see the good in him, could see him as a *man* -- maybe the animal he'd been in his unremembered past wasn't that important.
Logan stopped walking, staring absently at a small red fox frozen across the clearing from him.
He couldn't change what he'd been. He didn't even remember what he'd been. But maybe that wasn't so important if he could become the man he wished he was. Maybe he could be the man that Rogue loved.
Because he'd made the choice every day since he woke, naked and bloody --he'd chosen every day not to be Stryker's kind of killing machine. Maybe the man he'd been before didn't have all that much to do with the man he was now.
And just like that, he was done wallowing in his empty past. Because digging for clues about how bad a man he'd been held little appeal when compared with trying to make things work with Rogue.
He strode purposefully back to the mansion, right into her room without bothering to knock. She was sitting cross-legged at her desk, glossy brochures with smiling co-eds scattered haphazardly in front of her. Logan locked the door behind him.
Rogue jerked around to face him, to stare at him. She was so beautiful, so angry and so hurt and he realized belatedly that had no idea how to start this conversation. He'd never even *had* this kind of discussion before, and wasn't sure how it was supposed to go.
He'd never really cared about anyone before. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world.
When it became clear he wasn't going to speak, Rogue frowned and asked, "What are you doing here?"
He sauntered over to the bed and made himself comfortable, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You want me to leave?" he asked, his tone conversational. He wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to say to her. All he knew was that he wanted their relationship back to where it had been before Alkali Lake -- comfortable and full of possibilities.
"You've already made yourself at home," she pointed out with a small, puzzled frown. "Which kind of seems strange since I haven't seen you in a month."
"I've been busy," Logan answered with a careless shrug. He really didn't want to talk about that past, now that he'd finally figured out a way to put it to rest. He wanted to talk about what they were going to do now.
"Have you been *here*?" Rogue shot back, irritated.
He couldn't resist the opportunity. With a slow, meaningful smile, he drawled, "In your bedroom? I think you would have noticed." She flushed, just a little, and he added, "If you hadn't, well, I would have been doing something wrong."
Rogue stared at him, her mouth half-open in shock. Then she crumpled the brochure in her hand and lobbed it at him. It didn't come anywhere close to him, but while he was trying to figure out why the fuck she was hurling missiles at him, she was up and moving and managed to land an impressive punch on his chin.
He reacted instinctively, his fingers gripping her wrist tightly. "What the fuck are you doing, girl?" He slid his tongue over his lip and tasted blood. Why was she--?
Rogue hit him again with her free hand, and that was just about enough. Logan caught her, rolled her beneath him on the bed, pinning her down. She struggled a little, but she was no match for his strength and experience.
He shook off the ringing pain in his head. "You have a certain amount of leeway for being you, Rogue," he told her, his voice low and furious. "Why don't you tell me what you're--"
She leaned up and bit him. She fucking *bit* him, right on the shoulder, and it fucking *hurt.* Logan reared back, cursing, but pinned her again before she could do any more damage. "What the fuck is going on?"
Rogue smiled up at him, the expression sweet except for the murderous look in her eyes. "You think I'm going to lay here like a good girl and pretend to be Jean for you?" she hissed.
Her barb hit, dead center, and Logan allowed her to push him away. He caught her wrists again, just in case, trying to ignore the sharp flash of pain her words caused. Honestly bewildered, he asked, "What gave you that idea?"
"Come on, Logan," Rogue said with a bitter laugh. He hated the way she sounded, so cynical and angry. "If you really wanted me, you would have talked to me at least once in the last month."
Logan bit back his first, furious reply. She didn't have the first fucking clue what he'd been dealing with for a month. Besides -- "You think I came here for sex?"
For the first time in the entire absurd conversation, Rogue looked uncertain. He didn't let himself notice the way her hair splayed out onto her dark green bedspread. Didn't let himself notice what the deep color did for her pale skin. Because he really hadn't come here for sex.
Her brown eyes studied him and she tried to tug her hands free.
Logan tightened his grip. "Oh, no, you don't, girl," he growled, emphasizing the last word. "You can talk, but you can't hit me again unless I give you a damn good reason."
Rogue moved again, but her attempt to free herself was half-hearted at best. Her shoulder slumped, her head dropping down onto the mattress. "Fine, Logan," she sighed, all the fire sapped from her words. "Tell me why you're here."
Watching her closely, wary of further violence, Logan released her hands. He moved lithely off of her, settling right next to her on the bed as she slowly rolled into a seated position. She kept her gaze averted, her head tilted down and away from him.
He studied her subdued posture, the listless way she rubbed at--
Her wrist.
Logan stared at her bare wrist as realization dawned. She could touch. He'd been holding her bare wrists and nothing had happened. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before.
She could control her skin.
It was everything he'd ever wanted for her, everything she'd ever wanted. He let out a slow, unsteady breath and reached for her, his smile wide and genuine. "You're not--"
Rogue jerked away from him, her eyes blazing with sudden anger. "Still not here for sex?" she mocked, her tone cutting.
"Fuck you," he shot back, unable to take anymore of this bitter, angry Rogue. Where was the woman who'd summoned the courage to fly a jet she'd never piloted? Where was the woman who'd looked at him with such warmth and affection?
This cold, touchable Rogue lifted her chin and said, "I'm still not Jean."
He was standing, suddenly, glaring down at her. "No kidding," he said, his tone as vicious as hers. "Jean wasn't a bitch."
Logan knew Rogue, knew her insecurities. And he knew exactly where to strike to hurt her the most. Whatever fleeting chance they'd had was obviously gone. Logan wasn't sure whether to be relieved that she'd have the chance to find someone worthy of her, or crushed that she'd rejected him so completely.
Could he have misread her that badly?
He stalked back to his room and lay in bed for three hours, unable to sleep, before he stood up and grabbed his army green duffle bag. He'd be damned if he'd stick around to play the human dartboard for Rogue, no matter how much he cared about her. Putting that ridiculous mindfuck behind them would be easier if they were apart. Far, far apart.
Tossing things haphazardly inside his bag, Logan didn't notice her footsteps or the door easing open. He was leaning over, pulling rolled up t-shirts out of the bottom drawer when he heard her indrawn breath.
Logan straightened and faced the door, schooling his expression into blankness. He wasn't in the mood for any more of her potshots.
Rogue's gaze dropped to the clothes in his hands. She glanced at the bed, took in the half-packed duffel bag, and blinked rapidly. He could smell the wave of anguish, of regret.
Fuck.
"Rogue," he said, but she turned and fled.
Her door was unlocked, and Logan chose to take that as a good sign. He flipped the lock and moved toward her, still not sure what to say to fix this.
Rogue was trying not to cry, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Still, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with defiance.
Obviously words weren't going to do the trick. He reached for her instead, sinking his hands into her silky strands and kissing her the way he'd wanted to for a month. Her mouth opened for him, her tongue tangling enthusiastically with his.
It was real, this time, not some dream, and it was fucking perfect.
He pushed her back against the wall and ran one hand down her side, around her rib cage. Groaning into her mouth, he leaned closer, pressing his body against hers. Her fingers clutched handfuls of his flannel shirt, holding him close before pushing him desperately away.
Breathing hard, Rogue stared up at him. "You were going to leave," she accused, eyes wide and suspicious.
"I was going to leave," he agreed, unable to tear his gaze from her moist lips. He wanted to touch her again, as soon as possible. They seemed to communicate best that way, no lies, no pointed remarks, just passion.
"Why?" Rogue demanded, shaking her head just a little. She was so beautiful, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed, her body trembling slightly. Her hands were still tangled tightly in his shirt.
Logan shrugged, trying to find a way to explain. "I used to have two reasons to stay. Now there's only one." He paused, letting that sink in. "You kinda gave me the impression that there weren't any."
Rogue ducked her head, breaking his intense gaze. Her voice was uneven and tinged with quiet sorrow when she said, "I'll never be her."
He reached for her, tilting her chin up until she looked at him. He needed her to believe this, needed her to *know* he was telling the truth. "Would you be surprised to find out that I never wanted you to be?" he asked.
She looked honestly shocked, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly before she managed, "But--"
"Shhhh." Logan slid his hand against her soft skin, placing one finger across her lips. "You like Bobby, Rogue."
"I don't--" She stopped in mid-lie when he quirked an eyebrow at her.
"You like Bobby," he repeated, trying to keep his voice even. Trying not to let his idiotic jealousy show in his voice. Then again, maybe she needed to know that, too. "Maybe you even love him a little. You can love more than one person, you know. But Bobby..." Logan shrugged. "He'll never know you like I know you."
He brushed a few platinum strands back, tucking her hair behind her ears, then let his fingertips trace a long, delicate line down her neck. Her skin was so, so soft, and he was still a little shocked that he was able to touch it at all.
"And Jean?" Rogue whispered, her eyes drifting shut as his fingers moved across her skin. He couldn't even imagine what it was like for her to be touched after being wrapped in protective layers for so long.
"I'd never have known her like Scott knew her," Logan admitted, and it was true, even if he'd never thought about it quite like that before. Jeannie had been gorgeous and caring, and he realized for the first time that she'd been smart enough to know that they would never have worked. "Never have understood her like he did."
Rogue frowned a little as she opened her eyes. "But you avoided me. You didn't even want to see me."
She had a right to know his reasons, but he still wasn't sure how to explain himself. Logan sighed and pulled his hands from her body. He couldn't think clearly when he was touching her.
"I was almost hoping Bobby would prove me wrong, " he said hesitantly, shutting his eyes against the intensity of her gaze. "Would learn how to know you. Learn how to love you like--"
He couldn't do it. He couldn't say it, even with his eyes closed.
Rogue touched his face carefully, soft fingertips sliding across his cheek, over his lips. Logan swallowed a groan, shaking just a little at her touch.
"Like what, Logan?" she asked.
He forced himself to open his eyes, forced himself to be the kind of man he'd imagined for her. "I don't know if I'll be any good for you," he admitted, pleading silently for her to understand his meaning. "I don't know if love is enough."
"It doesn't have to be everything," she told him, her smile crooked and a little shaky. "If you get bored of love, I could always kick your ass again."
Logan chuckled, and then he was smiling stupidly at her, because she knew what he meant. She understood and somehow she'd made it okay. "You'd have to do better than you did before, my girl," he murmured, lifting an eyebrow at her. "If you think *that* was kicking my--"
Laughing, she tackled him, and he let himself fall, taking her with him. Flat on his back in the middle of her bedroom, Logan felt oddly at home. At peace. And Rogue's body stretched out atop his, those warm brown eyes watching him -- that felt perfect.
"I suppose you could teach me how to fight," Rogue said, her tone airy.
Logan smiled up at her. "Yeah," he said, sliding his hands down her sides, anchoring them low on her waist. "I suppose I could." His fingers inched lower, and he thought maybe some of his animalistic tendencies were a blessing rather than a curse.
Rogue grinned back at him, no sign of hesitation or self-doubt. This was the woman he'd fallen for, this was the woman he'd tried to keep himself away from for a month.
This woman wiggled a little on top of him and said, "Or you could teach me something else."
"Something else, huh?" Logan shot back, rolling them over, landing comfortably between her thighs. After an indulgent moment savoring the feel of her body, he lifted his weight off of her, leaning up on his elbows. "I don't know," he teased, pressing a soft kiss against her jaw. "From the way you were kissing me earlier, I think you know more than I do."
Snickering, Rogue punched him in the arm. "That is *not* what I wanted to hear."
Logan tried his best to look innocent. "I thought you didn't want me to be here looking for sex," he said, even as his hands slid along her curves.
"Well," Rogue answered with a shrug that drew his appreciative gaze to her breasts. "I suppose if you don't know how to do it..."
"Shut up," he growled affectionately, dragging his attention back to her beautiful face.
Rogue smirked up at him, her hands slipping down to his ass. "Make me."
Logan had always loved a challenge.
THE END
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Written for the Remix Redux Challenge (http://remix.illuminatedtext.com/). Original story is "What We Had Inside" by Dieben
(http://www.wolverineandrogue.com/fic/dbfiction.php?fiction_id=1023). Thanks to Em, Lu, and Philateley, for slogging through countless versions of this without killing me, and for perfect betacomments.
(http://www.wolverineandrogue.com/fic/dbfiction.php?fiction_id=1023). Thanks to Em, Lu, and Philateley, for slogging through countless versions of this without killing me, and for perfect betacomments.