December 22
12:00 a.m. EST
Logan showered at midnight, but didn't bother getting ready for bed. No point, really. He didn't sleep much anymore, not without her.
Running one listless hand through his wet hair, he turned away from his haggard reflection. Padding naked past the bed he never slept in -- the bed he'd shared with her -- Logan grabbed clean clothes mostly at random. Jeans, t-shirt, flannel, socks, shoes, and belt. He dressed with the same lack of enthusiasm as he did everything else these days, save fighting.
He still enjoyed fighting. He spent hour upon hour in the Danger Room, and he did some serious ass-kicking out in the field. Conveniently, the real-life fighting he did while on missions usually involved pounding the shit out of the very same government types who owed him a serious debt -- they'd taken his memories, and then, infinitely worse, they'd taken her.
Because the professor wasn't around to lecture him about proportional responses, more often then not Logan got some information from the government doctors before he beat them senseless. The one time Scott had tried to talk to him about justice instead of revenge, Logan had taken pleasure from kicking *his* ass.
She'd been gone less than two months, but Logan had lost track of how many labs they'd hit. Scott and Ororo kept meticulous records (though Logan suspected they didn't commit his actions to paper) -- where and when and who was recovered. But Logan didn't care where they'd already been, because they'd never rescued *her.*
So he ate (not enough, according to Jubilee) and he drank (too much, according to Ororo) and he avoided conversations with the other X-Men and at night he tried to sleep. Her last terrified shout echoed through his dreams several times a night, and he jerked awake gasping her name.
*Don't think about her,* he told himself. *It just makes it worse.*
Logan tugged on his belt and fastened it tiredly, then left the room, closing the door softly behind him. The room they'd shared functioned as little more than an overly large walk-in closet now. He couldn't stand to stay inside very long -- at first because it smelled like her, and later because it didn't -- but he refused to give it up. Refused to give *her* up.
Instead, he spent his nights on the couch tucked away in the corner of the library. The sofa wasn't particularly comfortable, but he'd grown used to it. Plus Logan remained largely undisturbed since the mansion was more a halfway house for abused and tortured mutants than a school these days. The kids knew better than to come into the library when the door was closed, and he didn't much care about the rescued mutants, though he was pretty sure Ororo warned them what could happen if he was awakened suddenly.
So the library stayed pretty quiet most nights.
Tonight, however, Logan heard voices inside the library and paused in the hallway. Fuck. Jubilee and Kitty. He threw the door open and it hit the wall with a loud, satisfying thud.
Kitty yelped, nearly falling off the chair, while Jubilee merely turned a frown his way. "Hello." She had a large yellow latte mug in her hands, but even from across the room he could smell the sharp scent of alcohol.
"Get out," he answered flatly. He had no desire to deal with two drunken women.
Jubilee gave him a determined look. "Logan--"
"Out," he repeated, stalking closer, his patience wearing incredibly thin.
Despite his dangerous tone, Jubilee didn't flinch. "We're just hiding out from the kids for a little while." There weren't a lot of kids left, but they'd grown incredibly attached to Kitty and Jubilee after the incident at Alkali Lake.
"Do it somewhere else."
Kitty reached down and grabbed a half-empty bottle from the floor, holding it aloft with a sad smile. "We come bearing whiskey."
Logan froze. He made it a point never to drink whiskey, not while she was gone. Because whiskey was forever linked in his mind to grief. To mourning. And he would not mourn her. "Why whiskey?"
"Scott told us--"
Anger slammed into Logan. With a roar, he snagged the bottle from Kitty and hurled it at the wall. When he turned back to them, breathing hard, Kitty sat stock still, staring fixedly at his claws.
Jubilee was on her feet, eyes wide, hands out to the side in a conciliatory gesture. "Logan," she said quietly. "Logan, please, Scott just said that--"
"She," he grit out, "is *not* dead."
That stopped Jubilee cold, her mouth half-open. Kitty moved slowly, uncurling from her spot on the chair and moving to stand beside Jubilee. She was trembling just a little, but she didn't back away even though she couldn't stop looking at his claws. "You're right. Rogue isn't dead. We're going to find her."
Logan shook his head, turned away. "Get out." It took some effort, but he retracted the claws.
"He just said that he thought you liked whiskey, Logan," Jubilee said, words tumbling over each other in a rush. "That's all. I don't know -- we're not here to -- Dammit!"
"We're sorry, Logan," Kitty said softly. "We thought you could use some company. We thought -- we thought it might help."
He looked down at the floor, steadying his breathing, bringing himself back under control. Then he turned back to them. "Sorry," he said. He knew he should say more, should explain himself, but he couldn't find the words. "I'll buy you another bottle tomorrow."
Jubilee was still wide-eyed, but she mustered up some of her trademark bravada. "Make it tequila. That stuff sucks."
"Fine." The adrenaline coursed through his veins, and Logan knew he needed to get away. "You can stay if you want," he decided. "I'll go."
Kitty shook her head. "No. Logan--"
He stopped halfway to the door but didn't turn. "Leave it," he interrupted, his tone quiet. Danger Room. He'd go work off some of his anger. And then maybe, just maybe, he'd get some sleep.
Rogue only ever knew she was herself in the middle of the night.
At least, she *thought* it was the middle of the night, but she couldn't ever be sure. Her white room remained the same every second she was in there, so for all she knew, the drugs only abated enough to allow her coherence at high noon on alternate Tuesdays. It frustrated her, the complete lack of context for her life.
Or what was left of her life, which was to say that being strapped to a table for days and weeks on end with nothing to show for it but a growing weakness in her limbs was not the way she'd expected to spend her nineteenth year.
If she was still nineteen.
It was so damn hard to know anything for sure in here. She couldn't track the passage of time when her captors never, ever dimmed the lights. Although she wasn't sure she could trust her body, which was drugged up, every time she drifted back to consciousness in her room, she felt, somehow, that outside this hateful white place, outside this building with its hellish labs, stars softly twinkled down on all the free people.
Not that it was easy for her to think about outside.
In fact, she did her level best to never, ever think about what freedom had felt like or how the sunlight warmed her skin or what chocolate chip cookies tasted like. For one, it took a lot of mental energy just to survive in here without giving into the temptation of the soothing, blank whiteness of oblivion. For another, she'd put away childish hopes of escape long ago, so outside was a closed chapter in her life, one that she couldn't bear to think about.
But most importantly, she couldn't think about the outside because then she'd have to think about the one she'd lost.
She'd clung to his memory during those first wretched trips to the lab, telling herself lies, telling herself fairy tales about his ability to survive anything save a nuclear blast, telling herself he'd come for her.
But he hadn't, and the only reason she could think of for his failure to come after her was unacceptable. She refused to believe that he could be dead.
So as her hope sputtered and died, she took her memories of him and his soulful hazel eyes and his complete lack of fear of her skin and tucked him lovingly into a box in her mind. *His* memories were harder to put away, but she managed. It was a strange sort of comfort for her to know that one day, if the pain and the intrusive others became too much, she could join him in that small space, close the door behind her, and be done with it.
But that wasn't yet an option. Some stubborn part of her nature wouldn't let her give up quite so easily. So every night when she woke up sluggish but aware and thankfully, blissfully alone, she lay very still on her uncomfortable steel table for as long as she could, making sense of the growing chaos in her mind.
They kept her pretty heavily sedated whenever they took her to the lab, but she had enough sharp, terror-filled memories of the mutants they forced her to touch to know at least some of what was being done to her. Some sort of experiments on her skin. She thought she remembered testing afterwards, cold, logical measurements of how long she retained another's mutation.
In all honesty, she didn't give a rat's ass about their little tests. She struggled with the increasing number of thoughts and memories and impulses in her head that *weren't hers,* cursing those doctors for their hubris. On top of the growing collection of *others,* Rogue couldn't quite figure out which of her own memories were real, which were drug-induced fantasies, and which were her desperate attempts to escape the harsh reality in which she lived.
Sometimes it was easier to focus on the new, foreign memories. Tonight, it was a scared little boy who didn't want to die. She wasn't clear on his mutation -- she thought his skin might have a greenish cast to it, but wasn't sure if that was her own drugged memory or something he'd given her during the absorption. He was strong in her mind, his terror piercing through her carefully erected barriers and spiking her adrenaline.
Shifting restlessly on the table, Rogue groaned when her cramped muscles gave a spasm of protest. The only time they untied her was when Six-Five-Eight was in the room, controlling her.
That was worse than the memories careening around in her head. Six-Five-Eight was a telepath, but they'd... done something to her, something that made her into a conduit for the doctors. Six-Five-Eight would slither into Rogue's mind, take control of Rogue's body, and all Rogue could do was sit in the back corner of her own mind and rage.
It never did any good.
Rogue was surprised to feel tears tracking down her cheeks. The drug-induced fog rarely lifted enough for her to feel, enough for her to cry. Maybe the boy's panic and frustration coupled with her own despair gave her the little boost she needed. But as she lay there, gasping a little at the sudden sharp dread in her stomach, her over-sensitized hearing, the muscles in her body tensed for flight, she thought maybe it was better when the drugs kept this panic at a distance. Maybe she didn't want to feel, if fear and panic and anger and despair were all she had left.
*Indignation. That's what is was,* Rogue thought with wonder. She'd almost forgotten about this feeling, but tonight thinking about Six-Five-Eight's invasions, she felt positively indignant.
Six-Five-Eight made her see things, scary things, painful things. The professor's body. Scott's body. Ororo's body. *His* body.
And all the while Six-Five-Eight would take Rogue's body through its paces -- a treadmill, free weights, some light aerobics. She'd lost a lot of muscle being lashed to a bed for weeks on end, but this wasn't just light exercise for health. The rigorous training worried Rogue late at night when she was herself enough to think about the implications. They were testing her skin, but she couldn't figure out why they'd want her to get *stronger* while she was a prisoner and a lab rat.
Unless --
No. She wouldn't think about it anymore tonight. She couldn't, not when she was feeling things so very clearly. The truth glimmered in the darkness, but she knew if she saw it tonight, she would join *him* in that small, white place in her mind. Understanding whatever Six-Five-Eight was doing to her -- it would enough to shatter Rogue's fragile control over her own mind.
One more day, she told herself. Just try to make it through one more day, and then you can join *him.*
6:00 a.m. EST
Logan jerked awake with a start, his gaze flitting around the library before settling on his watch. He was more than a little surprised to realize he'd slept for nearly four hours at a stretch. He was generally forced to resort to catnaps throughout the day to be able to function -- a solid four hours without a nightmare was astounding.
Still, he felt a little guilty sleeping even on a marginally comfortable couch while she was enduring God knows what. He jumped up, trying to outstrip that thought before his vivid imagination tortured him once more with images of her, strapped down to a table--
No. He wasn't going to do that to himself. Not again. If he drove himself mad with worst-case scenarios, he couldn't find her and bring her back. And he *would* find her. End of story.
He stalked to the door, jerking it open and nearly tripping over a small box sitting on the floor in the hallway. Frowning, Logan squatted and picked it up.
Cigars.
Not Cubans, but not half bad. Jubilee and Kitty must have left them.
He sighed and rose to his feet, tearing the cellophane from the box and tossing it into the cleverly hidden wastebasket.
Logan reached the garage and paused at the workbench for a match. Cigar lit, he snatched the keys to the 4Runner and headed into town.
Kitty had some sort of search mechanism set up on the computer so that it collected potentially interesting articles for her, but Logan preferred to peruse hard copies. It was more satisfying to dig into a pile of the major American dailies -- plus the Toronto Globe & Mail -- each morning.
This morning, Logan greeted the teen-aged clerk at Sal's Liquor and Conveniences with his usual grunt and disappeared towards the back of the store. The small area of the store that housed the liquor was cordoned off, so Logan neatly sliced the rope, retrieved a bottle of Cuervo Gold, and marched back to the counter. He set it down atop an impressive stack of papers.
"Oh," said the flustered clerk. "Uh, we don't sell liquor before ten a.m."
Logan stared at him. "You sure about that?"
"Uh..." The clerk swallowed hard. "Well, I guess--"
"And a coffee. Black."
The kid nodded spasmodically. "Right. Okay."
Five minutes later, the tequila bottle was rolling around on top of the papers in the passenger seat every time Logan took a corner. It was still quiet when he reached the mansion, but Logan figured Scott would be up and around any time. Though they'd never discussed it, the two men had run into each other more than a couple times in the middle of the night, so Logan knew Scott didn't sleep particularly well anymore.
And even though Logan knew the incident with Jubilee and Kitty had been a misunderstanding, his irrational anger at Scott lingered. He wouldn't actually mind another go at Scott in the gym, but he figured he should wait until Scott did something legitimately stupid. Shouldn't be more than a couple of days.
Logan retreated to the library, setting his coffee on the large wooden reading table before spreading the papers out. He scanned every headline every day, and read at least the first couple pages of about half the stories, searching for some small hint, some small clue to where she was being held. He'd found enough scattered clues in various papers to set Scott and Ororo on the track of a few labs so far, but never hers.
He was halfway through the Times when Kitty appeared in the doorway. "Logan?" she asked, her tone low and the tiniest bit hesitant.
"Yeah," he answered, rubbing inky fingers over his eyes before turning to her.
She stood two steps into the room, posture a little less than straight, shadows under her eyes. Must be one hell of a hangover, he thought as she moved gingerly towards the table to place a printout in front of him.
"Out of Austin, Texas," she said. "Guy hit a pedestrian in the middle of the night out in hill country."
Logan arched a questioning eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Person who got hit gave off a--" She snagged the printout back and scanned the highlighted sections, "'an eerie green glow that scorched the ground around him, witnesses said.'"
Logan leaned back in his chair. "Okay. What makes you think--"
"He was in a hospital gown when he was hit," Kitty interrupted quickly. "And the article says he disappeared from the emergency room without signing himself out. No one knows the guy's name."
Logan swallowed his frustration -- they were getting better and better at discovering the locations of labs, but they never found anything on *her* -- and tried to smile. It felt more like a grimace. "Sounds like a lab. Get Scott on it."
"Already did," she answered, handing the highlighted paper back to him. "I'll let you know when we find out something good."
"Thanks." She was halfway to the door when he remembered. "Kitty."
She turned, surprised. "Yeah?"
Logan reached down and grabbed the tequila. "For you and Jubilee."
Whatever drug they gave Rogue in the mornings, it was strong enough to keep her out while they transported her to the labs. Same as always, she came to with a shriek when she felt the invasive rush of someone else's thoughts.
The pressure on her bare arm eased, and the chaos in her mind slackened slightly. His name was Charlie and he'd been captured in a bar in Iowa and he was absolutely terrified of her. *That* was the girl with the skin, *that* was the girl the rest of the mutants had nightmares about.
*I don't wanna touch her. Please, please, don't make me touch her.*
*No,* she thought. *I'm Rogue.* Rogue, not Charlie.
She was Rogue and she was in the lab and they'd just made Charlie touch her.
She forced her eyes open, made herself look around at the rows of metal exam tables, a few of them occupied by unmoving mutants. This was real. The lab was real. *She* was real.
With every influx of foreign thoughts and memories it was harder and harder to convince herself.
The lab was more terrifying than the endless white of her cell. Here, impassive faces studied her closely as she writhed in pain and rage, as their carefully gloved hands pressed unwitting victims against her flesh.
She hated looking over at the mutants strapped to the table next to hers. She hated *knowing* how much they feared her. She wanted to apologize to them, even though she knew that no one on the other end of her particular power could ever hate it as much as she did.
This morning, as her three tormentors stared at her, scribbling notes onto clipboards, Rogue rolled her head to the side and was shocked to find the table beside hers empty. No. Not empty.
She blinked a few times, wondering if this was actually a nightmare. Because the mutant in the bed beside her was... transparent. Well, not entirely. His body shimmered into sight a few times as she watched in mute fascination. He was something like a chameleon, his form fading in and out of sight.
Her horror mounting, Rogue looked down at her own body, past the damp, sweaty gown that covered her from shoulders to knees, to -- nothing.
Sheer, blinding panic hit her, and she bucked against the restraints. The sight of seemingly empty leather straps bouncing around where her limbs should be only made it worse.
She was screaming again, wordless, incoherent sounds of pure terror, even as the doctors watched her with mild interest.
"Fading," one of them said, perking up. Rogue's terrified gaze shifted from his hateful face to the air where her arm should be --
Her skin. Oh, thank God. Her cursed skin was visible now, fading in and out like a radio station in the middle of the desert. She nearly cried with relief as her body reappeared, gasping in large, calming breaths, trying to bring her heart rate down.
But one of the doctors moved forward, reaching toward Charlie, and Rogue's terror spiraled higher.
This time, her screams made sense. This time, she yelled "No" over and over and over again.
The doctors paid her protests no attention as they moved Charlie closer. He faded out of sight again, but sluggishly, as he drew closer and closer to her skin.
Rogue jerked her body to one side, away from the inevitable contact. Her arm was strapped to the edge of the table, and she couldn't get far enough away.
"No," she shouted as she felt the heat of Charlie's hand approaching her arm. "No!"
And then his struggling fingers pressed against her forearm and--
Nothing.
Rogue froze, her entire body taut, bracing for the onslaught.
Nothing.
It never came. She gasped in a breath, wide eyes fixed on the small indents in her flesh where three invisible fingers were *touching* her. An irrational laugh bubbled up and she couldn't seem to stop it.
The professor had worked with her for a year, telling her that a calm, centered, focused mind was the key to controlling her mutation. As it turned out, pure, unadultered, animal terror seemed to do the trick.
The frowning doctors moved around her, pulling another mutant over, pressing a delicate indigo hand against Rogue's leg.
Nothing.
Nothing but the unfamiliar feel of bare skin against her own.
As uncontrollable laughter overtook her, Rogue wondered if this was what insanity felt like.
12:00 p.m. EST
Bobby entered the conference room with a grim look. "I got something," he said, glancing around at the group, his gaze settling on Logan. "But you're not going to like it."
Scott, Ororo, Hank, Jubilee, and Kitty sat in a neat little row along one side of the conference table, while Remy and Logan lounged across from the others, several empty seats between them. Surprised that Bobby seemed to be addressing him, Logan immediately tensed. Something he wouldn't like, Bobby'd said.
Logan refused to think of her, refused to think that it could be something about her. Not if it was bad news. "What?" he growled.
Bobby blinked, then stepped forward and dropped into an empty chair. "I used the description Jubilee got out of the driver to convince one of the nurses that young Lenny is my brother."
Kitty gave Jubilee a puzzled look. "Wait -- how'd you get a description?"
"Called him up and turned on the charm," Jubilee answered, letting tears pool in her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with tears. "Are you sure, mister? My brother has light brown hair, too. I just know it was him. Were his eyes blue?" She shrugged, snapping out of it. "Men love that damsel crap."
"Be that as it may," Scott remarked, turning his attention back to Bobby. "What did you find out?"
"Lenny disappeared from the emergency room while the doctors were waiting on his psychiatric consult. He was pretty banged up, but they figure he must've woken up and left under his own power."
"How do we know he didn't?" Logan demanded.
"We don't," Bobby answered. "He may have. That part doesn't really matter. The nurse told me that Lenny was incoherent, that he kept talking about a secret lab and government experiments and--" Bobby stopped, swallowed hard. "He said the government was turning a mutant into a weapon."
Fuck.
A weapon.
Logan ignored the curious looks from Jubilee and the sympathetic expression on Kitty's face, glancing instead at Scott's impassive countenance. "Might be another one with a healing factor."
Another one condemned to endless manipulation, like Logan had been. Like Stryker's pet mutant had been. God, he hated remembering that fight. She'd understood, right at the end, and the look on her face -- Logan had killed far more than his share of bad and not-so-bad guys, but that fight, that woman who was so damn much like him -- she haunted him.
Ororo gave Logan a worried look. "I thought that program died with Stryker."
"Who can say?" Scott answered with a hint of discouragement in his tone. "There might be a different power they're trying to exploit."
"A power like yours," Hank said slowly, studying Scott with narrowed eyes. "A potentially destructive, extremely strong mutative power that cannot be controlled without external modifications."
Jubilee tilted her head a bit as she gave Scott an appraising look. "Remotely activated visor," she said. "Yeah, that would be--"
"Bad," Kitty interrupted. "Very bad.
"You wouldn't need no remote control," Remy offered. "Not when you got--"
"Telepaths under their control," Scott interrupted, his tone grim. Logan wasn't the only one with emotional scars from Alkali Lake. Scott had endured the hell of being trapped, powerless, in his own body.
"How do we find the lab?" Logan demanded. Slight change of subject, but jawing about what the government was planning to do wouldn't bring them any closer to stopping the weaponized mutant project. Finding the lab would.
Kitty perked up. "Oh. Easy. Search for government-owned property in the area surrounding where the accident happened. Check the ownership of adjacent lots. Find a dummy corporation, and voila!"
Logan and the others stared at her, slightly dumbfounded by her enthusiasm for so boring a task. Logan and computers existed in a state of mutual distrust, so he was more than happy to leave the computing to Kitty, who for some unfathomable reason seemed to like the damn things.
With a brisk nod, Logan gained his feet and headed for the door. "Find me when you've got it."
He was halfway down the hall before he heard Scott call his name. With a sigh, Logan half-turned. "What?"
Scott moved closer, tension obvious in his stiff frame. "Jubilee and Kitty--"
"Let's not do this," Logan suggested, turning away.
"It was a conversation about the merits of tequila versus other liquors. It was an offhand remark. I had no idea they would--" Scott stopped. "I had no idea."
Logan couldn't turn around. "Don't worry about it."
Neither man spoke for several long moments. "We'll find her," Scott said quietly.
"Yeah." Logan cleared his throat. "I'll be in the library."
"Right," Scott said. "Oh, and Logan?"
"What?"
"Save me the sports section, would you? The Giants played last night."
It was so unexpected that Logan almost smiled. Instead, he flashed Scott an acerbic look and disappeared into the library.
Rogue looked around in amazement. She was outside.
*Outside.*
She'd laughed and laughed and laughed in that hateful lab, delighted by the growing anger on the faces of the doctors, relieved by her seeming control over her own skin. At last.
And then they'd pumped her full of drugs, and she'd woken up outside.
Lying in sparkling emerald grass, surrounded by so many colors and sounds and smells it was nearly overwhelming. Trees in a thousand shades of green. Not far away, deep blue water gurgled past in a cheerful little brook. She could hear birds chirping to each other and the soft breeze tickling the leaves.
She was *outside.*
Rogue grinned, climbing awkwardly to her feet on unsteady limbs. Her hands were bare. The rough cotton hospital gown was gone. Instead, she wore a simple green sundress.
Turning in slow circles, Rogue inhaled deeply. She spun faster and faster, the warm blue sky whirling crazily as she tilted her head back.
She was *free.*
"Stop."
Rogue jerked to a stop. No. No, no, no.
Not that voice. Not *her.*
She stood there in the summer sunshine and ran her desperate gaze over her surroundings, looking for the flaw that would tell her this was all in her mind, memorizing the feel of sun-warmed skin in case it *stopped.*
"Let me access your power, and you may stay here."
No.
Someone whimpered, but Rogue couldn't be sure if it was her. Not when Six-Five-Eight was in her mind, making her taste freedom just so she would break when it was torn away again.
Rogue crouched down, placing her palms flat on the ground. She willed herself to feel cool concrete instead of sun-drenched soil. She turned her face up to the sun, searching for harsh fluorescence.
Nothing worked. It all felt so damn real. So damn good.
She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to be real.
She wanted to *know* what was reality.
"Let me out!" Rogue's scream echoed and she knew -- she *knew* -- that it wasn't real. This was Six-Five-Eight's creation. Freedom was a myth she'd believed in as a young girl, and reality hit her so hard she thought she was should be bleeding.
"Let your power free," Six-Five-Eight demanded.
Rogue refused without words, holding tighter to that tiny bit of control, that tiny bit of animal terror that she'd accessed when she turned invisible, when she'd stopped her skin from absorbing others. Six-Five-Eight could make her crazy, could make her want to die, but she couldn't make Rogue give up her secret.
It was all she had left.
Rogue felt her body turning, felt Six-Five-Eight taking full control of her muscles. She started to fight back, and then she saw it.
The mansion. Several hundred yards from her, peeking out at her from its ring of stately trees.
Her breath caught and her vision blurred with sudden tears. Xavier's School for Gifted Children. She could practically smell the lemon pledge she used to clean the wooden paneling.
"No," Rogue moaned. "Let me out of this." But she took a step towards the mansion, and she wasn't sure who willed it -- Six-Five-Eight or Rogue.
This false promise, this echo of her past -- it was far, far worse than any of Six-Five-Eight's previous mind games. Worse than graphic images of Bobby's bullet-ridden body, of Jubilee's pale, still, lifeless form.
Those images Rogue rejected with everything she had left, even the images of *his* body after a three-story fall. Especially that image. Any one of those images could be real, but Rogue refused to let herself believe. She didn't *want* to believe in that reality.
The mansion, though, and everything it represented -- sunshine, trees, peace, friends, laughter, love -- those things she wanted desperately. Those images she couldn't quite make herself reject, because more than anything, she *wanted* them.
She itched to run toward the mansion, to give Six-Five-Eight whatever she wanted if it meant that Rogue could be back at Xavier's, be back in a time when the professor was alive and *he* was alive and they were all happy. Her hands fisted at her sides as she struggled with herself.
"Rogue," Six-Five-Eight sang, and Rogue knew *this* would be her torture now, the sight of that sun-dappled mansion. "Let me use your power and I'll let you stay here."
Rogue tried to shake her head, but Six-Five-Eight was in control. All Rogue could do was scream inside her own mind.
"Rogue."
No.
"*Look.*"
She tried to keep her eyes closed, tried to avert her gaze, but Six-Five-Eight was controlling her body. Six-Five-Eight made her see *him.* The sight of him, even from such a distance, slammed into Rogue, leaving her breathless and aching.
Logan.
Logan, squinting a little in the sunlight, leaning against a stone balustrade, puffing on a cigar.
God. *Logan.*
She felt the wetness of tears on her cheeks put paid them no attention. She just stared at him, at his beat up leather jacket, at his ridiculous hair, at his faded jeans, and she longed for him with an intensity that hurt.
"Let me," Six-Five-Eight whispered.
No, no, no.
Logan blinked out of existence and Rogue gave a keening wail. "No!"
"I'll bring him back," Six-Five-Eight offered.
Rogue crumpled, cradling her head in her hands as Six-Five-Eight allowed her temporary control. "No," Rogue said aloud, her voice tremulous to her own ears.
"Yes."
"No!"
A laugh. "I'll be back."
Rogue opened her eyes to the familiar blinding white of her cell, the drying tears on her cheeks the only evidence of what she thought just happened. "No," she said again, and she tried not to let herself remember his face.
6:00 p.m. EST
Logan crouched behind a small shrub twenty feet from the back door of DBI Corp., sweating in the twilight. There was a dusting of snow on the ground when they'd left New York, and the oppressive heat since they'd landed made Logan feel like they'd traveled to August, not Texas. He tugged at the high collar of his uniform, easing the sweat-soaked leather away from his skin, and scanned the building.
It was fairly nondescript: large, beige, with rows of tinted windows, just like a thousand office parks in the area. But this one was 100 yards from the a Department of Human Security field office, and if Logan hadn't been sure this was a lab before, the well-hidden, high-tech security in place would have convinced him.
They'd honed their plan of attack these last couple months. Scott, Jubilee, and Remy took the front door; Ororo went high on surveillance; Kitty and Bobby, like Logan, waited around back for the go signal. When Scott got inside, Kitty moved in, slipping through walls and ceilings in search of the holding cells so they'd know numbers when they got there. Bobby guarded the back door until the building was secured.
Logan took the labs. And he did it alone because he liked to have a little chat with the good doctors before they were killed in battle. Or by Logan's hand. Whatever came first.
Scott gave the signal and Logan was inside, his senses leading him unerringly toward the sharp, metallic and medicinal scent of the labs. He traveled the length of one dreary beige hallway, moving silently on cheap government tile.
One white coat. Another. Out of a double door and moving toward him. Moving fast.
Logan impaled the first and the second doctor froze, eyes wide in terror. Logan advanced, backing him into the sickly beige wall. The scent of fear flooded the air and Logan grinned. "Where's the weapon?"
The doctor's eyes widened. "I don't know--"
With a roar, Logan punched his claws into the wall beside the doctor's head. "Try again." He wrinkled his nose at the sudden, acrid smell of urine.
"I -- I -- I--"
"Sentences," Logan growled, scanning the doctor's badge for a name. "Tell me where the weapon is. Tell me what you did to him."
The doctor -- Vandergraaf -- shook his head almost convulsively. "No. We're just -- testing."
Fuck. Logan struggled not to kill this one, not yet. "More metal accessories?" he spat out, resting the tips of his claws on Vandergraaf's neck. "You found another one like me to mutilate?"
Vandergraaf breathed in gasps. "No, no, no. We didn't hurt her. We just -- we tested her -- her--"
"Stop stuttering," Logan ground out.
"Don't kill me," Vandergraaf pleaded, tears streaking down his cheeks. "Please, I'll tell you anything. Just don't kill me."
Logan considered the offer for a moment, torn between ripping the man's guts out and letting him live long enough to tell Logan something -- *anything* -- that might help him put an end to this weaponizing of mutants. He retracted the claws on one hand and wrapped it around Vandergraaf's neck, pushing him forward. "Let's go." Logan activated his comm device. "Don't suppose we have handcuffs."
Scott, sounding almost amused. "You don't typically take prisoners."
Logan pushed the doctor into the closest lab, recoiling a bit at the smells and sounds that haunted his nightmares. The electronic beep of machines, the slow drip of IVs, the assault of alcohol fumes, of bleach, of unwashed bodies. He inhaled once, slowly, to get past the initial shock, then glanced around. "I've got four unconscious in the labs," Logan reported, steering Vandergraaf toward an empty exam table.
"Wait -- What--?" the man protested weakly.
"Hop up," Logan ordered with a dangerous smile.
"But -- but--"
Logan waved his claws closer. "You have two choices."
Vandergraaf climbed onto the table, his entire body trembling. "Please. Please."
"Shut up." Logan pressed the man down, fastening the lather straps around the doctor's wrists, around his ankles. "Feels a little different being the one tied down, eh?"
"Please--"
"Don't make me repeat myself." Logan turned away from the sniveling doctor, checking each injured mutant. His anger kicked up a notch with each ring of bruises on their thin wrists, with each whiff of sluggish, drug-dulled fear. He was so preoccupied with his rage, so overwhelmed by the sheer number of overpowering smells in the room, that it took him longer than it should have to identify her scent.
Logan froze, head cocked, and inhaled slowly, deeply, trembling with the effort of restraint. He couldn't be wrong. He couldn't bear it if he was wrong.
No. There it was again.
Marie's scent.
A rushing in his ears, a sharp, familiar pain between his knuckles, and Logan looked around wildly. She wasn't there. He'd already checked every mutant in the room. Breathing erratically, Logan took three steps, jerking to a halt at the edge of an empty metal exam table.
Marie. Definitely Marie.
He leaned in, running his fingers over the leather cuffs. She was terrified and furious and -- happy? But mostly she was terrified.
Logan was hovering over the doctor, claws pressed to his throat, almost before he realized he'd moved. "What the fuck did you do to her?" he roared.
Vandergraaf's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
"Where is she?" Logan demanded, pointing one shaking finger at the table where she'd been tortured. "Where--?"
"Logan?" Kitty over the comm, and he knew from the tone of her voice who she'd found.
"Where?" Logan answered, already running toward the stairs.
"Fourth floor," Kitty answered.
He slammed his shoulder into the door, nearly separating it from its hinges in his adrenaline-fueled haste.
Ororo then. "Who?"
Half a flight up, steps take two at a time.
"Rogue," Kitty said, her voice conveying her wonder. "We found Rogue."
One more flight.
"Logan, do you need--?"
"The doctor's in the lab," Logan interrupted, rounding the last turn in the stairwell.
"I'm on it." Scott this time. "Bobby? Meet me in the lab."
"Copy," Bobby answered.
Logan ignored them. "Don't go near her, Kitty," he ordered.
Two more stairs and Logan burst into the hallway, running towards Kitty. Eyes wide, she took half a step toward the wall, pressing one hand to the door. "Here."
Logan had his claws extended, poised to rip through the door, but Kitty said, "Wait. She's..."
"What?" *She can't be dead,* he thought. *She can't be dead.* Everything hung on Kitty's answer, possibly Logan's own sanity. He couldn't have found her too late. "She's what?"
"I just--" Kitty stopped, fumbling for words. "She looks pretty bad."
Logan gave a quick, jerky nod. "Yeah." And then he forced his way into the cell, not noticing the effort, dull pain throbbing through his arms as he cut through metal, just wanting to see -- God. Marie.
*Marie.*
She was unconscious, her slight form clad only in a rough cotton hospital gown, her arms and legs rail thin.
Logan inhaled. Dried sweat and residual fear and an undercurrent of drugged drowsiness. He felt a strange stinging at the back of his throat, but couldn't be bothered to identify it.
Marie was alive and he'd found her. Finally. She was okay. She was pale and her skin clung fiercely to her bones and her hair lacked its usual luster, but she was breathing he could fix the rest.
Logan realized he'd been standing still, just staring at her in disbelief. He took two steps and reached down, gloved fingers fumbling with the straps for a moment before he chose expediency, popping one claw to slice through the leather bonds. Tenderly, he set her free, then leaned closer, running the tips of his fingers over her cheek.
"Marie?" God, his voice sounded odd. He cleared his throat, tried again.
Scott, via the comm device. "Logan, how is she?"
Logan ripped out his earpiece while Kitty answered, "She's -- she's alive, Scott."
Logan ignored everything in the room except the woman on the table. "Marie?"
Slowly, slowly, those deep, brown eyes fluttered open, a little glassy from the drugs. She blinked once, twice, before her gaze locked on him.
"Marie?" Logan said, taking one lax hand in his. "Marie, it's me."
She stared up at him, and for one brief moment, he saw hope and recognition and relief in her face. Then it disappeared and she shook her head. "Go away," she ordered in a flat tone, her _expression eerily blank.
"Marie?"
"It's not going to work," she said, her voice rough with disuse.
"What's not--?"
Marie pulled her hand away and Logan flinched.
"Don't touch me," she ordered, genuine fear in her voice. "You can't make me believe you. You're not him."
Oh, God. What did they do to her?
When Rogue jerked her hand away from the apparition Logan, it occurred to her rather belatedly -- distracted as she was by the heartbreaking image of *Logan* -- that her hand was free. Startled, Rogue brought her arm up and stared stupidly at her bruised wrist. Why wasn't she tied down?
"Marie, it's okay," Fake-Logan said in Real-Logan's voice. "You're safe now."
Not safe. Definitely not safe if Six-Five-Eight was fucking with her head again. Or still. Whatever. Six-Five-Eight was making her see Logan again, and that meant that safe was the *last* thing Rogue was.
Rogue decided to ignore the trick-Logan. Instead, she tried to move her other hand and was amazed to discover that it, too, was free. She took short, panicked breaths as she sat up, groaning a little at the unfamiliar movement. What was this? Why was Six-Five-Eight pretending that Rogue was somehow free?
She reached down for her ankles, but the leather straps binding them were already unfastened. What was going on? Why was Logan there?
*No. He's not here,* she told herself. *It's another of Six-Five-Eight's little worlds.*
"Marie?"
It hurt too much to look at the pretend Logan, at his tortured hazel eyes and those unruly muttonchops. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and weep in relief that he'd survived.
But he hadn't, he couldn't have, so that meant Six-Five-Eight must finally have discovered Rogue's weak spot -- her secret, cherished belief that Logan would find her. As many times as she told herself that he'd died, that she'd given up on rescue, the mere sight of him rekindled that pointless hope. And as cruel as the images of the mansion had been, this was infinitely worse.
And this time it wasn't idyllic, like the mansion. She wasn't wearing a sundress or standing in a grassy field, feeling warm and happy and at peace. Instead, she was in her hated cotton gown in her hated cell, and she felt sore and tired and sluggish. But somewhere in there was the bright flash of hope that this was real, that *Logan* was real.
But he couldn't be real and she couldn't give in. No more absorbing people into her fractured mind.
She rolled awkwardly off the exam table, collapsing into a heap when her trembling legs refused to hold her. The cold concrete floor shocked her awake, freezing her feet, her knees, her palms.
Logan was beside her instantly, and without thinking, she turned to him, reaching up one bare hand. "Logan."
No. *Not* Logan.
"Yes, Marie. It's Logan." He sounded so relieved, so worried for her, that Rogue nearly crumbled.
"No." She said again, shrinking back when he tried to touch her. "Don't!"
Rogue scooted backwards, glancing around wildly. Out. She needed to get out. If her hands were free, maybe her cell door was unlocked. Later, she'd wake up in the unrelenting white and cry tears of bitter disappointment, but right now, she needed to try. What if it was real and she just curled into a ball until the doctors showed up?
She *knew* it couldn't be real, but if nothing else, leaving this hateful room would get her away from the almost-Logan before she gave in to temptation.
God, she wanted it to be Logan so badly. She told herself to concentrate on escape, on learning where the hallways led.
"Marie, please." He sounded so sincere, so *real.* "Let me help you."
No, no, no. "I won't let you control it," Rogue yelled, but she wasn't sure if she screamed aloud or just in her head. It was so damn confusing when Six-Five-Eight was making her see things.
"Marie--"
"No!"
She heard a gasp and turned, and there were Kitty and Ororo and Scott. Alive. Something inside of her leaned toward them, throwing her further off balance.
Oh, thank God. They were alive and they'd come to get her out of this hellhole before -- No.
Rogue blinked, confused. Six-Five-Eight usually showed Rogue their dead, mutilated bodies; she must have figured out that false images of the X-Men coming to her rescue would be infinitely more painful. When Rogue woke up from this hallucination, she thought she'd probably be broken.
She wondered if that meant that it was time to join Logan in the sealed room in her mind. *Her* Logan would never hurt her, but Six-Five-Eight's Logan -- who knew?
"Rogue." Scott spoke, sounding just like himself. "We need to get you out of here."
*Please, get me out of here. Please, please, take me home.*
"Leave her alone," Logan growled, still crouched beside her. His hands were out, palms up, like he couldn't decide whether to reach for her or show her he wasn't a threat.
It was so perfectly *Logan* that Rogue studied him closely. He stared back wordlessly, allowing her to assess him, his expression pained but hopeful. She glanced at Scott, nearly unreadable with his visor on; at Kitty, biting her lip and looking back and forth between the door and Rogue; at Ororo, who was watching Rogue with empathy.
Ororo dipped her chin to acknowledge Rogue's gaze and asked, "What do you need from us, Rogue, to believe we're here to bring you home?"
Rogue felt the tears on her cheeks. "No," she told Six-Five-Eight. "I don't believe you. This isn't real." She buried her face in her hands, curling in on herself, blocking them out.
"Logan, no." Scott again, sounding alarmed and, underneath that, annoyed. Just like he always sounded when dealing with Logan.
Rogue swallowed a sob, nearly missing Logan's reply.
"She needs to know that it's me."
And Rogue knew, then, that it wasn't.
She heard the creak of leather as he moved beside her, and then the gentle heat of his palm pressed against her ankle. His bare palm.
Rogue shuddered at the sensation, then took in an unsteady breath, refusing to let the connection open. Not even to feel Logan in her head again. Because it couldn't be Logan, or he wouldn't be asking her to use her powers. Unless it was Logan and he was real and he wasn't Six-Five-Eight's cruel delusion.
God. Why couldn't Rogue just figure out what was true and what wasn't?
The utter silence registered, and Rogue peered up at the shocked faces watching her. She gathered her strength and glared at the fake Logan. But he wasn't meeting her gaze. He was staring in slackjawed wonder at his hand. At his fingers resting on her bare skin.
"Marie," Logan whispered in awe. "What happened?"
"I can control it," she answered without thinking, before she could remind herself that he wasn't who he was.
And then he swept her into his embrace, pressed her against that familiar leather, that familiar body. And she was crying, now, but that didn't matter. Because he *smelled* like Logan and he hadn't known about her control and if he wasn't real, then maybe she didn't want to be real either.
Ororo spoke softly. "Logan, we really need to go."
"Yeah," Logan answered gruffly, his face pressed into Rogue's hair. "I've got her.
The desperation of his embrace, the depth of emotion in his voice -- it convinced her that maybe, just maybe, this was real. Maybe this was really *Logan.*
Rogue held on tighter and gave in, turning her face into his skin. "Logan?" she asked in a small voice.
"Yeah, Marie," he answered, pulling her upright. "It's me."
Midnight EST
Logan didn't remember much of the trip back to New York.
The others had focused their attentions on the rescued mutants, leaving Logan to care for a shellshocked, shivering Marie. Bobby'd brought over a pair of Marie's sweats, and Logan coaxed her into putting them on under the hospital gown. She'd watched him with wide, suspicious eyes as he carefully maneuvered the cloth over her legs and up, his fingers skimming along her pale, pale skin. Still a little stunned himself, he'd tucked her into her sweatshirt and zipped it up. She'd been gone less than two months, but the clothes hung on her.
He'd gathered her stiff form to his side and settled her next to him in the back corner.
"Sleep," he'd told her, his gaze catching on the shadows under her eyes, the near-translucence of her skin.
She'd shaken her head stubbornly. "No," she'd said, her voice low and haunted. "I don't -- I don't want to sleep."
"I'll wake you if you start to dream," Logan had promised.
Marie had bowed her head, hiding her expression behind the veil of her hair. He'd thought she said, "That's what I'm afraid of," but when he'd asked her to repeat it, she'd forced a wan smile and said, "Nothing. I'd rather stay awake."
Despite her protestations, she'd eventually relaxed against him and slept fitfully, but so deeply that she didn't wake even when Logan picked her up and carried her into the mansion.
Hank was waiting, impatient to see her, to make sure she was okay. He beamed at Logan and fell into step. "I'd like to do a cursory exam--"
"Not here," Logan interrupted curtly. He wasn't about to let Marie wake up in the medlab, so Hank followed them up to their room. Logan lay her gently on the bed, then backed off so that Hank could examine her quickly. He made sure he was in her line of sight, though, in case she woke up.
The doctor clucked his disgust when he pushed her sleeves up and saw the old and new bruising around her wrists. "Bastards," he murmured darkly. He pressed a finger to her wrist and counted heartbeats, calculating her pulse. "A little slow," he commented. "Is she drugged?"
"I think so," Logan answered. He couldn't seem to stop staring at her, as if he looked away, she would disappear.
Hank reached down and pulled out the sphygmomanometer , looping it around Marie's arm. As he tightened the cuff around her arm, Marie jerked awake and pushed away from Hank, backing up into the corner of the bed. "No!" She was shaking, her hands flung up in front of her.
"Marie." Logan dropped to his knees beside the bed, placing his hands palms down on the bed so he wouldn't loom over her like the doctors had. "Marie, it's okay. You're at the mansion. You're safe."
She stared at him suspiciously for a long, tense moment. Then her features softened into hope. "Logan?"
"Yeah, darlin'. It's me." He shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, still a couple feet away from her.
"You were shot," she said, her voice unsteady. But her hands dropped down and away, curling convulsively into the bedspread beneath her. "You fell."
Logan grimaced. "Yeah."
Marie's expression was a strange mixture of hope and dread, and she'd tensed up so much that her legs were shaking. "I thought you were dead."
"No, Marie," he said. "I survived. I woke up a few hours later on the jet."
She ducked her head, seemingly mulling that over. "You -- you came to the lab?" she asked, obviously trying to piece things together in her mind. Her eyes were less cloudy than before, so Logan figured the drugs were starting to make their way out of her system.
"Yes," Logan answered. "We found you. We've been looking, Marie, this whole time."
Marie nodded slowly. "Okay." She looked over at Hank, who was still doing his best to blend into the furniture. Not an easy task for a large, blue, furred man. "Hank," Rogue greeted, a bit of happiness in her voice now. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all, my dear," Hank answered, returning to the bed to remove the sphygmomanometer still dangling from her arm. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."
Marie dipped her chin, those brown eyes glancing over at Logan. "I don't think they -- They didn't really hurt me. Physically."
Logan flinched. What the fuck had they done to her mind?
Hank merely nodded, impassive. "You're a little malnourished, Rogue, and you've got some bruising on your ankles and wrists. Might I draw a little blood to identify the sedative in your bloodstream?"
Marie agreed, and Logan held her hand while Hank drew her blood. Logan wasn't a fan of needles, but tonight he was too busy marveling at the feel of Marie's skin against his. Hank gave them both a reassuring smile. "Get some rest, Rogue. You'll be surprised how much better you'll feel."
As he turned to go, Marie flashed Logan a sardonic smile, sharing his amusement at the idea that sleep for those with nightmares was at all restful. The brief connection loosened some of the rigid tightness inside of him, and he began to let himself relax, to let himself really understand that Marie was back. Marie was *here.*
The silence spooled out until Marie shifted uncomfortably. "I--"
A knock at the door and Logan groaned in frustration as Rogue's body went rigid with tension.
"Jubilee, Kitty, and Bobby," he told her. "Do you want me to chase them off?"
She considered for a moment. "No." Marie took a deep breath, gathering her inner reserves. He was so damn proud of her as she moved cautiously to the edge of the bed, ignoring the trembling in her limbs, and raised her voice. "Come in."
They spilled into the room, staring awkwardly at Marie until Jubilee mumbled something that sounded like "what the fuck am I doing?" and bounded to Marie's side. Marie inhaled sharply as Jubes engulfed her in a hug, and Logan shifted, getting ready to pull the exuberant girl away. He wasn't at all surprised, though, when Marie brought her arms up and returned Jubilee's hug briefly.
The rest of the X-Men, Logan included, had nothing on Marie when it came to bravery. She'd been through hell and back, she'd been tortured for seven weeks and four days, and she still managed to keep her fears under control long enough to reassure her friends.
"Thank God you're back!" Jubilee said, pulling back and dropping beside Marie on the edge of the bed. "I was temporarily outnumbered in the great Beatles versus Stones controversy."
Laughing, Kitty moved closer. She smiled down at Marie. "Can I...?" she asked, holding out one hand.
Marie glanced at Logan for a moment, then looked down at her own bare hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. After a moment, she smiled shakily and reached out one ungloved hand. "Sure." Kitty clasped Marie's hand, and Marie stared at their intertwined fingers, awe and a little bit of pride on her face.
Logan glanced over at Bobby, who still stood just inside the doorway, shifting his weight nervously. Bobby met his gaze.
"The, uh, the doctor," Bobby said. "In the lab?"
Logan cocked his head to one side. "Yeah?"
"He's -- I, uh..." Bobby shrugged. "I took care of it."
Logan watched the younger man, knowing from his conflicted _expression that Bobby had never killed before, at least not like that. Nodding slowly, Logan said, "Good. Thank you."
Bobby looked like he didn't know how to respond to that. He hooked a thumb towards the door. "I'm gonna--"
"Bobby," Marie said, beckoning him closer. "I'm still a little drugged up. You gonna make me walk over there to hug you?" She gave him a brilliant smile, and Logan relaxed a tiny bit more at the sight. She was still jittery as hell, but in typical Marie fashion, she'd decided that she wanted to be happy to see her friends, and she was, fears be damned.
"No," Bobby answered a little sheepishly, closing the distance between them to give her a fierce hug.
"You're tired, chica," Jubilee announced. She pointed at Marie and Kitty's joined hands. "This *rocks.* We'll catch up tomorrow."
Shadows flitted across Marie's face at the prospect. "Sure," she replied quietly.
Kitty gently let Marie's hand go, and followed Bobby and Jubilee out.
Logan stayed quiet, reading the weariness and relief in Marie's body language. That little display had taken a lot out of her, and regardless of the nightmares that would come later, she needed sleep. "You really should rest, Marie."
She glanced at him, then away. "Logan--" Another knock. Logan groaned again, but Marie gave him an amused look, took a steadying breath, and called out, "Come in."
Ororo, then Scott. They approached her confidently, Ororo bending down to give Marie a welcoming hug. Marie pulled away quickly, still breathing a little too quickly and shallowly for Logan's tastes, and forced a smile. Scott arched a questioning eyebrow, and when Marie nodded permission, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home," he said.
"Thank you," she said, more than a hint of Mississippi in her voice.
Ororo touched Logan's arm gently. "We'll let you both get some rest. But we wanted to see you once more tonight."
Marie nodded her understanding. "Thanks. Really," she said, her voice catching a little, her words softened by her drawl. "For -- for everything." She and Ororo had tears shining in their eyes, but neither woman broke.
When Ororo pulled the door closed, Marie sagged a little, one hand rubbing absently at her temple.
"You okay?"
She gave him a tired smile. "I think the drug hangover's kicking in. How long was I gone?"
Logan blinked, not expecting that question so soon. "Seven weeks and four days," he answered.
Seven weeks and four days.
Rogue blinked once, then again, looking at Logan but not seeing him as she compared the truth to the tally she'd kept in her head. "I was close," she said finally, her voice wistful to her own ears.
Logan watched her carefully. "Close?"
"I was up to six weeks, six days," she answered ruefully. "Guess I lost a few days somewhere. They--" She stopped, cleared her throat. "They left the lights on all the time. Made it kind of hard to keep track."
Logan bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
She reached for him without thinking, her bare hand automatically coming to rest on his denim-clad leg, avoiding exposed skin without even thinking about it. "For what?"
"For letting them take you," he answered, his tone rough. "For taking seven weeks and four days to find you."
"Logan." She took a breath and reached up, grazing her bare fingers against his chin, urging him to meet her gaze. "Don't. I thought you were *dead.* I thought I was as good as dead. Don't apologize."
He nodded, but she could tell her absolution didn't do anything to ameliorate his self-loathing. "You're tired," he said, finally meeting her eyes without flinching. "You want to sleep for a while?"
She glanced down at herself, at the bottom half of the cotton gown showing below her sweatshirt. She sniffed cautiously, then grimaced. God. How embarrassing. "I need to shower," she decided, and suddenly she needed that damn gown off of her *now.* She wanted it *off*, and she wanted to turn the faucet as hot as it would go to burn the accumulated filth and sweat and humiliation from her skin.
"Hey."
Rogue looked up, startled. Belatedly, she realized she'd been tugging angrily at her sweatshirt. She looked away from Logan's concerned gaze.
"Get undressed," he told her. "I'll start the water."
She nodded, staring down at her hands. Everything that had happened -- the enormity of her control, of her rescue -- it was beginning to sink in. She was starting to let herself believe it.
Rogue crawled to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over the side. With trembling fingers, she unzipped the familiar sweatshirt, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingertips before shrugging it off. Then she tore the hated gown over her head, tossing it to the floor.
She stared down at her naked torso, dispassionately noting the scattered bruises, skimming her shaking fingers over the pronounced ridges of her ribs.
"Marie--" Logan stopped short in the doorway. He was backlit by the fluorescent bathroom light, and she couldn't read his expression. But she could see the tension in the lines of his body, in his fisted hands. "I drew you a bath," he said finally.
"Thank you." She stood, unsteady, and he was beside her immediately.
"Careful," he murmured, reaching out for her but stopping short.
Stung by his apparent fear, Rogue turned wide, accusing eyes up to him.
But he was watching her with poorly disguised longing when he asked, "Can I touch you?"
She couldn't speak past the sudden tightness in her throat, so she swayed closer to him in answer. His warm, bare palms smoothed over her shoulders, down her arms, around to her back, and she shuddered at the feel.
"God," he muttered. "Your -- your skin. It's so soft."
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his t-shirt clad chest, inhaling his scent, wanting so badly to be sure this was real.
"C'mon," Logan urged, one hand dipping to her lower back to guide her. "Let's get you in the tub."
Rogue acquiesced, preceding him into the bathroom, smiling at the achingly familiar scent of her favorite lavender bubblebath. Logan gave her a questioning look, awaiting her nod before he reached for the waistband of her sweatpants to pull them carefully from her body.
The mixture of hunger and love and empathy in his expression pushed her closer to the inevitable. She'd been holding it together pretty well, she thought, even when the others had crowded around, needing to touch her, to know she was really there. But soon she'd either wake up, devastated, in that hellish white cell, or the fact that she was free, that Logan was *alive,* would tear away her last bit of control and she'd be a sobbing mess.
She was trembling again as Logan helped her into the tub, offering his hand for balance as she sank into the warm, soothing water. A moan escaped her as she shifted back, slipping deeper, letting the water close over her tired, aching body.
Logan hesitated, looking uncertain. "I can go if you'd rather--"
"No." Her tone was sharp, echoing obscenely off the tiled walls. "No," she said, more softly this time. "Stay."
Relieved, Logan settled onto the edge of the tub. Even after her eyes slipped closed, she could feel the intensity of his gaze on her. She knew he wanted to ask her about the labs, but she was pretty sure that trying to recount the forced absorptions would break her.
Eyes stubbornly closed, she let a small, regretful smile settle on her lips. "I'm sorry. I know you want to hear what -- what happened to me."
His big, warm hand landed atop hers on the edge of the tub. "You tell me as much as you want, whenever you want, Marie. There's no rush."
Rogue opened her eyes and focused on a rather blurry Logan. "Thank you, Logan."
He shrugged awkwardly, glancing around until his gaze settled on a washcloth. Leaning over, he snagged it from the towel rack and offered it to her. "Do you need help?"
She ran a tired hand through her hair and grimaced. "My hair first," she decided. "Is there any--?" The words coalesced into another one of those damn lumps in her throat when she saw her half-empty shampoo sitting in its spot in the corner of the tub. Just where she'd left it. She didn't have the words to thank him.
Rogue slid down into the water, tilting her head back to wet her hair. Logan reached for the bottle of shampoo and shifted, sliding to his knees beside the tub. "Can I?"
She agreed with a watery smile, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks as he gently worked her hair into a lather, then rinsed it with handfuls of water. When he attempted to suds up the conditioner, she gave a water-logged chuckle and explained that he just needed to ease it through the strands.
He murmured to her as he worked, silly comments about her hair, about how damn ridiculous it was to use separate shampoo and conditioner when there were perfectly good conditioning shampoos out there, about how he'd looked for her since the moment he woke up in the jet.
Rogue's tears flowed faster, her breaths coming in gasps by the time Logan finished her hair and retrieved the washcloth. His careful, gentle hands smoothed over her skin, gently removing the dirt and grime. It was too damn much.
Logan.
*Logan* was alive and she was alive and they were free and he was touching her. Any one of those would have been overwhelming, in combination... she couldn't stop crying.
And all the while he kept talking, recounting absurd stories he'd read in the papers, never commenting on the flood of tears.
Finally, Logan pulled the stopper and began to drain the tub, letting a good amount of water escape before he turned on the taps, testing the temperature with his fingers. "Up," he ordered, offering his hands to help her stand. "Time to rinse."
Rogue's strength, which hadn't been anywhere near great to begin with, was sapped by the emotional wringer she'd been through. She held tightly to his arm when he flipped the lever, allowing arcs of water to stream down onto her tired body. She lifted her face to the warm spray for a few moments, then Logan helped, turning her, letting the water sluice over her shoulders, her back, her abdomen before he asked, "Enough?"
On the skinny edge of collapse, Rogue nodded mutely. She felt utterly drained and full to bursting with emotion at the same time. And she couldn't stop yawning.
Logan flipped off the water and helped her out of the tub, wrapping her in a fluffy bath towel before sitting her on the closed toilet seat. "One second," he told her, stepping back to peel his soaked t-shirt from his body.
Rogue actually grinned at him as she realized just how wet he'd gotten helping her shower. His jeans were dripping water and he'd left small puddles of water all over the bathroom floor. "Logan, you're soaked," she admonished when he reached for her. "Go change."
He disappeared for a few moments, reappearing clad in sweat pants and holding her favorite flannel pajamas and a pair of panties. Surprisingly, Rogue wasn't at all embarrassed as he helped her dress, preoccupied by the post-crying headache and the serious need to sleep. "Thanks," she whispered.
Logan grunted and helped her up, grabbing a hair elastic on their way out of the bathroom. "You like it up when you sleep," he explained somewhat defensively when he noticed her surprised look.
She nodded and reached for the elastic when he settled her on the edge of the bed. "I should dry it," she said, twisting the damp strands into a makeshift knot. Not an easy task with tired, shaking hands, but she managed, her gaze flitting about the room.
"I can get the hair dryer," Logan offered.
"No. Too much effort," Rogue decided, pulling the blankets down to crawl inside. She glanced up, surprised when Logan didn't climb in after her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he answered immediately. "Just -- if you'd be more comfortable--"
"Logan," she interrupted. "Come to bed."
"Thank God," he muttered with a half-grin. He slid in beside her, gathering her gingerly into his arms. "Is this okay?"
"I'm not made of glass," Rogue answered, a little exasperated.
"I know." Logan's arms tightened around her. "But you're injured."
"Not really," she countered. "Mostly just drugged and tired."
Logan's hand trailed down her arm, leaving her a quaking mass at the sensation. He lifted her hand. "You're injured," he repeated, his fingers feathering softly over the bruises ringing her wrist.
"It's fine," she said.
"I know it's not a major injury," Logan began, "but -- how does your power work now?"
Rogue stiffened, pulling away from him. *No,* she thought. *Please, no. Not now.* Not when she was starting to believe that this was real. "Why?" she demanded, anger creeping into her voice.
"Because." Logan shifted to face her. "I could heal you."
"No."
"Marie--"
"No." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I can't."
Logan studied her. "Okay."
"Don't ask me to do that."
"Okay," he said again. "I won't. I'm sorry."
Rogue bit her lip, watching him suspiciously. Maybe... maybe she *should* touch him. If this was Six-Five-Eight's latest attempt to fuck with her head, it would be better to find out as soon as possible. Might as well know the horrible truth, and then she could join the exiled Logan in her mind. Because there was no way she'd be able to make it back to sanity after a delusion like *this.*
But if this *was* real, she figured the only way she'd ever know for sure would be to feel him inside her head.
"Marie?"
Rogue turned back to him, examining his features, searching for deceit, for some sinister motive. But he just looked worried.
"Why do you want me to touch you that way?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I don't like to see you hurt."
Exactly what Logan would say. But did that mean that he was Logan, or that Six-Five-Eight was giving Rogue exactly what she wanted?
"And," Logan continued, "you'll know for sure that it's me."
She swallowed hard. It was so tempting. God, what she wouldn't give to *know* if this was real.
"They--" Logan stopped, shook his head once. "They made people touch your skin, didn't they?"
She nodded, eyes downcast.
Logan looked away, breathing slowly to keep his sudden rage in check. She nearly whimpered at the sight, so familiar, and Rogue knew she'd made her decision. She needed to know. "Okay."
Logan snapped his head back around to face her. "Are you sure?"
She managed a smile, but it felt crooked. "I should be asking you that."
"I'm sure," Logan answered. "How do you--"
"I won't tell you that," Rogue interrupted. "Not until I'm sure you're you."
He nodded. "What do you need me to do?"
"Stay still," she ordered, pushing herself up to sit cross-legged facing him. "Are you ready?"
Logan arched that damn eyebrow at her. "I'm always ready, darlin'," he drawled.
Rogue choked on a laugh, curbing the urge to lean down and kiss him. She grinned at him instead, letting her smile soften and fade as she prepared to touch him. She reached out, resting her fingertips on the back of his hand.
Closing her eyes, she focused on that stubborn refusal, that terror-fueled resistance. A small, shrieking part of her was terrified that if she let herself tap into her powers again, she'd never bring them back under control, but she pushed that fear aside and concentrated.
The connection snapped open, and Logan was so damn lonely without her, so angry at himself, at the others, so fiercely determined to get her back. And then joy -- she was alive. *God, Jesus, thank you -- she's alive.*
Rogue concentrated and -- just like that, her fingers were resting harmlessly on his bare skin.
Oh, God. Oh, God. It was true. It was Logan and it was real and it was finally, finally over.
Wide-eyed, Rogue stared down at Logan as he murmured, already coming out of unconsciousness. She could hear her desperate gasps, could feel the tears threatening again, but none of that mattered.
"Logan?"
His eyes opened slowly, tortured and pain-filled until they spotted her. "Marie," he whispered, wonder in his tone.
Rogue launched herself at him, her arms pulling him tight against her, his hands settling on her waist, tangling in her hair.
"You're real," she whispered.
"You're safe, Marie," Logan answered, stroking her hair slowly, soothingly. "Go to sleep."
And she did.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Lots of thanks to the mad beta skillz of Philateley, Lulu, and especially Emily Meredith, who pestered me mercilessly for the next part. :)