Logan couldn’t seem to stop growling today. He hadn’t been particularly fond of the idea of meeting the president when the professor had told them about it three days ago, and now on the actual day of the meeting, he was in a horribly foul mood.
He was currently settling into one of the passenger seats in Xavier’s jet, trying to untangle the mess of straps that made up the chest harness. When he was thwarted by a particularly stubborn knot in one of the thick, woven nylon straps, he let loose a full-throated snarl that had Scott whipping around in the pilot’s seat to stare at him in alarm.
Scott scanned the interior of the jet quickly, his hand on his visor ready to blast whatever threat Logan had detected. When he saw the other man glaring at the harness in his hand, he couldn’t restrain a laugh. Logan turned his glare on Scott and popped the middle claw on his left hand. His glare turned into an evil smirk as he then angled the claw against the knotted strap.
“Logan, don’t!” Scott yelped. He sighed in defeat as Logan wadded up the ruined mess of the harness and tossed it off to the side. Logan was still smirking as he crossed his arms over his chest and settled back into the seat. Intending to thoroughly annoy Scott, he closed his eyes and adopted a falsely peaceful look.
He was rewarded with a snort of disgust.
“You know how much those harnesses cost, you ass?” Scott asked mildly.
“Professor’s rich, isn’t he?” Logan grunted without opening his eyes.
“You know that’s not the point.” Scott sighed and said in sudden irritation, “What in the world is taking Rogue so long?”
That got Logan to open his eyes, and he sent another glare at Scott. “Said somethin’ ‘bout her shoes not goin’ with her shirt,” Logan muttered.
“What the hell does that matter?” Scott asked in disbelief. “Your shoes and your shirt are a hell of a long way away from each other, so who’s gonna care?”
Logan scowled. “That’s what I said. Then she threw one of the shoes at me and told me to go wait in the jet.”
Scott snorted in amusement and shared a rare sympathetic moment with Logan. “Jean did that once,” he admitted softly. “Except it was dinner plates and napkins. And of course it wasn’t a napkin she threw.” He smiled sadly at the suddenly somber look in Logan’s eyes. “You know, I always used to get angry whenever I thought of that. But now…now even that’s a good memory.”
“Scooter, listen,” Logan began gruffly, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “Jean only ever had good memories of you too.”
Scott’s smile grew. “Logan, I appreciate that. But you really suck at pep-talks.”
Logan smirked again. “That’s what Rogue always says.”
Observing the other man quietly for a few seconds, Scott figured he might as well ask a few things he had been wondering about.
“So, about you and Rogue…everybody knows you’re close. How close exactly?”
As Scott had expected would happen, Logan’s right eyebrow shot up.
“You suddenly got the urge to play daddy, Scooter?”
“Maybe,” Scott mused. “Or at least ‘older brother.’ So, you going to answer my question, or are we going to have to take this outside?”
“Temptin’,” Logan grunted. “But Rogue would kill us both if we did. Can you believe that she’s actually excited about meetin’ the president, even though she knows the topic of conversation won’t be pleasant?” His tone was amused.
“Can’t blame her. It’s not everyday you get to have a private sit-down with the Commander in Chief. And you’re avoiding the question,” Scott finished gleefully.
“Prick,” Logan snorted. He scrubbed his hands roughly over his face. “We’re close, Scooter, but not in the way you think. She’s my best friend, and I’m hers. And that’s all she’s ever seemed to want until lately.”
Now it was Scott’s eyebrow going up. “Until lately? Has she said or done something to suggest she wants more?”
“Well, no,” Logan hedged a few seconds later.
“Then I don’t get it,” Scott admitted, thoroughly confused. “What makes you think she wants something more? And even if she did, would that be a problem for you?”
“Hell no, it wouldn’t be a problem. And that’s the problem.”
“Huh?”
Logan growled in frustration. “Look, I know she wants me, and I would have no problems takin’ her up on it.”
“Then why don’t you?” Scott flung his hands up in exasperation.
“‘Cause it’s just her body that wants me!” Logan thundered.
Scott stared at the brooding expression on his face for a full minute, trying to make sense of the conversation. Logan’s arms were once again crossed over his chest, but this time the posture was purely defensive. “Okay,” Scott said carefully, “let me see if I have everything straight so far. You find Rogue attractive and would have no objection to acting on that attraction.” He waited for Logan’s reluctant nod before continuing. “However, Rogue has neither said nor done anything that expressly indicates she feels the same way.” Another nod. “And you said it’s ‘just her body’ that wants you, meaning that her mind doesn’t want you?”
“Yup, that’s about it,” Logan grumbled.
“Okay. But I’m still confused about something. How do you know she wants you? I mean, something must have tipped you off, but generally if a woman’s got it in her head that she doesn’t want a man, even if she is physically attracted to him, she’s not going to be sending him signals that she does.” Scott paused for a moment. “Well,” he continued reasonably, “not unless she’s a cutthroat bitch of a tease. And something tells me Rogue’s not like that.”
“She isn’t.”
“Then what the hell makes you think she wants you, Logan?”
“Dammit, Scooter,” Logan rumbled, “I can smell it on her.”
“Spare me the metaphors and give me a real answer.”
“I am givin’ you a real answer. Shit, this is just gonna prove your little pet theory that I’m more animal than man. I can literally smell the arousal on her, okay? You can go ahead and laugh now.” Logan glared at Scott.
“Damn. That must be useful when you’re trying to pick up chicks at a bar.”
Logan blinked in disbelief.
“What?” Scott asked indignantly. “I’m a guy too, you know. And maybe you’ve never experienced this before, but it really sucks when all you want is to get laid and you spend a couple hours chatting up a girl and at the end of the night you find out all she wanted from you was the thirty bucks worth of drinks you bought her.”
Logan snorted in laughter. “Thirty bucks, Scooter? Double that and you could get yourself a decent hooker for a half hour.”
Scott’s back went ramrod straight. “I do not consort with women of ill repute, Logan.”
Logan’s amusement turned into howls of laughter. He was shocked as hell when several seconds later, Scott joined in with a few quiet chuckles.
“Anyway,” Scott said. “Seriously, I think you should talk to Rogue about it.”
“Oh, right. ‘Listen, darlin’, I know your body’s hot for me and your mind isn’t along for the ride, but we could still have us a good time.’ Not gonna happen, Scooter. I’d embarrass her to death and things would get all awkward.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t be as embarrassed as you think,” Scott mused.
“What d’you mean?”
“After Rogue was attacked, she was worried about the blood in her hair. She said that even if she washed it, you’d still be able to smell it. That true?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, if she knows you’d be able to smell something like that, do you really think she doesn’t know, or at least suspect, that you can smell it if she wants you?”
Logan’s breathing hitched for a fraction of a second and his eyes widened.
Scott merely nodded at him before his eyes drifted over Logan’s shoulder. “Rogue,” he said. “About time.”
“Sorry Ah’m late,” she said breathily as she collapsed in the seat next to Logan. She quickly strapped herself in and cast a glance over at Logan. One of her delicately arched brows quirked up as she caught sight of the frayed stubs of the harness straps along his seatback. “Ya know, sugar, ya should really wear a seatbelt,” she said softly, smiling.
Logan chuckled and reached over to tug at her white streaks. “Smartass,” he grinned.
Scott merely shook his head at them as he started the jet’s engines, confused as ever by their relationship.
* * *
“This is already turnin’ out to be more trouble than it’s worth,” Logan griped as their cab pulled up to the next security gate. The cabbie wore a look of amazement as Logan leaned over his shoulder yet again to say to the guard at the front window, “We’re from Xavier’s. The president’s expectin’ us.”
The guard nodded once and pushed the button that would buzz them through to the next gate.
At least they all seem to know who we are. Wouldn’t be able to stand it if we had to sit and answer endless, stupid questions. Logan thought, casting an amused glance at Rogue who was absently patting his thigh in a “there, there” manner as she craned her neck around in curiosity, trying to take in all the new sights at once.
Instead of paying attention to their surroundings – Logan figured that the White House grounds were safe enough – he was observing Rogue. As annoyed as he had been earlier about her preoccupation with her wardrobe, he had to admit she looked beautiful. She was wearing pants of course, since she never felt comfortable with the potential problems a skirt would entail, given her mutation. And although Logan had always thought he preferred skirts on women, the shorter the better, the fit of Rogue’s black pants was rapidly changing his mind. They hugged her hips and bottom closely without being immodest, and the soft fall of the fabric over her legs made them seem a mile long. Add to that the three inch black heels with the thin strap of teal-colored leather crossing over her pretty toes, and Logan was rapidly beginning to think he might be converting to a leg man.
Hell, doesn’t matter, Wolverine rumbled appreciatively as they took in the curves hinted at beneath the clinging fabric of Rogue’s shirt. Leg man, ass man, breast man…our little gal’s got what it takes to keep ‘em all happy.
Damn straight, Logan agreed absently as his eyes were drawn to the silver chain that disappeared beneath Rogue’s shirt. His tags were the only accessory she wore other than the black satin gloves with little teal-edged buttons up the sides that matched both her shirt and her shoes. He knew from the barest hint of cleavage revealed by the wrap style of the shirt that the tags were nestled firmly between Rogue’s breasts. Indulging in a momentary fantasy of tugging the chain free and lifting the tags, warmed from her flesh, to his lips, Logan missed the question Rogue asked.
“Come again, darlin’?” he said, moving on in his little fantasy to wonder what kind of undergarments she was wearing. Lace, like the ones I saw the other day, he decided. What color though? Hmm, black maybe?
Flesh-colored, Wolverine growled quickly, So it’ll look like she isn’t wearin’ anythin’ at all.
Logan barely bit back a groan and forced himself to focus on what Rogue was saying.
“Ah said Ah still don’t understand why Scott had to drop us off in that park. Ah mean, all the guards obviously knew we were comin’, so shouldn’t the president have been able to let us fly right up?”
“Restricted airspace,” Logan grunted. “Hell of a lot more red tape involved with landin’ a jet on the White House lawn. Plus, this meetin’ isn’t exactly supposed to be public knowledge, and arrivin’ in a jet does tend to draw a lot of questions, darlin’.”
“Oh.” Rogue’s softly rounded lips finally pulled his attention away from the rest of her body. Her lip was healing nicely, but the bruising was still prominent. Even under layers of artfully applied makeup, the area around her scraped cheekbone left bare as Hank had ordered, Logan could see the dusky coloring on her chin and around her upper lip. He had been right about the possibility of black eyes too. Dark purple shadowed the tender skin beneath Rogue’s eyes, although he was pleased to see that her eyes themselves were fine. Although he had never had a black eye himself, he had given enough of them to know that they were typically accompanied by ugly redness shooting through the whites of the eyes.
At the last gate, Rogue was the one who gave the standard “We’re from Xavier’s” explanation, and Logan caught the cabbie glancing in the mirror for a view of Rogue’s cleavage as she leaned forward.
“Eyes forward, bub,” he snapped, and the cabbie jerked in surprise.
The car pulled forward until they were waved to a stop by a man wearing an understated dark suit, and as the man lifted his arm and spoke into his wrist, Logan and Rogue climbed out of the cab. Logan tossed a few bills in the cabbie’s open window and then placed his left hand on the small of Rogue’s back to usher her toward the agent waiting for them.
“Through that door to your left,” the agent said without bothering with a greeting or introduction, “stop at the desk for your passes, and then down to the end of the hall for the security check.”
“Friendly people,” Rogue murmured less than two minutes later. The agent at the desk had greeted them with a single word – “Names?” – before handing them passes to hang around their necks and pointing toward the end of the hall where several people were lined up, waiting for uniformed guards to clear them for entry.
As they got closer to the checkpoint, Logan could see what security measures were being taken.
“Uh, darlin’. We might have a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Rogue wasn’t paying any attention to their destination, busy as she was reading the various plaques along the wall.
“Look.” Glancing up at Logan, she followed the direction of his gaze. She saw a heavy balding man in a rumbled suit pull keys and loose change from his pockets and drop them into a tray before stepping through a nondescript grey gate.
“Is that a metal detector? Well shit, sugar.” Unfortunately Rogue’s less than hushed response drew the attention of one of the guards. He watched them with narrowed eyes as they stepped closer to the gate and gestured at Rogue.
“You first,” he commanded. “Put any metal items you’re carrying in this bin and step through the gate. That includes jewelry and hair pins.”
Glancing again at Logan, Rogue paused for the merest fraction of a second before shrugging and pulling the dog tags from around her neck. She dropped them in the bin and as she stepped through the gate, she noticed that the second guard, who was observing a monitor, gave his colleague a subtle nod.
The first guard addressed Rogue again. “Take your belongings and wait beyond the yellow line.”
Rogue scooped up her tags and looked down to see a yellow stripe across the linoleum floor about five feet beyond the gate. Positioning herself just past the line, she turned to watch as the guard waved Logan up to the gate without a word.
“The gate’s gonna go off,” Logan said quietly, mindful of the people stepping up behind him to wait their turn at the checkpoint.
“Metal belongings in the bin,” the guard said sharply.
“I’m tryin’ to tell you, no matter if I put everythin’ in the bin, the gate’s still gonna go off. I have metal in my skeleton.”
Both guards measured him with careful gazes and Rogue saw the one at the monitor slowly reach under the counter. When he withdrew his hand, a flash of color caught her attention. Looking up, Rogue could see a small light blinking on what must be a security camera. Glancing past Logan down the hall they had just walked, she noticed that the cameras were spaced every five feet or so on both sides of the hallway in a zigzagging pattern. None of them had flashing red lights.
“Titanium surgical screws and staples shouldn’t set off the gate.”
Logan snorted. “It’s a little more extensive than screws and staples.” The people waiting in line behind him suddenly looked interested and both guards tensed. The one at the monitor reached under the counter yet again.
He must be hittin’ a buzzer or alarm or somethin’, Rogue thought.
“Titanium rod in your thigh or spine perhaps?” The guard rested his hand on his leather utility belt, his thumb soundlessly flipping up a strap and easing around the edge of a black device.
“Uh, not exactly,” Logan hedged, “And it isn’t titanium. Look, if you’ll just make a call, you’ll find out that the president’s expectin’ us. We’re from Xavier’s. We had no trouble at any of the gates on the way in.”
“Unfortunately, sir, we can’t just take your word for that. You understand,” the man said with icy civility, shooting a quick look at his colleague.
Just as the guard at the monitor was responding with another almost unnoticeable nod, Rogue heard quick footsteps approaching from behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a man in a sedate brown suit heading toward them. He was wearing an impersonal smile and held a plain manila folder in one hand, and as he drew closer, Rogue saw that he was wearing an atrociously obnoxious tie. The fuchsia geometric print on its pale tan background looked like it was shifting as he walked and Rogue was forced to blink several times to keep her eyes from crossing. Even when he stepped past her and she could no longer see the tie, the bright pattern seemed to have been burned into her retinas and everything she looked at – the floor, walls, ceiling – was overlaid with crooked fuchsia ladders and shimmying squares. She continued her rapid blinking as the man addressed the guards.
“Sorry, sorry. Paperwork mishap up in the offices. These folks are cleared.”
“Sir,” protested the guard who had thus far been the only one to speak, “he still needs to go through the gate. That’s the protocol.”
The man in the suit tapped the folder he was carrying against his thigh impatiently. He then flipped it open and pulled a single sheet of paper out, although Rogue could see that there were several more inside.
“Here.” He handed the page to the guard. “Direct order from the president, complete with the man’s photograph, telling you to let him through.” By now there were four people waiting behind Logan, and they all started whispering to each other. “You can have him step through your gate if it’ll make you feel better, Gibbons, and it’s going to go off, like the man told you, but that will be the end of it. No pat downs or strip searches for you today.” At the man’s jovial tone, Gibbons’s eyes narrowed, and Logan snorted.
Gibbons whipped around to face Logan and snarled, “Through the gate!”
Rogue saw Logan’s eyebrow inch upward, but instead of saying anything, he just shrugged and strode through the gate. Immediately, a shrill sequence of beeps split the air and all the cameras along the hall lit up with little red flashes. The second guard’s eyes widened at whatever he saw on his monitor and he slapped a button to his left, silencing the alarm.
As Logan drew up next to Rogue, his face was contorted in a pained wince and, lifting his right hand up, he stuck his pinky finger into his ear and jostled it around a bit.
“Sorry sorry,” the man with the horrible tie said again. “My meeting ran late and I wasn’t able to get down here in time to spare you all that hassle. It’s nice to meet you –” he flipped his folder open yet again and scanned the top sheet, “‘–Wolverine and Rogue’. Follow me please.” He paid them no more attention after that and began walking away.
Logan gave his ear one last jiggle as he and Rogue followed the man.
* * *
They found themselves sitting on an uncomfortably overstuffed sofa several minutes later. The man with the tie, who hadn’t bothered introducing himself, had escorted them into the Oval Office, waved vaguely in the direction of the furniture, and told them to wait while he let the president know they had arrived.
“Ugh,” Rogue said in disgust as she shifted around yet again, “slice this thing open so Ah can yank out some o’ the stuffin’, would ya, sugar?”
Logan grunted. “I guess it is pretty uncomfortable.”
“Ya guess?”
“Part of my healin’ ability, darlin’. I can feel that it’s uncomfortable, but it’s not gonna cause any aches or pains no matter how long I sit here.” He smirked at her.
“Well aren’t ya just special?” Rogue said nastily as she leapt off the sofa. She moved around the room trying each piece of furniture; Logan observed her movements without a word, his eyebrow inching ever higher as Rogue growled with each failed attempt to find a comfortable seat. She gave him a disgusted look when she finally circled back to him and flounced down onto the sofa next to him.
“You could always sit on my lap, darlin’,” Logan murmured, equal parts ribaldry and chivalry.
Rogue titled her head as she considered him. “Sugar, somehow Ah doubt that would stay comfortable for either one o’ us.” She ignored Logan’s startled look and turned her attention to the other furniture in the room. “Ya know, Ah think the ungodly awful furniture is deliberate. Not a comfortable seat on this side o’ the desk, but just look at the president’s chair. Looks like ya could sleep in that damn thing for a week and not have to worry ‘bout even a crick in yer neck.”
A door to their left opened suddenly. “You are quite right, Miss Rogue,” the president said. “The furniture is a tactical maneuver, designed to make world leaders and other visitors squirm in discomfort. Their desire to get away from it makes them more likely to agree to whatever requests I make.”
“Really?” Rogue squeaked in surprise.
“No.” President Carson’s face was split in a huge grin. “It’s just that it’s antique furniture and not designed for comfort. You’re the first one to ever say anything about it though.” He looked over his shoulder into the room he was exiting. “Marcus, get somebody to help you bring that loveseat from the staff office in here, please.”
They heard a faint “Yes, sir” from the other room as the president walked toward them. Rogue stood immediately and was pleasantly surprised when Logan did the same.
President Carson shook hands first with Rogue and then with Logan. “Did you have a pleasant trip here?”
“No,” Logan grunted. Rogue gasped and smacked him in the chest with the back of her hand. The president’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Yes, sir, it was a very pleasant trip,” Rogue corrected politely. “Please forgive Logan; he seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed today.”
“Like hell,” Logan returned instantly, ignoring the man standing before them. “I was havin’ a great day ‘til you threw that shoe at me this mornin’.” Rogue’s face immediately flooded with color.
The president burst out laughing just as two man came through the door he had left open. They both cast him startled looks before continuing, one walking backward as they guided the piece of furniture into place behind Logan and Rogue. The younger of the two left without a word, and President Carson struggled to control his laughter long enough to call after him, “Thank you, Justin.” The second man, the one with the tie, remained standing beside the loveseat.
After a few more quiet chuckles, the president swiped a knuckle along the lower lashes of his right eye, removing the visible signs of his laughter.
“Hm,” he cleared his throat quietly and gestured toward the man. “Marcus probably didn’t introduce himself to you, did he? I’m afraid it is his one consistent short-coming. This is Marcus Whittaker, my Chief of Staff. Other than me, he is the only one who knows why you are here. You needn’t worry about it, though; Marcus is the soul of discretion. Should anybody ask him about your visit, you can be guaranteed that he will suddenly know nothing about it.” President Carson sent the man a fond smile and a nod, effectively dismissing him. As the door clicked quietly shut behind Marcus, the president waved his hand toward the new sofa and moved around to the back of his desk.
* * *
He waited until Rogue and Wolverine were comfortably settled onto the sofa before speaking again. “I imagine you have some questions, and you personally have more at stake here than I do, so why don’t you two begin?”
The man grunted, grudging respect and appreciation showing briefly on his face. Or at least, that’s what I think it is, Carson thought. “If we do this, how are you going to keep her safe?”
“Her? You are not concerned for your own safety?” He noted the scowl on Rogue’s face with interest. He’s protective of her, cares about her. But she’s not happy about it?
“Listen,” Wolverine began heatedly, “I’m sure you have files on us, so you know that I heal. It doesn’t matter what might happen to me, but if you can’t promise that the girl will be safe, we’re walkin’ out now.”
Rogue’s scowl deepened, and before the president could form an answer, she was already responding to her companion.
“Darnit, Logan! Ya know nobody can guarantee anythin’. Not even ya can.”
Her voice had started out harsh, but had softened remarkably by the end. Still, he saw the gruff-looking man wince. “Logan?” I thought he didn’t know his name. And I think there’s more to this little exchange than is evident. I wonder if it has anything to do with her scrapes and bruises?
“I think that he has raised a valid point, Rogue,” he began cautiously. “My offer of protection extends to both of you, but I have yet to determine what form that protection will take. Professor Xavier suggested that you would be much more amenable to the idea if you were able to tell me what would be necessary, Wolverine.”
The man’s brow winged up. “No guards,” he grunted, “they’d just get in the way and would probably get killed anyway. Money. And we’d need IDs, probably multiple sets, so if somethin’ gets dicey, we’re covered for a quick exit without leavin’ a trail to follow.”
“You sound as if you don’t expect to be able to stay at Xavier’s?”
“Look, if we can stay at Xavier’s, fine. He has enough security to keep us safe, and enough money for any necessary upgrades. And he can probably manage authentic IDs without a problem.”
What kind of man is this professor, exactly? Carson mused. I know from the time he gave me Stryker’s files that he has access to things that even I don’t. Or maybe he just knew where to look while I didn’t. And I’m pretty sure this guy was the one who warned me that they’d be watching. He couldn’t hold back a small wave of resentment and anger at the memory. Don’t know about the girl, though; I was too focused on the blue guy that had attacked me. He forced himself back to the present as Wolverine continued.
“The only reason we’d need your protection” he snarled the word, “is if we can’t go back. And if you arrange this interview right, that shouldn’t be a problem. So why don’t you start talkin’ now, and tell us what you’re prepared to do.”
He didn’t reply immediately. Rather, he sat studying the man and young woman in front of him. Xavier had sent him a file on each of them, but he wondered how complete they were. In light of the fact that the file only called him “Wolverine” and never mentioned the name “Logan,” the president felt safe in assuming that the professor had held back quite a bit. Added to that the bruising on the girl’s face, something Xavier had not mentioned in his brief phone message the day before, and Carson was starting to feel uncomfortably blind in this situation. Xavier hadn’t even mentioned how confrontational this Wolverine could be, or how protective he was of the young woman at his side. Nor, Carson’s eyes narrowed as he saw Rogue’s hand patting the man’s thigh soothingly, had he explained the relationship between these two.
Maybe that was a deliberate oversight on Xavier’s part, he thought. The things in the file are what the interviewer will be telling the audience, just facts and figures, nothing real, nothing personal like what I’m learning just from watching them interact. No wonder he insisted that they do the interview together or not at all.
Out loud he answered, “The interview will be as anonymous as possible without the benefits of screens or voice-masking. You will be using the names in Xavier’s files – Wolverine and Rogue – instead of your real names. There will be no in studio audience, but people will be able to call in with questions. The interview will broadcast from an undisclosed location, the host we have chosen is impartial on the mutant issue –”
“Impartial?” Wolverine cut in. “‘Impartial’ means he could wake up on the day of the interview and decide that he’s anti-mutant and try somethin’. Wouldn’t somebody who’s pro mutant be a better choice?”
“On issues of safety, perhaps,” Carson conceded. “But it wouldn’t allow the viewers to sympathize with the plight of mutants quite as much. If the host was known to be mutant friendly, that alone would be enough to color people’s perception of the honesty and trustworthiness of the news source.”
“Wouldn’t using our mutant names do the same thing?” Rogue questioned softly, glancing briefly at Wolverine’s scowling face before turning her attention back to him.
She looks to him for agreement and guidance. Wonder is she realizes that? But she doesn’t have a problem taking him to task either, he noted, smirking inwardly as he remembered the petite brunette chastising the large, gruff man earlier.
Carson shook his head in response to Rogue’s question. “No, I believe your names will actually gain sympathy. Xavier indicated that you don’t know anything about your past, Wolverine, as a result of the medical experimentation you suffered. If people were able to imagine the horror of not even knowing who they are, they wouldn’t be able to ignore the danger involved in forcing mutants to expose themselves and their abilities.” He paused for a moment as he considered that this argument might actually be faulty. “However, you seem to know your name. ‘Logan,’ isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Wolverine ground out. “It was the only name I could remember when I finally came back to myself somewhat. Figured it was as good a name as any.”
Tilting his head quizzically, Carson questioned, “Came back to yourself?” The man immediately tensed, the knuckles of one hand whitening on the armrest of the sofa. Rogue reached over for his other hand and pulled it into her lap. He saw the man slowly relax as she ran the gloved pads of her fingertips rhythmically over the skin between his fingers. Eventually, Wolverine turned his hand around in hers and laced their fingers together, absently giving her a shaky smile.
“I was covered in blood, naked, in the middle of the woods. And none of it was my blood.”
The blunt delivery startled him, as did the slightly dissociated tone in the man’s voice. He killed them? All of them? With his bare hands? Even if I asked, I don’t suppose he’d know. He swallowed hard and gave Wolverine a slow nod before turning to the young woman. “As for your name, Rogue, Xavier’s file stated that you adopted it after being thrown out of your home. Many street kids do the same for fear of discovery, and that’s one of the things that makes it so hard for them to be found. Changing your name is a kind of defense-mechanism, and in the case of children and adolescents, an attempt at self-actualization, and the establishment of an identity unassociated with their parents.”
Rogue snorted, the unladylike sound surprising him. Are they related somehow? She sounded just like Wolverine.
“Ah don’t mean to disrespect ya, sir, but spare me the psychoanalysis. Ah changed mah name ‘cause mah father called the police on me ‘fore throwin’ me out.”
“Oh,” Carson managed, feeling stupid as he sat blinking rapidly.
“You never told me that, darlin’,” Wolverine rumbled quietly, tightening his fingers around the woman’s hand.
“Ya never asked,” she returned simply, and that seemed to be enough explanation for the man.
Carson’s mind was a whirling mess of thoughts, but he latched onto one and ran with it. “The fact that you’ve both managed to surprise me several times in the course of only a few minutes tells me that you’re the right ones for this interview.”
“How do you figure that?” Wolverine asked. There’s that damned eyebrow again, Carson thought in mild irritation.
“I have files on both of you, and they are certainly detailed enough that I thought I had a basic understanding of who you are and what your lives are like. But since I came through that door, you have done nothing but prove my assumptions wrong. That’s what needs to be done for the American population. They’ve got a whole mess of assumptions that you need to shoot down just like you did mine.”
“We’re not gonna be dealin’ with just assumptions. Prejudice and hate are a lot harder to get rid of, ‘specially when all you’re doin’ is talkin’. What makes you think this interview is gonna do all that?”
“Because,” he gave Wolverine a level look, “You’ve amused me, irritated me, challenged me, and made me think in just the last few minutes. From my dealings with you, I don’t think I like you,” he ignored Wolverine’s arrogant smirk, “But I find myself sympathetic toward you.”
“I’m not in this for pity and boohoo-ing.”
Carson gritted his teeth. “I never said you were. And I never said I pity you. I said I find myself sympathetic toward you. And most of that sympathy is due to the protectiveness you feel toward the young lady at your side. Granted, you had horrible things done to you, but you’re gruff and unfriendly and few people are going to want to admit to feeling anything like sympathy with that ‘screw you’ attitude of yours. But seeing the two of you together, I can understand why Xavier insisted that he had the perfect people in mind. You humanize each other. People will be able to identify with your relationship, and from there they might be able to begin identifying with you as individual people.”
He waited as Wolverine and Rogue exchanged a long glance, seeming to discuss the situation with each other. I don’t know how the hell they’re doing it. He raises his eyebrow, she nods. She purses her lips and he shakes his head. He tightens his hand on hers and she cocks her head to the side like she’s thinking about something. They’re not telepaths, Xavier promised me. So what in the world is going on? Just as his puzzlement was growing unbearable, his guests nodded in unison and turned to face him.
“Fine. We’ll do it.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Not sure that I'm entirely happy with this chapter; it seems a bit bogged down, and after I finished it, I thought that the White House visit might not have been necessary after all. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter End Notes:
Next chapter: The interview.