Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks again to Jess for being my Beta reader.

Chapter Four

It was a little past 7:00 AM when Rogue finally crawled into bed. She'd written her descriptions with as much detail as she could muster and the handwriting recognition software did an admirable job of deciphering her chicken-scratch. Then she'd gone over it again and then again until she was absolutely certain she had every detail of Logan's cabin and its environs from Logan's memories down on that tablet.

She called Paul Morrow who came to collect the computer. "I'll bring you the first batch of photos as soon as we have them," he said and then he was gone. Rogue closed the door behind him, thankful that he hadn't expected any drawn-out conversation.

Writing the descriptions with both Logan's memories and personality pulled to the forefront of her mind had been disconcerting--like someone constantly reading over her shoulder. It left her head throbbing to the beat of her pulse. She rubbed her temples, wishing for Tony Stark's aspirin bottle. She could call down for something, but that took effort and she'd have to stay up until they brought it to her room. And she just wanted to go to bed.

Rogue moved her duffel from the padded bench at the foot of the bed and sat down to remove her combat boots; her head spinning briefly as she leaned over to untie the laces. She pushed the mountain of throw pillows onto the floor and, rubbing her eyes, pushed down the plush covers.

She'd sleep her headache off.


* * *


Rogue awoke around dinnertime to find that a night on her knees in the damp fall air without a coat had caught up with her.

Her right ear and nostril--the side she'd slept on--were clogged. She rolled onto her back in search of relief, her head throbbing painfully. Now she couldn't breathe. She rolled onto her left side; now her stomach ached. She pushed herself into a sitting position against the headboard, swaying with the wave of dizziness that crashed over her. She whimpered; her throat burned when she swallowed.

She shouldn't have shrugged-off the signs--the shaking hands, the throbbing headache. She should have called for those aspirin before calling it a night.

And now she needed to use the bathroom.

Rogue whimpered again; she was sick and weak and the bathroom seemed miles away. But the cringe-inducing prospect of wetting herself in one of Tony Stark's posh suites spurred her on.

Rogue pushed the thick covers aside and dangled her legs over the edge of the mattress. She went slow, using the nightstand to help her stand, her head spinning all the while. She used the wall as her guide, leaning against it and clenching her eyes shut when the dizziness became too much. By the time Rogue reached the toilet she was exhausted and shaking. She did her business and forced herself to make the long walk back, though it was tempting to just stretch out on the cushy bathroom rug or in the deep bathtub and just stay there.

She stopped at the telephone and called down for the three T's: Tylenol, Toast, and Tea. Then used the wall again to get to the row of low bookcases where she perched on top of the one closest to the door to wait. If she laid back down she wouldn't be getting back up again in a hurry and she doubted that Room Service would just let themselves in.

But, apparently, Tony Stark would.

The skinny young man who'd delivered her order must've ran straight to him because, not ten minutes later, Tony Stark barged into her suite. He found her hanging half out of the bed digging through the nightstand drawers in search of tissues--the fourth 'T' she'd neglected to order. Rogue came away clutching a flimsy travel pack and rolled back against her pillows.

Tony Stark was studying her from the foot of the bed. Rogue took a tissue from the pack and blew her nose with an indelicate honking noise. Stark grimaced. Well, if he's going to barge into a sick girl's room he deserves what he gets, she thought.

"I'm calling a doctor," Stark pronounced.

Rogue's eyes widened and she violently shook her head, defying her dizziness. Doctors plus mutants equals Very Bad Things. What could she possibly say to a non-mutant doctor? Gee, Mr. Physician, I'd love to have you examine me. However, there's this minor issue with my life-sucking skin. She'd wake up tomorrow morning to soldiers surrounding her bed and guns pointed at her head. No, they wouldn't wait for me to wake-up. A whole-body shudder rushed through her, "No doctors!"

Stark frowned deeply. So much so that Rogue didn't kick-up a fuss when Bonnie/Brenda arrived, wearing a facemask and surgical gloves, with an ear thermometer to take her temperature.

101 degrees. Stark's already deep frown deepened.

He sent Bonnie/Brenda for Saltines and ginger ale. "And tissues," Rogue called to her retreating back.

As soon as the door closed Stark said, "If your temperature doesn't come down--and fast--I'm going to have to call in a doctor. I promise they'll be trustworthy."

Rogue reluctantly nodded; in her mind, trustworthy doctor was an oxymoron.

Bonnie/Brenda returned with the skinny Room Service guy pushing a cart. They'd brought her a fresh pot of tea, soda crackers, small bottles of ginger ale, and--wonderfully--a box of tissues. But what really made Rogue smile were the packages of crystallized ginger and peppermint candies. The ginger candies always helped her upset stomach far more than the ginger ale and the peppermints--those she just liked. "Thanks," Rogue rasped. Skinny Room Service guy grinned and took his leave. Bonnie/Brenda, however, glared over the top of her facemask; clearly believing this all an elaborate pantomime to garner attention from Tony Stark.

Bonnie/Brenda click-clacked out the door and Stark followed with a promise to check-in on her in a few hours. Rogue dropped a cube of crystallized ginger into a steaming mug of tea and nibbled on a piece of toast. She flipped on the television with the remote and settled deeper into her pillows where she tossed and turned to home improvement shows until Tony Stark let himself into her suite around 11:00. He took her temperature again, careful of the exposed skin of her face. 101 degrees. At least it hasn't gone up.

She made another trip to the bathroom, this time leaning on Tony Stark's arm. After she was safely back in bed he bid her good night and let himself out. Rogue ate three Saltines and swallowed two Tylenol with room temperature ginger ale before settling again to sleep.

She fell asleep to the "What's the sitch?" of Kim Possible and awoke to the "Sweet Nibblets" of Hannah Montana. And Tony Stark dozing in the armchair.

He awoke when she attempted to get out of bed. He helped her again to the bathroom and back, then he stuck the thermometer into her ear. 99.7 degrees. Rogue sighed in relief. Tony Stark, too, must've been pleased because he made no further mention of doctors. And she was feeling better: her head and throat no longer hurt, and the dizziness only returned with sudden movement.

Stark phoned down for toast, tea, and orange juice for her and coffee for himself. A pretty young woman barely older than Rogue brought their breakfast and smiled coquettishly at Tony Stark as she left. I wonder what Bonnie/Brenda thinks of her, Rogue contemplated.

Stark pulled a small metal flask out of an inside jacket pocket and poured a measure into his steaming cup. More hair of the dog. Rogue pretended not to notice by noisily scraping a bit of butter across her toast. "Any leads on Logan's arm?" she inquired.

Stark took a deep swallow of his spiked coffee. "Nothing," he re-opened the flask and tipped more of its contents into his mug, "I've asked Franks and Christensen to broaden their search. However, we must consider that the thief may've already had a buyer in mind when they stole Logan's arm."

"Or it was S.H.I.E.L.D," Rogue said around a mouthful of toast, "or some group like them."

Stark shook his head, "I really don't think so."

She swallowed her toast with a sip of tea. "Ok, what about the cabin? Has the computer pulled any pictures that match my descriptions?"

"A few thousand, actually, last Mr. Morrow checked-in."

"A few thousand!" Rogue sputtered, tea sloshing over the side of her mug onto the white bedding. She sat her mug on the Room Service tray and hastily mopped up the mess with a handful of tissues. "Well, where are they? Why hasn't Paul brought the first batch?"

Stark swirled the contents of his own mug, "Because you're sick."

"I'm not that sick!" she insisted, tossing the soiled tissues into the trash.

"You have a fever."

"Barely! It's not like I'm delirious or anything! It's a waste of time for me to be laying here when I could be going through those pictures!"

Stark stood, took a final drink from his mug and sat it on the Room Service cart. "You're not wasting time; you're getting better," he spoke as though talking to a stubborn child. He regarded her from the foot of the bed, "I thought finding Logan was important to you." Rogue frowned at what she considered a cheap shot. "Do you really want to risk making mistakes because you rushed into things?"

Rogue glared at him as she grabbed another handful of tissues and blew her nose noisily. Her right nostril was still clogged. "So when can I start with the pictures?"

"When you stop sounding like a goose when you blow your nose," Tony Stark smirked.

Rogue folded her arms across her chest. "And if I just happen to sound like a goose even when I'm not sick?"

"Then Logan has my sympathies."

Bonnie/Brenda arrived then to escort Stark to a board meeting or beard maintenance or whatever it was he did all day. Rogue collapsed back onto her pillows in a huff as the door shut. Rogue grabbed the television remote and flicked angrily through the channels until sleep, again, overtook her.

Tony Stark stayed away until dinnertime when he arrived carrying a paper sack containing two take-out orders of chicken soup. "From a little place two blocks over," he explained, claiming a container and plastic spoon. "Much better than the soup my kitchens produce." Rogue took a spoonful. It was delicious; the broth golden and swimming with chunks of chicken, thick curly egg noodles, and slivers of carrot and celery. But she was still annoyed so she wasn't about to tell him that.

Stark left as soon as the soup was gone.

The next morning began much like the previous with Tony Stark snoozing in the sitting area. This morning, though, he looked much as he had that horrible night in the graveyard: hair mussed, clothing rumpled, and the stink of booze reached all the way to the bed. Only then did Rogue recall that yesterday had been Friday. And it appeared that Tony Stark had made a night of it. Her chest clenched momentarily as she wondered if Paul Morrow worked weekends.

Rogue considered the sleeping Tony Stark and doubted she'd have reason today to find out.

He didn't stir when she rose from the bed and padded to the bathroom. She no longer had to lean on the walls and the trip no longer left her shaking and exhausted.

Rogue gazed longingly at the shower stall, but she couldn't clean up with Tony Stark sleeping in the next room. Bonnie/Brenda, if she happened to work weekends and came looking for her boss, may take things the wrong way. And then Bonnie/Brenda may do something rash like attempt to claw Rogue's eyes out and then Rogue would have a corpse on her hands. Not to mention another voice in her head--though her inner-Logan may enjoy the company. Not likely, Logan-in-her-head scoffed.

When she returned from the bathroom Tony Stark was expelling bone-jarring snores with his mouth hanging wide open. And he has the nerve to say I sound like a goose! Rogue grabbed her duffel from the floor by the bed and rummaged for clean underwear, pajama pants, and shirt. Bonnie/Brenda or no Bonnie/Brenda she was taking a shower. Getting clean trumped a potential epic throw-down.

Her shower took twice as long as usual. She dropped her razor more than once while shaving her legs and underarms; the muscles in her arms shook as she lathered her hair and she had to rest a few moments before she could condition.

Stark was still snoring with his mouth wide open when she returned to the room. "Catching flies, Stark?" Rogue muttered as she dropped her dirty clothes on the floor next to her duffel; she'd find out later where she could wash them. She cleared her throat a few times in Tony Stark's direction. No reaction. She banged the nightstand drawers open and closed. Nothing. She turned the television on and located an action movie filled with loud explosions, but Stark continued to snore away. Rogue rolled her eyes and returned to her bed.

Now that Rogue was on the mend, her inner-Logan began growling about the "liberties" Tony Stark was taking with her. His biggest gripes being Stark barging in unannounced and letting himself in while she slept. "I've been sick," she shrugged off inner-Logan's concerns. "And he's trying to help me find the flesh-and-blood you, not trying to make me the next notch on his bedpost."

Don't be so sure, darlin', Logan-in-her-head scoffed.

A little past noon Stark awoke with a snort. He looked around the suite, bewildered. "This doesn't appear to be my room."

No kidding, pal! Inner-Logan growled. Rogue shushed him.

Stark stumbled to her bedside table and confiscated her Tylenol bottle. He shook two pills into his palm and swallowed them down with a nip from his ever-present flask. Meanwhile, Rogue grabbed a tissue and blew her nose so Stark could hear just how un-gooselike it sounded. He paid her no mind, excused himself, and left. She didn't see him the rest of the day.

Nor was he sleeping in the armchair when she awoke Sunday morning. Something was, however, tapping on one of her windows. Her 89th floor window. She found the button that controlled the blinds and they rose to reveal Tony Stark--no, Iron Man--hovering outside the glass. His visor was raised, revealing his grinning face. He saluted her with the first two fingers of his left hand; Rogue laughed and waved in return. The visor lowered and Iron Man zoomed away, off to fight his own villains.

Rogue phoned Room Service for tea and whatever type of muffin they had on hand--she couldn't stand the thought of another piece of toast. Then grabbed a blanket and pillow from the bed and settled onto the loveseat for a change of scenery and to wait for her breakfast. She was flipping through the television when the knock on her door came. She opened the door expecting Room Service; instead, there stood Paul Morrow.

"He does make you work on weekends!" Rogue blurted without thinking. She slapped a palm across her mouth.

"No, no, no," Paul laughed as she ushered him in. "The Research and Development geeks are fed-up with sharing space with us computer geeks so, we're working overtime to get Gamma Building--" he nodded to the window and the cordoned-off building below "--up and running by the end of the month."

"Well, I'm sorry for whatever overtime you're putting in on my behalf."

"Don't be," Paul smiled sincerely. "All this overtime is paying for my wedding."

"You're getting married? Does she work here, too?" There was another knock on her door then--Room Service delivering her breakfast. It didn't surprise her that Paul Morrow was engaged, he was tall and good-looking and gave off that whole Good Guy vibe. Like Scott Summers. He reminded her of Scott Summers.

That thought took her aback. When she was under the influence of the Banshee drug, she'd kissed Scott--because she could was her excuse at the time. Now, looking back, she wondered if it was really a bit of revenge for all the kissing Jean had done with Logan once upon a time.

And now Scott's dead and Jean very much alive. What if Jean found Logan first? She is a telepath, and a strong one, after all.

No, Jean believes Logan to be dead; she wouldn't be looking for him.

But would Logan go looking for Jean?

Rogue gripped the handle of the Room Service cart as hard as her satin gloves would allow.

She took in a deep breath, shook off those thoughts and offered Paul tea and a muffin. He waved both away. "No, my Orla is a real triple threat," he answered a bit starry-eyed, "singer, dancer, actress. Mostly actress." Paul chuckled, pride and love evident in his voice.

"And she doesn't mind these wacky hours you're working?" Rogue asked, though her eyes were glued on the tablet computer sitting on Paul's lap. She'd noticed it as soon as he'd walked into the suite, but she was trying to do the polite thing by not ripping it out of his hands.

"If she was home she would," Paul grinned, "but she's in the chorus line of a traveling show at the moment. She'll be home by Thanksgiving."

And today is October 3rd. Rogue smiled slyly and pointed to the computer on his lap, "Then I should get started on those pictures so you have one less thing keeping you here on the weekends."

Paul laughed. "Mr. Stark said you were feeling better."

Rogue nodded, "And impatient."

"Well, then," Paul handed her the tablet, "who am I to stand in your way?"

To Be Continued...

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