13: Out of control
The hush lingered in the room as Rogue took her seat, and she fancied she could feel it settling heavy over her shoulders. August, she decided. It felt like the hot, sluggish weight of a Mississippi night in August. Someone stir the atmosphere, already!
She nearly laughed aloud when it was Storm who leapt to her feet, and enfolded her in a hug. All she said was “Oh, Rogue,” but it was forgiving and loving, all soothing noises and boundless compassion. It was why she could never get close to Storm, Rogue thought sadly as she dissolved into dramatic sobs in the older woman's arms. Abusing this felt like throwing the rain back into the clouds, or forcing the sun from the sky. But you do it anyway, she thought bitterly.
She felt a series of awkward pats on her back, and the waft of reluctant lust told her Scott was hovering. She released herself from Storm's tight hug with a whispered “thank you”, and turned to face him, hands dashing away the tears in her eyes.
“What you said. Thanks Scott. I know you didn't ask, but I was with the Brotherhood willingly, for a while. But I learnt from the experience. I joined the X-men without any agendas, and my loyalty is to you and the team.” Huh. The truth tasted better than lies. She'd forgotten.
His smile was strained, and she could tell he wanted to pull her into his arms. But she'd landed them square in team leader territory, and his professionalism demanded he stay there. “I never doubted that for a second. Your judgement, and your control, yes, but never your loyalty, Rogue.”
Her newly truth-telling self wanted to cock an eyebrow at that, but she was building bridges here, Rogue told herself. She let regret flicker across her face as she glanced towards the end of the table, where her teammates faces ranged from benevolent to outright mutinuous.
“I hope the others can be as generous as you are, Scott. It means a lot. But you can't force them to trust me – only ask them to work with me and give me the time to earn their trust back.”
She turned towards them, lifting her chin. “Anyone in the peanut gallery have problems with that?” Do not glare at Gambit. Do not glare!
Bobby responded as if Cyclops himself had asked the question, with a sharp “no sir!” and Kitty flushed dark red but didn't make a sound. Jubilee's porcelain-doll face was set to inscrutable, and Pyro and Gambit were lounging at the table's end in near identical poses. Gambit's was carefully calculated to express contempt, but Pyro was probably just bored, Rogue told herself.
An apology wouldn't hurt, though. Her pride, perhaps, but there was more at stake here. Rogue was still mulling it over when the Wolverine grabbed all the attention in the room, and squeezed.
“Rough fucking crowd. But my violin's broken and I have this stuff called work to do. We done with the pity party?” She could have kissed him, but satisfied herself with anger and insults instead.
“Sure there isn't someone somewhere who needs killing? More your usual line, Wolverine.”
His smile was vicious in return.
“I'm moving into the good guy business, babe. Attitude like that, you're gonna be doing lots of extra combat training, I reckon. Burn off that anger.”
She flipped him the finger, and shivered inside.
*
His senses caught the rush of arousal, and he was profoundly thankful that the wolfish smile happened to be appropriate. This meeting needed to end soon, and he needed to find a place where they could both slip the leash. Their kind of sparring wouldn't be welcome in that pristine ring downstairs, he knew that. He'd stood in front of it, on the tour, and drew in every bit of scent that had ever gathered there, and all he found was gallons of sweat, and surprisingly little blood. Nothing else. He was trapped in PG-land.
“Order of business. I need someone to show me the security system, right away. I need to know when you have your combat training, and when you're available to have more. I need a vehicle so I can sort out somewhere to live.” He counted them off on his fingers, ignoring the objections that buzzed around him even as he moved to the next point on his list.
Professor Xavier held up his hand and the room was instantly quiet. “Rogue knows the most about our security system,” the old man said, dropping her in it with a gently inquiring glance. Rogue nodded, with an impressive show of ill grace.
“If you sit down with Scott and Ororo, they'll be able to discuss who's available when. Most of the second team still has classes to deal with, and Rogue is starting her college courses in the Fall.” He blinked at that, and tried to be glad for her. Kid was getting a life.
“You are welcome to take any of the Mansion's vehicles from the garage. A few are the staff's personal cars, but the pool cars have the keys left in the ignition. As to a place to live, however … there is another option.”
Xavier paused, and his inquiry was made mentally. “Hell yeah, I'm interested,” Logan snorted, before realising he hadn't vocalised the response. Intent alone, it seemed, was sufficient to transmit his thoughts to Xavier. The White Queen hadn't been able to penetrate his mind at all, and the fact that Xavier could, even if passively, left Logan all kinds of worried. And impressed, he acknowledged.
“There is a cottage on the northern margin on the property, at the entrance to the woods. It is only small – just the one bedroom and a living area – but you are welcome to see whether that would suit you.”
The mere mention of being out of this zoo and next to the woods had left the Wolverine purring. No more creeping across the hall, Logan reminded him, only to be battered by a series of images of exactly what he could do with all that privacy. The growl ripped from his chest before he could stop it; all around the table, his new teammates froze.
The Wolverine didn't have to explain himself. Once, he would have grunted and ignored their shock. He wasn't that man anymore, Logan told himself.
“Sorry. Ferals don't like being cooped up much. Cottage would be perfect, Professor. Thank you.”
He wasn't sure what had shaken them more. His growl, or his manners. He slid a wide, open smile into the mix and nearly chuckled as the room filled with the stink of confusion.
Perfect.
*
A truly joyful meeting. Such restraint and oh, yes, maturity on show, Hank thought sourly as he ushered the last of the junior team out of the room. Only he and the Professor remained.
He huffed out a sigh of relief, and let loose his grip on Dr Henry McCoy, just a little. Truly, he was close to the end of his tether. Professor Xavier had laughed – laughed! – at his fraying control as the younger team members showed themselves to be sulky little brats, and then to hear Scott's misguided thoughts on the subject of the Wolverine … Cyclops could be such a boob.
As far as Hank was concerned, the Wolverine was an excellent addition to their team, and he deserved the opportunity to prove himself, just like any other mutant. He snorted. Bloody alphas. Did they really not think that their motives were anything less than transparent? Scott would have been better to strum a ukelele and start yodeling about a low down bastard that stole his job and his woman too.
“Care to share the joke, old friend?”
The Professor looked fed up, too, Hank realised. He censored the joke a little – Charles need not know he found the golden child so very insufferable – before projecting it to the Professor. They were both chuckling as he held the conference room door wide for the Professor, and then shut the lights before emerging into the near-empty hall.
“Go and let off some steam, Hank. Things will improve soon, I'm sure,” the Professor said hopefully, eyes worried as he watched most of his team beat a rapid retreat. Wolverine and Rogue were already embroiled in a confrontation just a few metres away, her face right up in his and their bodies vibrating with tension.
Charles shook his head silently and powered his chair in the other direction, leaving Hank to defuse the situation. Homicide didn't look likely right now – he was reminding her of her obligations, and Rogue was generally quite professional...
“I need to see that fucking control room, right fucking now!”
… except when someone tried to give her orders. Oh dear. Hank stood stock still, then shook his head in puzzlement as Rogue refrained from hurting him, and uttered barely an outraged peep before leading the way down the hall. He took a deep breath, because finally, he could breathe and ... oh my stars and garters. Oh no.
He'd expected anger, and hate. Two angry, resentful people. Not this blinding mishmash of pheromones, thick with lust and sex and history and love and loss and hurt. And lies. So many lies. Their scents, Hank realised with a shock, were entwined like rosebriars in Ororo's arbour, tangled together through years of growth, until you couldn't tell where one ended and its mate began. There was no way that the tale she had just told could be true. They were not strangers, or even recent lovers, though they were certainly that. All her secret places smelt of him, and every inch of him bore the scent of her skin. Beyond the hot, rich smell of recent sex was something deeper, and more puzzling.
That unusual base note he associated with Rogue, so heavy and musky and frighteningly primal – it was assaulting him now, thicker than it had ever been. Twice as strong, but deeper, and subtly different. Wolverine, he realised. At her most basic, elemental level, she smelt of him. Their scents weren't identical, but the dominant part of Rogue's scent was drawn from his, Hank conceded.
His scientific brain rebelled even as his feral senses confirmed it – how? How could two people share that? Pheromones were coded at a cellular level, more precise and individualised than any fingerprint. No two could ever be the same. Not even Mystique could replicate another person's scent … but Rogue had. Somehow, Rogue had acquired something of the Wolverine – her mutation. Not just a personality, but a phenotype reproduced – obvious, of course, or she wouldn't be able to reproduce other mutants' powers.
Hank's understanding grew in leaps and bounds, but it couldn't dull the nagging doubts. Why the Wolverine? What sort of bond did they have, beyond the now blindingly obvious? What was that vibration between them, that endless tension that they'd all seen, and felt, and explained away as hatred? More than hate, certainly. More than sex, probably. Less than love? Hank sighed, and even to his own ears it sounded troubled. Whatever it was - it was a lie. A dangerous, oozing pustule of a lie that had the potential to burst all over the X-men's tidy existence, he suspected.
An ethical dilemma. Hank hung his head wearily as the weight of responsibility pushed him towards the Professor's office. Charles and Jean, telepaths both, would never have invaded the privacy of another, but he, the feral, had been given no such choice, Hank thought bitterly. His only decision could be what to do with the information his dumb, oversensitive nose had provided, but as the only feral in the Mansion … he froze, the novelty of it stunning him.
He wasn't. Any longer. Wolverine had stood up there and calmly described his own abilities, and when he had squirmed in his seat at the description of heightened aggression and animal-like senses, the look the man had sent him had been full of sympathy.
Wolverine didn't try to hide behind a guise of gentlemanly behaviour and scientific erudition. He hadn't even apologised, Hank reminded himself. He was a man who would trust his instincts, and use every advantage he had.
But what were his instincts telling him, now? Deception, surely. That meant danger. Loyalty, to his ideals, and the team. Loyalty to his kind? Loyalty to the type of man he secretly wanted to be?
Beast growled and spun on his heel. Dr McCoy the scientist was demanding more information on this situation, and the hunter in him was warming to the chase. May the best feral win.
*
Rogue had wanted to mend things, really she had, but then the Wolverine had grabbed her and made a big production about being shown to the control room. So in the spirit of playing nice with the new recruit, she'd sent a sad smile towards Jubilee, and cried off on the ritual breast beating for a few more hours.
This situation was so fucked up, she was pretty sure it didn't qualify as dumping your friends for a man. Most of 'em weren't talking to her, and they'd never know, anyway.
And the electricity leaping between them was just about burning her alive as they rushed towards the control room, desperately trying the project the image of two strangers trying not to let personal business interfere in their professional goals.
Dr McCoy and Professor Xavier didn't need to know that her current goal was to tie him to that huge black chair, and make him watch the tapes. Rogue tried to remember to breathe as they stalked the length of the hallway. Make him watch, and see himself as he ate her out in the garage. Make him watch as he slammed into her from behind in the half-dark of the back stairs. Watch him grow hard, and grow desperate, and then take advantage of the situation.
Oh yes, that was a plan.
She heard his perturbed intake of breath, and wiped the tiny grin from her face. Felt the weight of his wordless stare, and wondered if her eyes looked like that too - pupils dilated and huge with want. She coughed, and looked pointedly at the tent forming in the front of his jeans.
“You being impertinent?”
“No sir, Mr Wolverine.” She heard his muffled laugh as they drew even with the control room door, and she stepped in front of him to enter her access code.
“Never let a stranger get too close to you when you're inputting any sort of code,” he breathed into her ear, his entire body suddenly plastered to her back. The door released, and she stepped forward, leaving him momentarily off balance.
“I'd never do that, sugar. Code changes every day, anyway – and I'm the only one who knows the sequence it follows.” Go sit in the chair, she begged him silently. She crossed to the desk in the back of the room, and perched herself next to the filing cabinet.
“Sixteen monitors, one for each of the 15 cameras, and an extra screen for reviewing footage. Constant live feed, and all saved digitally. Backups every 12 hours, so we never lose any little thing.”
He gave the operators chair a cursory twirl, then sat sideways on the operations console, watching her.
“This ever manned?”
“Not often. I come in for a bit if we have security issues, and sometimes I'll post a watch if we're having problems, but usually, I review it all remotely. You can access them from any computer, just have to know what to log in to.” Please sit in the goddamn chair.
“What's this for?” He walked towards her, indicating the unadorned desk she had perched herself on.
“Paperwork, mostly. I keep logs of suspicious incidents, just in case it might add up to a bigger picture, and I also lock the old footage – on portable harddrives – in the filing cabinet.” She unlocked the cabinet to show him the neat stacks of discs she had archived. “Few other bits and pieces too.”
He returned to the control station, and sank into the black leather chair with a hiss of pleasure.
Rogue swallowed her victorious smile, and reached her hand into the cabinet, plucking out the two pairs of handcuffs keeping company with a taser and a first aid kit. She slid off the desk, dropped the handcuffs deep into the front pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, and held her breath as she made her way over to him. Innocent thoughts, she told herself sternly.
He knew something was up, though, and he swivelled the chair to watch her as she came close, head dropping down as if she posed a threat, but eyes hot under those heavy brows. Her skin began to prickle and her pulse ratcheted high. They were alone. In a locked room.
She took another step forward, and stood between his spread knees. “Hi.”
“Hey girlie. What can I do for you?” His voice was rough, already sliding down to that register she'd heard last night. His hands rose to her hipbones, and she fought the urge to sink right down into him, onto him.
“Let's start with last night, shall we?” She nudged the chair back towards the console, and leaned past him to input her codes, and pull up the footage. The dark of the garage, a lone red car in the foreground, dark inside. Two Harleys, entering at speed. Two figures in black leather, falling together, falling onto the bench. A flash of adamantium, and the man fell to his knees.
“Fuck.” His breathing had changed, and he sat forward to watch, completely enraptured. Rogue took a step back, and his hands released her absentmindedly. Another step back, and she slid around to where one strong arm lay relaxed on the arm of the chair. Click.
He looked at her in shock, and she paused for a fraction of a moment to allow him to process the sight of the handcuffs securing his left arm to the chair. A smile, hungry with anticipation and hot with wickedness, spread across his face, and he relaxed into mute expectation as she moved around to lock the second set of cuffs around his right wrist. He didn't begin to growl until she moved in front of him, kicking his legs apart to crouch between his knees.
“Wolverine. What am I going to do with you?”
*
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This one has taken a while. I blame Homo Heidelbergensis, on whom I will be giving a presentation tomorrow. When I could have been writing smut, dammit.
Chapter End Notes:
Reviews are neat little dollops of inspiration, you know ...