The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
So sorry about the extended hiatus. This story WILL be finished, I simply needed a break to exorcise some bunnies from another fandom. Nasty bunnies. They even forced their way into this piece in a very minor way ... enjoy, and I hope you think it's worth the wait.
19: Lie down with dogs ...
“Please don't do this, sir!” Gil was begging, he realised. Something he'd never had to do before, in eight years of working in this office. He was the President's senior domestic advisor, and as such, he persuaded, objected, or advised. He'd never had to fucking beg.
But then, he'd never been asked to oversee the mutant genocide before, either.
President Buchanan's faded blue eyes blinked up at him, obviously startled by the plea. “This legislation is an anathema, Pryor. A complete violation of human rights. But mutants are killing non-mutants, for no reason at all, and how many people have to die before it stops? I don't want to do this, but I must protect the innocents!”
Moral duty conveniently discharged, the careworn President scrawled his signature on the executive decree, passing them to Colonel Stryker's aide.
“Mr President, sir! Colonel Stryker wishes to advise that internment of known mutants will begin within the hour, and testing centres will be operational within 48 hours.” The soldier snapped a salute, and spun on his heel to deliver the orders to his commander.
Buchanan returned his attention to his senior advisor.
“I can reverse those orders if we need to. Find me something to stop it, Gil. Use whatever resources you have, whatever contacts – but stop this madness!” President Buchanan's stare was unflinching and direct, and the question in his eyes was clear.
He couldn't know, Gil Pryor told himself. No one did. There was nothing to link him with Xavier or the X-men. He'd destroyed the paper trail himself.
Suddenly, his mind drifted back to one of those interminable afternoons in Ethics. Jean Grey swishing her long red hair in boredom, Ororo mesmerised by the rise and fall of the Professor's voice, and Summers the swot onto his tenth page of notes. The air had been thick with humidity, and Professor Xavier's forehead was just beginning to gleam with sweat as he hammered his points home. Civilisation was built on the concept of personal sacrifice for the common good, from the observation of traffic signals to the creation of martyrs for a cause. Social change could not occur without the willingness to lay one's life on the line.
“Pryor?!” Buchanan was demanding a response. There was only one he could make, really.
“Yes sir.”
No one could ever really forget they were a mutant, Pryor decided. He was just lucky that he never forgot anything at all, and even dialling the numbers to the Professor's private line felt a little bit like coming home.
*
Storm was making her way to the sitroom when the telephone in Professor Xavier's office began to shrill. She paused a moment, then continued walking, before hesitating again. Who would bother ringing anyone in the midst of a national catastrophe?
Someone who was coming to the Professor for help, she realised, with a sinking heart. He can't even help himself right now, she wanted to scream, but instead, she answered the phone.
“Xavier Institute of Higher Learning,” she snapped. “Ororo Munroe speaking,” she added more politely, on realising she had answered the Professor's private line.
“Storm? Where's the Professor?” The voice was familiar, she realised, but not enough to put a name to. And if the wrong people learnt the Professor had been sidelined ...
“Who is this?”
“Gil. Gil Pryor. I work in the President's office. He's just signed a bill you need to know about. And I need help.”
Storm's mouth dropped open as her former classmate outlined the situation. The newscasts had underestimated the problem tenfold, and the deaths were moving into the thousands. No one, Pryor told her, had a viable theory for what was going on.
“The generous ones are saying the mutants have gone crazy,” he explained. “Others are saying it was planned all along. They're calling it the mutant uprising. And Buchanan just signed an order authorising the use of mass internment.”
She sat, stunned. The Professor had told them to fight … but whom? The government? The Brotherhood? The rest of humanity?
“Who does the Professor think is behind this, Storm? He must have some theory!”
She couldn't tell him. Couldn't force the words through her lips.
“We'll send the Blackbird for you. You need to get out of there,” was all she said. “Get in your car, and drive south to an open field. Send us the coordinates from your GPS. Don't forget your files.”
She was dialling Rogue's cellphone even as she hung up on Pryor, but she still wasn't answering. Red hair flashed in her peripheral vision, and she called Gambit into the Professor's office.
“Find Rogue. We need to scramble the Blackbird to get to Washington. I want Rogue to fly, with you, Wolverine, Shadowcat and Colossus as the extraction team. Gil Pryor, I'll leave full details on board. Go!”
*
Remy moved from room to room, looking for Rogue. He'd accepted the assignment cheerlessly – Storm's clipped order didn't leave any room for protests – but with every corridor that passed, his bitterness receded, and worry set in. The circumstances were dire and confusing, he told himself, and the absence of his team leader in that situation was problematic. He didn't give a fig about her, personally, he didn't suppose they were even friends anymore, but they had a job to do.
“Where are you, belle?” he muttered to himself as he completed his sweep of the upper levels. Somewhere on the grounds was the only place left, and she could be anywhere – swimming in the lake, sunning herself somewhere private, or gone for a run in the woods.
The woods. The groundskeeper's cottage. Wolverine was missing too, Remy recalled belatedly. Jean had tried to broadcast the summons in the same way Professor Xavier usually did, but she had recoiled, screaming, the minute she lifted her shields, so they'd resorted to the old-fashioned ring around. Only Wolverine and Rogue had failed to answer their cell phones, and given that one could fly and the other was notorious for vanishing on his motorbike …
Wolverine would be easiest to cross off, at least – he'd be in his cottage, or out whoring somewhere, Remy snorted. He broke into a jog as he crossed the wide lawns to plunge down the forest path that led to the lake. The cottage lay just beyond where the shore curved away from the mansion, secluded and private. Nothing but the best for Xavier's private merc, Remy sneered.
The background dossier they'd been given prior to picking the man up had omitted a lot of his shadier activities, Remy's contacts had since discovered. There were entire years of his history missing – and years where the paper trail was suspiciously perfect. There were rumours on the underground that, for a time, he'd had an accomplice, a young, beautiful girl that had since disappeared. Lie down with dogs …
This dog, Gambit realised as he leapt up onto the porch, had yet another woman with him. He heard them before he saw them – Wolverine had no reason to be quiet out here and the rhythmic slap of flesh was punctuated by a litany of growls and dirty talk, all clearly audible through the screen door.
“You like that, baby? You like it hard, don't you. Would'a thought you was ready for sweet and slow by now, but no. Not my girl. Needs to be fucked hard. Fast and hard and over and over and over again. Too much waiting, baby? Too many years thinking about me fucking you? Waiting for me to come back to you? No more waiting, kid, you take what you need. Now!”
An exquisite wail of pleasure demanded he look through the door, and then it was impossible to look away. The animal had her bent over the back of the couch, and her hands were convulsively grasping at the leather cushions. The force of his thrusts was lifting her feet off the floor, and her body was tipping in the fulcrum of his hands, anchoring her hips to the back of the couch. Her face was mostly obscured by a mahogany curtain of unbound hair, but several long platinum strands were caught in the Wolverine's meaty paw.
“Logan. Logan. LOGAN,” she chanted, the last on a rising scream. A sound he'd never heard, Remy acknowledged as realisation churned in his gut. His Rogue had been all about control; cool expertise and a final, triumphant moan. This woman …
“MARIE!” the Wolverine yelled, and folded her in his arms.
Marie? Hope flared briefly, but as she straightened to turn a too-familiar face into the Wolverine's chest, Gambit forced it away. This woman – whoever she was – had abandoned all control, and shed all her defences. Surrendered completely to a man she knew was an assassin and mercenary. A man she'd first met when he'd been sent to kill her.
It didn't add up. It wasn't the Rogue he knew.
Marie, his memory jangled. Wolverine had called her Marie.
And suddenly, it made sense. He swore, reaching desperately for anger as the betrayal threatened to swallow him whole. He'd never known her at all.
“Gonna get some fleas,” he said, and slammed his fist against the doorframe hard enough to drown out the flat, hollow tone of his own voice.
*
Rogue was still shuddering in post-orgasmic bliss when she realised the loud banging wasn't, in fact, her own pulse.
Logan had lifted his head to scowl in the direction of the door.
“Like to watch do ya bub? Looking to learn something?”
Rogue gasped and dove further into the shelter of Logan's arms as she realised someone was at the door, and groaned when Gambit cleared his throat to speak.
“Peace, homme. Didn't mean to interrupt. We need you at the house. Mission.” He didn't look at Rogue, but it was clear who he was speaking to.
“Code Red. Some bad shit's going down. Cyclops mobilised all the teams. Even the kids. We're going to Washington for some sort of pickup.”
“But the Professor … we didn't ...” Rogue shook her head in confusion. Did they trust her so little that she didn't warrant a call up anymore?
“Non, chere. The Professor – he's unconscious. And Jean can't seem to use the brainphone at all. Something really bad's going on. A war, they said.”
His face had been hard with anger when he'd first come in, but this, Rogue realised, was far worse. Remy, worried? Remy, confused? Dread chased away the outrage she'd wrapped herself in, and banished the blissful languor that had overtaken her muscles. Banished Marie, and summoned Rogue. She abandoned the search for her underwear even as Logan fired more questions at Gambit, settling for the jeans and t-shirt balled at the end of the couch. Shoes. Jacket.
War, she reminded herself. Clothes didn't matter any more. Trying to stay alive. Trying to stay together. That's what mattered.
The three of them sprinted back towards the mansion, explanations put on hold in favour of speed. “Straight to the hangar,” Gambit panted as they burst through the front door of the mansion, and Rogue led the way to the lower levels.
Colossus and Shadowcat had already boarded the Blackbird, and Gambit was buckling himself into his seat when Logan pulled her back into the hangar.
“Marie!”
She twisted free of his hold and made towards the plane. “Not the time, Logan!”
He growled and grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him.
“There's something I need to tell you.”
Her eyebrows rose in silent question, and she tapped any imaginary watch to indicate her patience was running out. He scrubbed his hand over the top of his head and then pinned her with hazel eyes that seemed to beg for understanding, and forgiveness. Her heart sank.
“I was sent here. A job.”
And there it was. Her worst nightmare. Rage swept through her and she slammed the heel of her hand straight out, catching him in a perfect strike to the bridge of his nose. She cursed her lack of self control as blood gushed from his nose, but couldn't feel sorry for it. Too busy feeling betrayed, she wanted to scream.
“Sorry,” he offered, as he dragged the hem of his t-shirt up to mop at his nose. The incongruity of it nearly made her laugh – he was the one bleeding – but she forced herself back into a professional space as the need for more information became obvious.
“Who was your client?” From anyone else, it would be a waste of breath, she knew. But the fact that he'd even told her this was a job had to mean something.
“Mystique,” he answered with a twist of his mouth. “But it's not what you think. Xavier wasn't my target. What's happening now – I don't think it's anything to do with this.”
Once, she'd known him well enough to tell when he was lying. But she had trusted him, then, and trusted herself. Now she was old enough to be honest – she wanted to believe him. For some reason, this man – this cagey, mercenary, violent, misanthrope of a man – was the one person she had ever wanted to trust completely, lose herself in, to float away on a golden cloud of obnoxious bliss. Had she overlooked his motives and their own history all for the sake of a few good fucks?
“Yes, Virginia, you sure did,” she told herself quietly, refusing to meet his eyes. Dragging in a deep breath, she flogged herself with the hurt and shame and loss of pride, and used the ache to rebuild the walls that had protected her for so long. Before he had torn them down.
He wouldn't get the chance again, she vowed, finally lifting her head to meet his eyes.
“We'll discuss this later. You'll tell us every last detail about of Mystique's plan, or I'll simply take the information straight from you. You might even live. But first, I'm going to do my goddamn job and you are not going to get in my way. Ever. Again.”
It didn't even hurt, she told herself. Marie would have curled into a ball of misery to see such disappointment and hurt on her lover's face, but Rogue was fine. Rogue's hands didn't even shake as she guided the Blackbird through its startup sequence, and Rogue's mind was completely focused on the mission as the supersonic jet leapt towards Washington.
And with the co-pilot's seat empty, no one would ever know that Rogue's face was wet with tears.