2. In the Zone
She sat quietly in the jet and tried to project the same fraught tension that vibrated from her teammates. Iceman was chewing his lip like the schoolboy he was, and Colossus had a silver sheen to his skin that suggested he would be more comfortable in his metallic form. Up front, Jean and Storm were talking strategy in hushed voices. They were the official rendezvous; Cyclops, Gambit, Colossus, Iceman, and Jubilee would provide the muscle. And Rogue, of course. Rogue was always invited whenever deadly force might be required.
Their plan had the virtue of simplicity, Rogue allowed, but on every other front would have failed Logan’s critical analysis. Their reliance on that old chestnut – the hidden strike force – would trip them up when the element of surprise was lost. Logan would smell them the minute the hatch on the jet opened, and be immediately aware that the simple transaction was just a front. He would smell the tension of a team poised for violence, and grimace at the taste of the lies Jean and Storm would tell. The only real wild card, Rogue realised, would be her.
He would wonder which side she was on. Why she was with the X-men. Who she was now. Maybe he’d even find some answers to the questions she had asked so often. But first, they would fight. Master against apprentice, sensei against student. Would her new gifts tip the balance? Or the tricks she had picked up along the way?
Her smile of anticipation drew startled looks, but the poor sods had no way of knowing what she was thinking. She could see the confidence flow into them: Rogue, the angel of death, was looking forward to stretching her wings. Fear receded and arrogance took its place: the mission became a challenge, a proving ground. Jubilee shuffled through the tunes on her tiny mp3 player before finding one worthy of the moment; she pulled the plug on her earphones to let the squall of 80s rawk saturate the plane.
Danger Zone. A testosterone anthem from a decade none of them had been alive in, one of those songs that leap off movie soundtracks for a few months and then vanish. Logan had loved it, had let the animal loose to run wild with the drums and bass. Had pounded into her, driving her into the exercise mat with a force that left her bruised and staggering afterwards. (She’d begged him to do it again. Harder.)
More memories that left her squirming. He’d certainly smell her coming, Rogue mused. Would he remember? Or had she been just another acolyte in the Church of Logan? It was the one question she’d never been comfortable to ask – “So, Logan, do you make a habit of picking up teenage hitchhikers and ruining them for life?”
She was laughing at her own joke as the plane landed. Maybe today she’d ask. Maybe tomorrow she would admit she wasn’t joking.
*
She followed the plan like a good little X-woman. They’d arrived two hours early to get the strike team into position (pointless, pointless, the Greek chorus howled); she maintained her crouch in the girders when he entered the building, even as her stomach flipped at the sight of him (disloyal, disloyal, the chorus moaned).
Eyes hungry, she mapped every change. His skin was still flawless and his hair – longer! – as dark as ever, but even the ageless man changed with the years. Or was it the assignment? He looked … urbane, almost. Too dangerous to wear the label comfortably, he was still dressed in black linen pants that yelled designer, and a silk shirt that outlined the contours of his body without ever being tight. And were they loafers on his feet? Rogue realised she had made a tiny sound of shock when Bobby shot her a furious glare.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the geek; he had no idea Logan already knew they were there. None of the X-men did: even Jean, the psychic wonder girl, was outmatched by the Wolverine’s experience and cunning. He had taught her how to project a mental space that was as serene and uncomplicated as the beach on a Sunday afternoon. Mutants are as bad as the rest of ‘em, kid. Never trust someone just because you think they might be like you. She remembered the reproach in his eyes as he scolded her for accepting a ride from another mutant, more than a year after the fact.
“S’ok, sugar. I didn’t trust you. Just wanted to fuck you,” she had retorted, still pushing the boundaries. His eyes had flashed, and his scent had changed, but he’d stuck close to his line. Ruffled her hair and turned it all into a joke. “That’s OK, then. Because sex never got anyone into trouble.”
He’d been uncomfortable, though, and tempted. She might not be a telepath, or any sort of psi, but the incident in Pasadena had left her with a set of new talents, and he was training her to use them. His sight, able to discern minute flickers of expression and penetrate into the night. Healing, slower on her, but still able to cut her recovery time from half an hour to less than 10 minutes. Smell. An avalanche of sensation so intense it hurt at first, her brain reeling at the onslaught of new information. Now, it was second nature, but it had taken months of patient teaching to distinguish each shade of emotion. Another gift, she thought sourly, as she forced herself to use his skills to learn more about the man she was about to betray.
His tells were still the same: the flare of the nostrils as he counted the number of scents in the room; the barely-there flicker of his eyes into the various corners where someone was concealed. The tiniest smirk when he realised they were unaware of his ability to unravel their trap; a crease on his forehead, and the contradictory notes of puzzlement in his scent when he registered something familiar, something out of place. Her, of course. Her personal scent combined with her emotional state: knowing, confused, contradictory. Loyalty, plotting betrayal. Love, resentment, fear, anticipation. Yep, that was Rogue, alright.
As his eyes flowed over her hiding place, she felt the ridiculous urge to bow to her old sensei. She choked down a chuckle that threatened to turn into a full giggle fit. Luckily, Jean and Storm chose that moment to step into the warehouse, and the immediate leer that appeared on Logan’s face was enough to freeze her hilarity.
“Well, well, well. Xavier’s couriers are looking mighty fine, these days,” he ventured, voice rumbling deep and rich from his chest. He didn’t bother to hide his appreciation as his gaze wandered over Ororo’s lush curves and Jean’s long legs and dark red tresses. Street clothes, though, Rogue thought triumphantly. She was in the leather. She knew damn well which Logan would prefer.
“Mr Wolverine. I gather you have something for us,” Jean purred, comfortable with the game he wanted to play. Her eyes drifted across his massive shoulders and down his torso, where watered silk seemed to kiss the ridges of his abdomen. “I do hope so.”
“Always, ladies, always. And please, call me Wolverine. Mr is so formal.”
Suave, smooth talking Logan. Wonders would never cease, Rogue thought drily. Ororo, say something. Stop this ridiculous flirt fest.
“I’m Storm, and this is Dr Grey,” the African woman said, her smile warm rather than flirtatious. “We have your cash here, but we’d like to discuss another proposition first, if that’s alright with you.”
An eyebrow shot up in an achingly familiar gesture. “A proposition? Please …” he indicated for them to sit on a nearby stack of crates. “I’m all ears.”
Jean perched herself on the edge of the stack, legs delicately crossed to expose the maximum amount of long, lean thigh. Storm was more subtle, leaning decorously next to her colleague and keeping her tone businesslike.
“Our employer, Professor Xavier, would like you to join us. The Institute has had some … security problems recently, most likely connected with our political profile. We are the most visible mutant presence in the country, and the political environment, as you know, is less than positive,” she said, nodding at the dossier the Wolverine was holding.
“So, you want me to … what? Protect you? Be a security guard at the school?” Because, ostensibly, that’s all they were. A group of teachers who specialised in educating unusually gifted students. No one was meant to know of their extra-curricular activities, especially not those that verged on the para-military.
“You would be our Head of Security. Professor Xavier would like to meet with you to discuss the details, but he has assured me you will have considerable scope to invest in the technologies and other measures you see fit. And, of course, it will pay very, very well.” Jean Grey’s smile was slow and catlike, leaving little doubt about the types of payoff available. Rogue wondered just how much Cyclops could see from his vantage point. Was the stick-up-his-butt team leader so inured to his wife’s liasions that he’d allow her to invite a total stranger into their bed?
Perhaps it was her growl that did it. Or the stink of jealousy wafting through the warehouse like poison gas. His head lifted fractionally, and she saw him take a long breath, taste it, and savour its essence. Gorgeous hazel eyes, flaring to gold, found her in the darkness far above.
Once, that predatory smile meant he wanted to fuck her. Maybe it still meant that. Or maybe he wanted to kill her.
Fair’s fair, she thought, and dropped from her perch to land crouched in front of him.
“Hello, sugar.”
*
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Author's Chapter Notes:
So, an epic it is. Yay for the long haul!
Chapter End Notes:
So that's all I have written. Now I need some alone time with my Logan muse to take it forward. Don't wait up.