4. Demons
Scott ignored the roiling anger to land the jet as carefully as he knew how. Precision, skill, pinpoint control … they were important to him, and he refused to bounce them across the basketball court just to give everyone on board vertigo.
He ran through the full shutdown sequence, dismissed the team after reminding them of the 9pm debrief, and even kissed his wife before she left the plane, shooting him a concerned glance over her shoulder.
“Will you be right bringing them round by yourself?” Jean had asked, brow wrinkling in doubt. He had snapped at her, then, for daring to think Rogue posed any real threat. She was an X-man, learning a lesson about following orders, that was all.
He crossed to the door to the hold and slid back the peephole cover to watch the two figures on the other side. Rogue was glued to one wall, obviously staying out of reach of the man secured across from her. Her face was turned away, but the purity of her profile was marred by obvious sadness and distress, something that shook him to the very core. Rogue was arrogant, cocky, flirtatious and proud – she never apologised, and never backed down.
What the hell had this man done to Rogue?
Scott was snarling inside as he unlocked the door and moved straight to his teammate, carefully unlocking her wrists and helping her rub circulation back into them. He ignored the stranger, perfectly happy to see him suffer a few moments more.
Mr Wolverine didn’t like to be ignored, apparently. The guy was growling – growling! – and took a half-baked swipe at him with a foot that would have neutered him if it had connected.
“Get your fucking hands off her, boy!”
Scott’s jaw dropped at the possessive tone, and all of a sudden, three and three seemed to make seven. But Wolverine wasn’t finished yet.
“Your little bitch tries to kill me, and you tie ME up? I came here in good faith, with every bit of intel Xavier asks for, and I end up a fucking prisoner? What kind of business arrangement is that?” Wolverine seethed.
The reminder of the aborted mission sent Scott right back to very.fucking.angry, and not just with the abrasive stranger.
“Well, here’s the thing. Apparently the little bitch was once your little bitch, and she neglected to say a damn thing about it. Now, unless you can explain, that’s a conspiracy, and I’m not willing to let either of you wander about the place until you can convince me otherwise,” he said through gritted teeth.
Scott turned his back on an apoplectic Rogue to unlock the Wolverine; for a moment, his spine itched with the exposure.
“Little bitch? His? I … fuck you, Cyclops!” She was speechless. Good. He was too angry to say anything conciliatory now, and the last thing they needed on the X-team was all out war.
“You can explain yourselves to Professor Xavier. He’s a telepath, so the truth will come out one way or another,” Scott said coldly as he led the way out into the sublevels. The Professor would never abuse his gift in such a way, but the Wolverine had no way of knowing that. And if Rogue was pissed off at the lack of trust, well, it was time to reap what she had sown, he thought sourly.
*
“How many years has it been, now, Wolverine?”
Logan ignored the question and continued his assessment. Nice cushy office, check. Uptight prick lurking in the background, check. Sanctimonious bastard – check, check, check.
He’d tried hard to conceal how impressed he was as they emerged from the jet into the space age hangar, then caught an elevator up into the ritzy woodpanelled hall. He knew Xavier had some serious dough, but how many schools had genuine oil paintings and furniture older than he was? Seriously high end digs. But the school part seemed to be true – a hundred or so different scents, and somewhere, the faint babble of lots of young voices. Maybe two floors away? Windows told him they were up high, so somewhere pretty fuckin’ palatial given the length of the hall they had hustled down before the door had swung open as they’d approached. So someone was telekinetic as well. Useful to know.
He’d been pushed into one wing chair, and Rogue opposite him. The pissy kid they called Cyclops standing behind, probably ready to drill them with that energy beam if they even moved a muscle. It was an intimidation scenario straight out of Psychology 101, Logan smirked. And now, sure enough, Xavier was playing the “I know something you don’t know” card.
“Moving from place to place, no one ever knowing your real identity? Selling your soul with every hit? We can offer you something better, Wolverine.”
The sanctimonious fuck sat opposite him, eyes sad. Logan could feel the tiny pushes that signalled he was being read, if not invaded. Xavier was no White Queen, though. Emma Frost might have been only a middling fuck, but she was one hell of a ’path, and had not only taught him to block intrusions, but how to set a false trail.
“As our head of security, you will be helping us keep people safe. Helping us make the world a better place for mutant children. I will never ask you to kill another person, except in defence of that,” Xavier continued.
Well, where’s the fun in that, Chuckie? Logan clamped down on his mirth and conjured up sadness, and regret. Loneliness, and a fractured soul that did what he did because he saw no other options. Knew no better.
Some of it might have been true, but he was the fucking Wolverine. The best at what he did. Walk away from that, and what was left? Once, a girl had made him think about changing his life. Getting out of the game. But he’d recovered.
Logan yanked his thoughts back, and concentrated on finding a better explanation for Rogue. Maybe he should have gone easy on her, and used the trip to come up with a cover story. He smirked. Nah. Watching her pretend to ignore him had been all kinds of fun. He was still hard.
“Wolverine!” Oops. Charlie Boy must have caught that one. He concentrated on how she had looked today, a wet dream in black leather, and locked away the memories of a teenage girl, freezing by the side of the road. Rising from her bath, pink skin gleaming with temptation. Scrabbling together on the floor, thoughts of victory lost to the miracle of friction and body heat. Bedecked in blood, a predator to match him.
Think of something else. What qualified as innocent contact with a girl that young? High school teacher? Nup. Mechanic? He’d taught her to drive, after all. But how many people wanted to kill their mechanic?
Mortal enemy? Could she have been a target, his only failure? She would take it personally, and he would have been happy to let her go, because she was just a kid. Hmm. Could work.
The image formed before his eyes. A dossier, her brown eyes shining even on the dull, photocopied page. Her name. Anna Marie d’Ancanto. Age – 16. Whereabouts – unknown. Tracking her. Finding her. Pretty girl profiled in his crosshairs, and not being able to do it. Just … wrong.
He had broken out in a sweat, Logan realised. An entirely fictional scenario, and he could feel his stomach churning, and the moisture on his forehead. Fuck. He was tied in knots. Six fucking years and she still … affected him.
She’d gotten mad, of course. Found him out, hated him. Tried to kill him. Reality shaded the fiction, and the sour taste in his mouth needed to go the fuck away because regret … the Wolverine didn’t do regret. Not unless it got him something, he allowed, and pumped it into the construct. Met Xavier’s eyes with his own.
Tried not to gloat. Lock, stock and fucking barrel, baby.
Professor Charles Xavier, mutant saviour and arrogant shit, Logan thought. Just like he used to tell her, find the weakness, and that’s your way in. That’s how you’ll trap ‘em. Xavier thought he was fuckin’ omnipotent.
More fool him.
*
Logan was planning something, Marie realised. Something about his stillness suggested pieces in play, and the way his mind worked … nothing happened by accident. Had she been the rogue factor, the complication he hadn’t planned on? Or had he known where she was all along? She wondered what story he would come up with to explain how they knew each other, and tried not to care.
You hate him, she told herself firmly. You wanted to kill him. You never did get what you wanted when it came to Logan, she realised ruefully.
Professor Xavier was looking from him, to her, and back again. He’d be asking her questions soon, but Logan had taught her that people always tell you the answers they want to hear. She just had to listen properly.
“Rogue – you and Logan have been combatants in the past, I gather.”
Combatants? Well, lah di da. Guess you could call it that.
“Yes, Professor. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but … it was just too painful. I’ve been trying to forget.”
“It’s quite clear where the blame lies here, Rogue. I realise Wolverine believes he was only doing his job, but to agree to kill a child … to accept your parents’ money and track you like an animal… it was wrong. We can only be thankful that some part of him realised that in time,” Professor Xavier said sadly.
Rogue hid her vague amusement and contemplated which part of Logan might have done such a thing, if it had ever actually happened. The part that had advised her how to slip into Meridian unnoticed? Or the part that had stood behind her as she held a knife to her father’s throat, glorying in the foul stench of his fear? Or perhaps it was the part that had shown her where to cut so the kid-fiddling bastard would die slowly, smothering in the pain and humiliation?
Warm throb of the bike between her thighs, closer than she really needed to be. Normally, he made her shift back, give him some space, but she needed the comfort, tonight. She needed to do this. Black, Mississippi night dripping with promise, and familiar white clapboard, looming ahead. He let her go first, crossing silently through the yard, opening the back door with the spare key that still lived under the damn petunia pot. Up the stairs, knowing every creak and using the sign language he had drilled in to her to show him where to step.
The bedroom. Her father, may his black soul rot in hell. Lying alone in the big bed, Momma long gone. Quailing a little, her stomach writhing with hate. Stumbling back, ‘til his arms went around her, his warm bulk offering shelter and strength as her body tried to burrow inside his. His breath in her ear: “You don’t have to do this. I will”. But she did have to. All the demons inside her, screaming to be cast out. She had no choice.
The moment her father’s eyes opened, and saw her. His little Marie. Little Marie, whose skin crawled when his fingers touched her skin. Little Marie, who curled tight into the tiniest ball, so he couldn’t find her in the night. Little Marie, who had no choice. Even as her father ripped off the Winnie the Pooh panties, ripped her inside, ripped her apart.
She needed this. The fear in his eyes as he saw the jagged hunting knife, and the massive shape in the dark behind her. The stink as her father pissed himself, and shat all over his pajama pants when the pain became too much. She had asked how to make him hurt, and Logan had told her. Small cuts, here. A deep slash, there. She wanted to rip, and rip, and rip, but that would be too fast. Slow, blood-drenched death was what the demons needed.
Rogue realised she was smiling. She tried not to relive the memory too often, but the black thrill of it left the demons purring. Wolverine cast a worried glance in her direction, and she realised the look she was sending him wasn’t appropriate for combatants facing off in the Professor’s study. She cast around for a truth to mask the lie, but Professor Xavier had already taken his own meaning from her vicious smile.
Ooh, a frown. Penitence, here I come, she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
“That does not mean you can abuse our debt of hospitality, Rogue. This man is my guest, and I must insist you put your grievances aside. His pursuit of you was not personal, and his decision, ultimately, was to spare you.”
“Now, you must choose to do the same. While I realise it won’t be easy, Wolverine will be an asset to our staff, and the wellbeing of our children is paramount.” His eyes bored into her, and she could feel his sincerity pressing down. What would he expect from her?
Rage. Resentment. Sad, twisted acceptance. She ground her teeth and nodded her head once. Whirled on her heel, and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind her in a final touch of outrage. Sometimes, being the antisocial bitch had its advantages, she smirked as she strode up the hall to her room.
She needed … something. Bourbon wouldn’t even touch this itch. Maybe the bitty blue tablets she kept in the hollowed out heel of her favourite combat boots? Or maybe a trip to the fight bar in town. No chemical high could match old fashioned endorphins, and she and Logan were completely in agreement on one thing.
Nothing beat a hard fight, followed by an even harder fuck. She fully intended to find both.
***
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
WARNING: This chapter is dark. It contains a short but detailed description of child sexual abuse, and may be triggering.
Chapter End Notes:
Hmm, I wonder what should come next? Anyone care to tell me? *grin*