Xavier sat behind his expansive cherry wood desk, holding a phone against his ear with his shoulder. A code word was issued, and Xavier responded with his own. Then a faint crackling was the only sound to be heard for twenty interminable seconds, as he and his agent secured the line. He wasn’t expecting an update so soon, and especially not in the form of a direct call. It must be important.
Formalities out of the way, the agent began delivering his report. Charles ignored the keyboard inches from his fingertips, preferring to jot notes the traditional way (albeit on a leather Rolex notepad with a Montblanc fountain pen) as he listened. Ever since Shadowcat had aided the team on a mission by infecting the target’s computer with a program that clandestinely recorded every keystroke, Xavier found himself deeply mistrustful of the machines when it came to his own sensitive information.
No matter how strong Shadowcat and Forge insisted the Institute’s firewalls were, there was really no substitute for paper, a physical thing that could be obliterated with the stroke of a match—and Xavier knew that the agent with whom he was currently speaking agreed wholeheartedly on that count. Charles was in no way technologically challenged, but he had been running intelligence operations since the Cold War—and to this day he’d send his operatives a dead drop spike over an encrypted e-mail whenever possible. Computer data were like thoughts; no matter how one tried to eliminate them, traces of their existence always lingered, just waiting for someone skilled enough to sift them out.
And traces simply weren’t acceptable in an operation as delicate as this. His agent had been in place for over three years, and in that time had provided invaluable information—information that, if traced back to him, would undoubtedly cost his life. Charles listened carefully as the agent relayed his findings in a succinct, clipped tone.
“And you’re certain that Mystique defected prior to the incident?” Xavier asked after the report was complete.
“That’s correct, sir,” the agent confirmed. “She’s in the wind going on three weeks. Magneto still suspects that Rogue was a mole all along, that she stole much of the information you’ve used against The Brotherhood. On the upside, that may draw suspicion away from me. On the downside, well . . . Sabertooth told me in graphic detail about the attack. I’ve been doing some digging. Seems that Mystique was perfectly willing to disable Rogue, to scramble her brains for the cause,” disdain crept into his otherwise monotonous voice. “But when she heard about the brutal way Magneto wanted to do it, to make an example of ‘Xavier’s spy’—well, I guess even the blue bitch has standards. She refused to have any part of it. Left without a trace.”
“This is an interesting development,” Charles said in his most detached tone, irrationally hurt by the fact that Eric would think he would use a teenage girl to spy on him. They had well and truly grown apart, for his one-time friend to think so little of his ethics. “I trust you’ve considered what this means.”
“It means Magneto’s about to implement a plan that he thinks Rogue might have intel on—which means a plan ten years or more in the making. And whatever it is, he’s keeping it on the down-low, because I’ve heard nothing.”
“Indeed. I fear this must be something massive in scale and complexity—something not worth abandoning, even at the expense of Rogue’s life.” Xavier’s brow came down. “Not that her life is of any value to him, as his past actions attest.”
“And you say she remembers nothing about the attack?” the agent asked, a hint of discomfort creeping into his voice.
To be honest, Xavier was uncomfortable with the situation too. “So it would appear. My X-Men have their suspicions, but none, save you and I, know for certain that The Brotherhood was behind what happened out in Vermont.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “At this point, I intend to keep it that way. I have a new recruit who I believe would react . . . rashly, should such information be revealed. Frankly, there are more pressing concerns. Rogue is safely back at the Institute now; that’s what matters. And I am confident that, if she knew the details, she more than anyone would agree that revenge is not worth jeopardizing your cover, much less an intelligence operation three years in the making. Especially when we suspect something catastrophic looming on the horizon.”
“Right,” he agreed. “We’ve all made sacrifices.”
“You more than most, Agent.”
There was a momentary pause. “. . . And what if Rogue’s memories resurface?”
Xavier pressed his lips into a thin line, considering the possibilities. He would need to assess Rogue’s relationship with Wolverine before deciding whether she could be trusted to keep the information secret from him. From what he had seen, and the little he knew of feral relationships, it would probably be best to keep the information from Rogue herself—to not put her in the awkward position of keeping a secret from someone to whom she seemed most loyal. But was it wrong to hide her own past from her, even if it did feel like the lesser of two evils? It was an ethical dilemma, to be certain. Charles wasn’t ready to choose a course of action just yet, but he didn’t want to spook his operative by appearing uncertain. “You manage your end; I’ll manage mine. Expect the next drop at the usual time and place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep the objective in mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Agent.”
The line went dead.
-----------------------------
Glory be. That seriously just happened, Marie thought dumbly, sitting up in bed and looking around her gift-strewn room. Logan, having retrieved their luggage from the hall, disappeared into the bathroom with his olive drab duffle. Marie stood a little shakily and crossed the room to her dresser. Her hands rifled through the drawers and piled a change of clothes on top of the dresser with little conscious help—her mind was definitely elsewhere.
Up until the moment he kissed her, Marie hadn’t been able to believe that Logan really, truly desired her. But there it was, plain as day, in his mind. A need, raw and primal, surprising in its intensity—but even more surprising was the affection that overlaid it. The way her smile made him feel warm inside. His determination to be more than an animal with her. The first hints of hope, that perhaps with her, he could have things he had long given up on having: love, companionship . . . a family.
Logan had lived by his instincts much longer than she had, and he seemed to know when to trust them. Marie felt “right” to him. She could sense that from his thoughts, very clearly. With the way her mutation worked, she tended to pick up the surface thoughts of the people she touched, even if she didn’t hold on long enough to get a full replica of the person in her head. She wondered if Logan understood that, understood how much of himself he was sharing when he touched her. Surely Charles had explained it to him.
It had always been an interesting venture to ‘borrow’ the powers of her teammates, the ones who knew how her mutation worked. They were usually trying so hard not to think of anything embarrassing, secret, or inappropriate when she touched them, that of course, the most embarrassing and inappropriate thoughts immediately rose to the forefront of their minds.
Particularly the men. But their occasional fantasies of her were just that—fantasies. They envisioned her with slightly larger breasts, a slightly smaller waist, and always, always touchable skin. Marie had never felt flattered by their thoughts of her; mainly, they left her feeling inadequate, like she could never quite measure up to what they actually wanted.
And people wondered why she avoided even the briefest touch.
Logan, though, had somehow made her forget all of the things she didn’t like about herself. He was so swept up in the moment that she couldn’t help but be swept away with him. But now that it was over . . . what now? She had the irrational desire to touch him again, the need to know what he was thinking and feeling.
But she would never do that, not at the expense of hurting him. It was one thing for him to touch her, to decide that the cost of a little pain was worth his pleasure. It was another thing for her to selfishly inflict her touch upon him. That wouldn’t be fair, no matter how much she wanted it, no matter how natural it felt to connect with him in that way.
And perhaps that was what bothered her most. Contact with others was something she instinctively craved, yet studiously avoided out of the shame and fear of hurting them. But Logan would be hurt either way—by his unfulfilled needs if she denied his touch, and by her mutation if she let him touch her. But which was worse? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she probably wasn’t strong enough to make herself deny him, even if that was the right thing to do.
Maybe she just wasn’t trying hard enough to control it. Maybe she was supposed to be more than a weapon, and her mutation was supposed to do more than just hurt everyone she came in contact with. Maybe the way her power manifested, or her less-than-stellar track record of human interactions had somehow messed her up. That was the real truth she feared, and with Logan so close, she couldn’t deny it anymore. She would have to stop skirting the issue, stop rebutting Charles and Jean whenever they offered to work with her on controlling her powers—or better yet, fix the problem herself. Yes. She would have to figure it out on her own. It was her problem to fix, and she wouldn't go asking others for help. She was the Rogue; that was how she did things. Discipline and hard work and independence.
Marie scolded herself to try harder, do better, be better. She needed to prove to Logan that she was worth his trouble, and to prove to Scott that she deserved a spot on the team, and to prove to everyone that she wasn’t some broken, damaged thing. That she deserved respect, not pity. Two weeks—how had her life gotten so off course in so little time?
The bathroom door opened, and Logan emerged in fresh clothes: faded jeans and a denim button-down. His brown calfskin gloves had been traded for a thinner pair of black driving gloves with open knuckles. He seemed to be growing more daring when it came to exposing his skin to her. Marie wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
Logan approached her, and despite her earlier resolve to command respect, she found her gaze nervously dropping to the floorboards.
Marie had always been as untouchable emotionally as she was physically; she went to lengths to avoid this sort of intimacy and the anxiety it brought. She had safe banter with her colleagues, and a mentor-protégée relationship with some of her students—but never anything too close, too deep. She had spent years building a comfortable, solitary existence at the Xavier Institute. Hardworking, quiet, never seeking the attention or company of others that, frankly, she didn’t feel she needed. Or deserved. Now here she stood, in a room that no longer felt like hers, with a man who was making her second-guess everything she thought she knew. Everything she thought she wanted.
Coming to stand directly in front of her, he smoothed his hands over her hair, over her shoulders and up and down her back. Marie started to bring her hands up, then forced them back to her sides.
Logan tilted her head up with a finger under her chin. “Don’cha wanna touch me?” he asked with a quirked brow, teasingly offended.
The words hit her like a physical blow. “That’s not funny,” she whispered, hugging him impulsively and burying her face in his chest. She breathed him in, listened to his heartbeat, and felt some of her anxiety melt away. She knew she was hiding in him, being a coward, being weak, but damned if she could summon the will to pull away.
Logan’s hands continued running over her hair, and she could feel his chest moving against her as he breathed. Finally, he muttered, “Why’re you sad?”
Marie tensed. “I—I’m not.”
His hands stilled on her. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned. “I know. I always know.”
Marie caught the disappointment in his tone. It felt awful, to have him disappointed in her. Just awful. Worse than being kicked off the team, even. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “And I’m . . . sorry that . . .”
“That?” he prompted, resuming his long, gentle caresses.
“Th-that I . . . l-lllllll-liked—” Oh, how she hated that! That stupid stutter, the one that somehow managed to creep into her voice whenever she was feeling insecure, and make her feel even more insecure. She wished she could blame it on someone she’d absorbed, but it was all her, all Marie. She’d had it since childhood. She trailed off in a whimper, refusing to talk anymore. She was torn between wanting to cling to Logan for comfort and wanting him to just leave, leave her alone. She knew how to handle alone.
But he didn’t leave. He pulled her arms around him and wrapped his around her and nuzzled into her hair. “Take your time, baby,” he said in a soft rumble, running one finger back and forth along the silver chain at the back of her neck. “You just take your time and say it.”
Marie squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry—sad—sorry . . . that I liked touchin’ ya even though I knew it hurt ya,” she got out in a rush. “That’s wrong. I don’t wanna hurt ya, and I’m g-gonna t-t-try—” she lost it. She knew she wouldn’t be able to say anymore without mangling the words, so she broke off with a frustrated sigh. “N-nnn-nevermind.” She wished Rogue was here to do the talking for her. She wanted to retreat back into her mind, to let someone else take over. But she didn’t have Rogue, didn’t have anyone to hide behind anymore. Marie felt too exposed, far too open to Logan’s scrutiny, and some gate inside her mind slammed down. She stepped back, out of his embrace.
“Don’t you pull away from me,” he said with a growl that held more playfulness than anger. He tugged her close by the chain around her neck and pressed his lips to hers for a few fleeting kisses. “And don’t worry so much, okay? Honest, your skin doesn’t pack near as much of a punch as I thought, and if ya haven’t noticed, I’m the one touchin’ you, Marie, not the other way around. But you can touch me if you want. It doesn’t hurt, baby. It doesn’t hurt.” He kissed her again. “Feels good.” His kiss lingered a bit longer this time, his hands coming down to cup her backside and press her body into his. “So good. You . . . please me, y’know? I want ya to know that. Even when you’re not trying. Even when you’re being stubborn and disobedient and kinda a pain in the ass, you still manage to please me.”
“O-okay,” Marie said, because she wasn’t sure what else to say. His kisses were very distracting. He had reopened that connection between them, and once more Marie could feel his surface thoughts, a hint of frustration with her, but much more affection and desire. He just wanted her to stop worrying, wanted her to enjoy being with him.
“I do enjoy being with you,” she insisted, as though he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
He smiled against her neck and resumed his kissing there.
“I’m glad I please you,” she said then, knowing it was what he wanted to hear. It was also true. She was very, very glad. She continued shyly, “I—mmm—wanna . . . be . . . umm, y’know, g-good for you, sugar.” His lips brushed her skin again, and she got a flash of something: Logan wanted her to run her hands through his hair. She obliged, carefully feeling him out through the connection that fleetingly opened every time his lips touched her, judging his response, and changing her touch accordingly. This time she didn’t let herself get swept away. She stayed focused on him, learning what he liked.
She tried to will herself not to hurt him, but she could feel that it did hurt, a little bit, whenever he made contact with her for too long. But mostly he was feeling pleasure, and thinking of what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do to him. Some of his thoughts were pretty explicit, but she was surprised at how many of them weren’t. Logan missed how affectionate she had been towards him when she wasn’t worried about her skin, the way she would hug him, stroke his arm, press her body into his and just hold him. He thought she was sweet. Maybe she was, maybe she could be if she would just let herself do what came naturally to her, stop pulling away and feeling like she always had to be strong and cold and distant.
Logan kept his kisses gentler, less demanding than earlier, and settled his grip safely on her hips. Feeling his hesitation, Marie guided one of his big hands up her stomach to cup her breast, letting him know it was okay.
“Hmm, Marie,” he muttered into her skin. “You know just what I want, don’t you?” he asked, pulling back a little bit to look at her as he began to knead her breast.
“Mmhm,” she responded softly, words failing her as she focused all her attention on touching him how he wanted.
"Perfect, baby," he encouraged. "Just like I showed you."
So, he did know that he was sharing his thoughts with her, it seemed. Good. She trailed her gloved hands over his chest and arms, firmly, more firmly than she would have thought, but it was what he wanted. It seemed to be good for him. She found herself wishing he would kiss her again, so she could know for sure that he liked it, that she was doing it right.
He did like it, very much, she realized when he brought his lips back to her neck, seemingly fixated with that spot, the softness and paleness of her skin, the sound of her pulse so close to the surface. He began to nip a little bit in between the kisses, pulling her high-necked sweater away to bare more of her skin, and she could feel the care he took with her, his desire to dominate but not scare her, how much he was reining himself in. He was so attuned to her responses, willing to deny, or at least delay, his own desires in favor of hers. He was so good at this. And he didn’t even have the advantage she did, of knowing just what she was thinking, just what she liked and wanted.
Or perhaps he did. Because right when she was beginning to feel that it was a little too much, right when he bit a little too hard and she had to suppress the urge to push him away, he gently disengaged himself, freeing her from his embrace with one last kiss to her lips. He was reluctant to stop, but he wasn’t angry or disappointed with her. He accepted that this was new for her, that it might be overwhelming. “You okay?” he checked.
Marie felt tears come to her eyes, a sensation that was becoming far too familiar of late. “Yeah,” she mumbled. “Yeah, thanks.” She reached for the pile of clothes she had laid on the dresser, but he caught her hand. Marie shot him a questioning look.
A mischievous smile crossed his face. “Don’t change,” he urged. “Wear that. You look good.”
Marie blushed.
His smile widened. “And you smell really good,” he added, pulling her hand towards him and rubbing her inner wrist over his jawline, his whiskers scratchy against her skin.
She knew he was rubbing his scent on her, and nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. He was already all over her. Still, something about it felt instinctively right, so she let him repeat the action with her other wrist.
“You ready to go see Chuck?” he asked lightly, smoothing her hair. She had the feeling he was trying to keep her from going in the bathroom to wash up. Sneaky man.
Two could play at that game. “Sure,” she said sweetly. “Just gimme one minute to clean up.” She tugged out of his quickly-tightening grip. Logan groaned, and she stuck her tongue out at him.
“Better put that away unless you’re gonna use it, darlin’,” he growled, pretending to make a grab for her.
Marie laughed, darting out of his reach and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and did a double-take, barely recognizing herself.
She looked so different, when she smiled.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
In which Logan and Marie still don't make it out of the bedroom. This story is going somewhere, I swear. It's just diggin' its heels in and takin' its time to get there.