“Thank you, Tiffani. I’m afraid these paths, while pleasant to look at, are rather unsuited for my chair.” Xavier’s admission brought up a pain far too raw for the many years he had carried it. He braced himself against the rush of feelings hitting his well-trained palate: inadequacy, weakness, a subtle undertone of humiliation, made all the worse by the tinge of pity he felt emanating from the girl behind him.
She steered him carefully over the rough spots in the mulch. “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m happy to help.” She was; he could feel the genuine emotion in her words, and the pain lessened somewhat. “Can I ask you a question, Charlie?”
“Certainly.” This said with an indulgent smile that bespoke nothing of his inner thoughts. Deliberately shifting focus, he took in the complex network of branches above them, made no less stunning by the thinning foliage. The season’s first snow coated the top of each branch, glistening in the morning sun.
“Well, it’s just . . . is Ms. D’Ancanto your daughter?”
“No,” he said gently, “but I have often thought of her that way. I care for her very, very much.”
“That’s so sweet. How did you meet her?”
He considered his possible responses and settled on, “She works for me.”
“Oh.” Tiffani pondered that for a moment. “You mean at your school? Is she a teacher?”
“Yes,” Charles said without guilt. It wasn’t a lie; it simply wasn’t the entire truth. The resort knew very little of the truth. He had led them to believe Rogue suffered brain damage from a fall while she was hiking. They were so relieved he wasn’t suing that they gladly agreed to let him rent the cabin indefinitely. It was a good thing, too. Rogue flatly refused to leave. Even his considerable powers of persuasion could scarcely calm her tantrum when he and Scott had tried to urge her through the door.
“What does she teach?” Tiffani asked as they rounded the bend in the path and the cabin came into view. A line of smoke curled up from the chimney. So inviting. This must have been what Rogue saw, that first day. He recalled her voice on the phone: "Just--just amazing. Thank you, Charles." He sent her here. Good intentions or no, he sent her here. Guilt was a useless emotion, but it still overcame him at times.
Tiffani’s curiosity prompted Charles to briefly skim her mind. He was sorry for the invasion, but he had to be vigilant; he still had yet to discover who was responsible for the attack, and it didn’t pay to have anyone asking too many questions.
It was immediately obvious that Tiffani was no threat. The girl believed that the hiking accident was all a cover, that Ms. D’Ancanto was under witness protection, and that Logan was her bodyguard. She believed Charles was some sort of government official. She was proud of her deductive skills, and took measures to ensure that the rest of the resort staff didn’t interfere with her prized patrons. Charles smiled; mistaken though the girl was, it didn’t hurt to have another ally in keeping Rogue’s presence discreet.
“Ms. D’Ancanto . . . gave a variety of seminars for our advanced students.” Topics included How to Defend Against Telepathic Attacks, Building Fluency in Mixed Martial Arts, and Combat Applications of Defensive Mutations. But he didn’t think it prudent to share that with Tiffani.
“Oh. That’s nice. Well, here you are, Charlie. Just ring the front desk when you’re ready to come back, okay?”
“I will. Thank you again.” He rolled himself up the porch ramp and knocked on the door.
-----------------------------
She followed the alpha with her eyes as he walked toward the noise and opened the door. The sitting man came in, but she pretended not to notice. She turned her back to them both and continued twisting her bare fingers through her silky hair, entranced by the feel of it.
She was aware of many things. The moon had been a sliver the night she returned to her den. It grew larger every night since. Last night it was perfectly full and round. She sat out on the porch for a long time, mesmerized by its pure light on the new blanket of snow. Finally she began to shiver, and the alpha picked her up and carried her back inside.
This was her world: change, slow and steady. The moon grew. The leaves fell from the trees. The logs in the fireplace crackled their way to white powder. The food depleted, and the white-haired woman brought more. The sitting man came and went. The man inside her head began to fade, and she missed him sorely. He was Logan, just like the alpha, only . . . different. He touched her bare skin. When he talked to her, she talked back.
Most of her memories were impossible to understand. They had too much sight, not enough smell. Too much logic, not enough instinct. She tried to call them up whenever something seemed familiar, but they usually slipped away like half-remembered dreams.
But the sounds—words—those were coming back, day by day. The man inside her head made her remember many words. Good words. Safe. Protect. Trust.
She had begun to realize that she wasn’t like the dead things. She wasn’t a wolf, not really. Well, perhaps really, but not only.
The real Logan and the sitting man wanted her to talk. They coaxed and cajoled and sometimes pleaded with her to respond. She could, if she wanted to. But something not-wolf in her warned her to keep silent. If she talked, they would ask her about the day in the clearing. About the blood and the dead things. The dead things . . . she began to rock. “Shhh, hush, shhh,” she murmured.
“She does that sometimes,” Logan said to the sitting man.
Part of her said Logan was the alpha, and that was that. But another part of her couldn’t decide whether she liked him or not. He took care of her and made her feel safe. But he also made her angry, because he was so mean. Every time she rubbed against him, or nuzzled into his shirt, or pulled his arms around her waist, he would hold her and kiss the top of her head. Then he would run his hands up and down her body until both of their scents changed. She would feel him hard against her belly, and always whimpered for more.
Then he would whisper in her ear, “Tell me not to stop, Rogue.”
And no matter how much she whimpered and tried to cling to him, he would push her away.
She was so frustrated that she had taken to tempting him every chance she got. She touched him constantly—his hair, his chest, his back, his gloved hands. He gasped every time she brushed his knuckles.
She refused to get dressed unless he dressed her. She crawled into his bed after her baths and rubbed his scent on her.
She even tried to crawl in bed with him last night, after she thought he was asleep. But he growled and grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to her own bed. She was still pretty angry about that one.
And now the sitting man was here, asking Logan about her, and Logan was saying that everything was fine. Everything was not fine, that liar. She would have to wait until the sitting man left, but then she would have her revenge.
-----------------------------
“Everything’s fine, Chuck. We’re makin’ progress, bit by bit. She just needs more time.” Logan wished he had a better answer than that, but he really didn’t know what to say. Xavier had already stuck his neck out, had gone against the wishes of the entire team and allowed him to stay with Rogue these past two weeks. He recalled their conversation perfectly, had repeated it to himself a dozen times or more; it was the first time in his memory that he had vowed to help, rather than hurt.
”You, perhaps better than anyone, understand what she is going through right now. What do you suggest?”
“Let her stay here. It’s the only place she feels safe. I—I could look after her, Chuck.” Could he?
“Scott is quite adamant that you be kept away from her. He fears you will . . . take advantage of the situation.”
“Yeah? And what do you think?”
“I think Scott has reason to mistrust you. I also think he’s wrong, in this instance. You deserve a chance, Logan, to be there for her. She is at a crossroads now, as are you. Perhaps you can help each other find the right path.”
“Why, Chuck? Why are you doin’ all this? What could you possibly see in someone like me?” I don’t even trust myself, he wanted to say. I don’t even know why I’m here.
“Sometimes, you can only believe in yourself after someone else believes in you. As I have said, what I see is great potential. Promise you’ll do what you can for her.”
The words came more easily than he thought they would. “Alright. I promise.”
It had been two weeks since he pinned Rogue in that bathroom and imprinted her scent. Two weeks since he made his promise to Xavier. Two weeks that felt like a lifetime. She was coming out of her shell a little more each day: going a few steps further from the cabin, turning on the radio and listening with a look of intense concentration, helping him prepare meals and clean the dishes afterwards.
And, of course, there were the many other things she did. Those things. The ones that made him groan in frustration. The ones that made him sneak into the bathroom to take showers in the middle of the night. The ones that made him realize, without a doubt, that Rogue was far more lucid than she tried to let on.
Sneaky little rogue.
He knew what she wanted, could smell it all over her. And without question he wanted it too. All the time. Pretty much every waking second of the day, every sleeping second of the night, and every half-waking, half-sleeping moment in between. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—go any farther with her until he was sure. Until she told him, in her own voice.
He imagined what she might say when she finally answered his whispered plea. Imagined it a million different ways. Would she beg for it, or demand what she wanted? Would she call him sugar, or Logan, or hell, Wolverine? Anything would be fine with him, as long as she told him not to stop. Because goddamnit, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep making himself stop.
He let out a heavy breath, wondering just how much Chuck knew. It was impossible to tell anything from the calm, impassive eyes that watched Rogue twirl her hair, patiently waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge his presence. The man was probably the most powerful telepath who ever lived, but he also had a code of ethics that would put Gandhi to shame.
Still, he had to know that Logan felt some serious baser urges when it came to Rogue. Any idiot could see that. And by any idiot, he meant Scott Summers. Although that particular idiot had been stunningly slow to catch on, even as he watched Wolverine hump her into the wall.
But did Xavier sense the thoughts that Logan himself was barely beginning to admit? The almost-pride he felt when Rogue submitted to him. Trusted him. Followed him. She made him feel like the kind of man somebody could believe in. The kind of man he had long given up hoping he could be.
He felt urges that had nothing to do with sex. He wanted to protect her, to help her, to share her happiness when she looked in a book and pointed to the words she recognized. To hold her whenever she woke up whimpering in the middle of the night. To make her feel good, in any way that he could. This feral woman was becoming his salvation and his best friend and his wet dream all rolled up into one, and the newness of it all was as terrifying for him as her new senses and instincts must be for her.
It didn’t help at all that she had such a way of drawing out his own feral side. Since the moment he pulled that scarf from the hamper and scented her, the Wolverine had found a mate. He didn’t understand what Logan was waiting for, especially when Rogue came to his bed last night, smelling like—like perfect. Like it was her time, and she was ready to get busy making some little Wolverines.
Maybe he had been too rough with her, grabbing her hair like that. But Jesus, he was about at the end of his rope. Taking her as his mate felt like the most natural thing in the world. Refusing her felt as stupid and pointless as refusing to breathe.
And there was no way he could put any of that into words, so he just settled for ‘Everything’s fine, Chuck,’ and hoped the telepath could read between the lines.
-------------------------
The sitting man seemed to stay longer than usual, and she stared at him boredly. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. Even through her jumbled memories, she knew that he was very important. Very special. And he . . . he had taken care of her once before, sort of like the alpha did now.
Something flitted across her mind. A flash of yellow hair, her own green eyes staring out from another woman’s face. It made her dizzy. She held her head and let out a low whine.
Logan was at her side in an instant. “What’s happenin’, Chuck?”
The sitting man lowered his hands from his temples and folded them in his lap. “I think that will be enough for today. I agree with you, Logan; she needs more time.” He heaved a loud breath, “I’ll let the others know.”
Her head still felt strange when they went outside the cabin to speak, but she managed to scuttle across the floor and held her breath, one ear pressed to the door, to hear their hushed voices as they grew farther and farther away:
“ . . . will let you know if we come across any leads. Although I urge you to let the other X-men handle this. Rogue needs you.”
“Yeah, she needs me to rip apart the sonofabitch that did this to her.”
“Really? Who will feel better once that is done—her, or you?”
Then Logan growled, and she flinched at the sound of his fist slamming into a tree.
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Logan helped Chuck to the front office, but his focus never left the cabin. If a floorboard creaked, he would hear it. He took his role as protector seriously, especially since the spineless fucker that attacked his ‘protectee’ was still out there somewhere. And probably knew exactly where Rogue was right now.
And that just didn’t sit well with him. Not at all. He rubbed his knuckles, and couldn’t get back to the cabin soon enough.
Logan opened the door and went to his room to find Rogue sitting on his bed, playing with the weather radio he had just put fresh batteries in. He didn’t understand her fascination with it; she seemed as content to hear the static between stations as anything. Unless she happened upon a country song. Then she would pause and listen for a while before growing bored and changing the station again.
She didn’t bother to look up at him when he entered, though he did see her sniff the air before settling back against the pillows and continuing her perusal of the airwaves. She paused on a song, and he saw familiarity cross her features at the sound of the twangy voice.
“Well if it’s lovin’ you want, then I got it,
If it’s money you want, well I’ll get it,
I’ll buy you tall, tall trees and all the waters in the seas,
‘Cause I’m a fool, fool, fool for you.”
Sounds about right, Logan thought. He opened the cigar box on the bedside table and retrieved a parejo. “Be on the deck if ya need me.”
Rogue studiously ignored him, as she had done all morning. He strode out of the cabin, closing the door somewhat harder than necessary.
He bit off the cap, spitting it over the edge of the deck somewhere, and dropped into what he had come to think of as his chair. The sturdy wood strained against his weight, and he felt heavy. His body, his mind, his heart, everything. Just heavy. Looking out over the lake helped lighten him, though. He fired up and swirled the peppery smoke around his mouth, letting it burn away the mixed smells of desire and hurt that filled the little cabin.
Rogue had three favorite pastimes: driving him up the wall, listening to the radio, and taking long baths. So his spirits lightened some more when he heard the water running inside. Maybe she would emerge in a better mood, and he would get up the gumption to apologize for being so rough with her, and they would spend an enjoyable afternoon by the lake. Maybe.
-----------------------------
Logan shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the door. He left his gloves on and resisted the urge to roll up the sleeves of his well-worn flannel. The fireplace kept the cabin plenty warm, but Rogue didn’t seem to like covering up, and one of them had to. There was no telling what could happen if they had an accident and he wound up unconscious for another twenty-hour stretch.
He went straight to his bedroom and began making the now vacated bed. He shook out the sheets in a practiced move, ignoring the scent that filled the air, and tucked them under with precise hospital corners.
But it wasn’t enough that she climbed all over his bed, burrowed into the sheets and rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase. She just had to use his bath too, even though there was an identical one attached to her own room next door. Pastime numero uno: drive him completely insane.
He refused to give her the satisfaction of letting frustration seep into his tone. He purred, sugary sweet, “You been in there a while, darlin’. Everything okay?” She had left the bathroom door wide open, as usual, but he didn’t exactly want to walk in and check on her.
“Mmm,” she hummed the affirmative. Well, at least she wasn’t ignoring him anymore.
Logan looked around for something to do. He wasn’t used to being cooped up like this. He needed to burn off some energy. His two favorite forms of workout, sparring and sex, were definitely out of the question. He settled for pushups.
He was twenty-two in when he heard Rogue’s whine. It was obviously a call for him. Tough luck, he wasn’t in the mood to answer. Let her see how it felt to be ignored. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five . . .
Two little whimpers, then a long, drawn-out whine. He could hear the message as clearly as if she’d spoken it: “Please, please, pleee-eease?”
He grumbled wordlessly and pushed himself up from the floor. Damnit. What new form of torture had she cooked up now? He began shadowboxing—dart, jab, jab. He was the damn alpha, and it was about time she started respecting that. He wasn’t at her beck and call, no sir.
“Hmmm, hunh, hmmHMMMMMM . . . .” Aw, why’d she have to beg like that? That sound hit his ears, then made a detour straight down his spine to land between his legs—and she knew it.
He’d just check on her. Poke his head in the door, see what she needed. And by God, if she was just fuckin’ with him, he’d teach her a thing or two about who was boss. He cracked his neck, set his shoulders, and sauntered over to the bathroom. His bathroom. Yeah.
Oh. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. The bathroom was dark, hot and steamy, an uneven glow flickering over everything from the candles she always lit. At least they weren’t scented.
Rogue looked up at him from the bath, an expression of naked want crossing her features. She almost looked to be in pain, and he felt his own expression twist in sympathy. Then she whimpered again, and he couldn’t help himself—he took a step into the bathroom.
The second his boot touched the tile, her expression changed. She bit her lip and gave him a slow, lascivious smile, pinning him to the spot with those knowing green eyes.
All the blood in his body seemed to go south as he watched her fingertips trace over her collarbone, down, down, down between her breasts before disappearing under the water.
He did not whine. That was not a whine that came from his throat. It was a—a growl. A high-pitched, but still very manly growl.
She gasped and gripped the ledge of the tub with one hand, and he had a very good idea what the other hand was doing under that steamy water.
Her eyes were still locked with his when she started to pant. He knew he was whining now, whimpering like a fuckin’ puppy, but he couldn’t help it. If her smell hadn’t been dampened underwater, he probably would have lost his mind already. He ran a palm roughly over the bulge in his jeans, desperate to relieve the pressure.
Her gaze fell, and her heavy-lidded eyes settled on said bulge. “Mmmmm,” she moaned, fingers tensing and releasing rhythmically on the ledge. “Ah, ah, mmmm.” Logan jerked his hand away from his groin and clenched both fists at his sides.
He had to get out of there. Had to just turn and go. The tightness in his jeans was unbearable, and grew more painful with every little whimper and moan that passed her lips. But her gaze kept him rooted to the spot.
She licked her lips.
“Aaaghh, fuck,” he groaned, dragging his knuckles over his crotch. The denim rubbed him none too gently, but at least it helped alleviate the pressure a little.
Rogue tossed her head back, and it was all he could do not to reach out and touch the spill of her silky hair over the side of the tub.
The sweet pink flush of her cheeks darkened, and all the smugness faded from her features as her whimpers became more frantic. Those hungry little sounds spilled carelessly from her throat, and he wondered what it would feel like to press his mouth over hers and swallow them as they escaped.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed. But before he really knew what was happening, the rough press of his knuckles gave way to the measured rub of the flat of his hand. Up. Down. Up. Down.
She was so close, he could tell. Encouragements left him in rough whispers. “Ah, baby, that’s so hot. Come for me. Yeah, just like that.”
She did, mouth open in a silent cry, head thrown back, baring her neck to him in a primitive gesture of submission that sent him over the edge, too.
As she slowly came back down, he stopped bucking into his palm and let out a shaky breath. His own release was short-lived; in seconds he was hard with want again. Stupid fucking healing factor.
She stood, water sloshing over the edges of the tub and running in rivulets down her toned body, and smiled that knowing smile again.
“Goddamnit, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled pitifully, then turned on his heel and walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
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She wrapped the fluffy towel around herself, enjoying the little jolts of pleasure that still ran through her body every with every step.
Revenge was sweet.