She was on the couch in front of the television, sitting alone, wrapped up in the large green cashmere shawl that Jean had given her as a gift for her eighteenth birthday. Logan noticed that she used the shawl often, since they returned from Alkali Lake. She'd drape it over her shoulders late at night, on top of whatever silky nightgown she was wearing, and traipse down to the kitchen for a snack at midnight, or to the library to read when everyone else was asleep, or sometimes to zone out in front of the TV when even the insomniac boy wasn't around.
Logan knew the shawl was helping Rogue feel close to Jean. He envied her, just a little, for having something real, three-dimensional, to hold onto that reminded her of Jean. Rogue had a shawl, Storm had years' worth of memories and keepsakes exchanged between friends, Scott had everything that Jean had ever used, worn, or touched, and Logan had memories of a single kiss, and longings that would go forever unfulfilled.
"Hey," Logan said, taking a seat next to Rogue, quite close to her, on the couch. Whenever there were other people around and he greeted Rogue, he always said, "Hey, kid." But whenever they were alone, he just said, "Hey. " He felt, somehow, that when they were in front of other people, they had to keep up some kind of pretense. What they were pretending, he didn't know.
"Hey," Rogue said. She knew Logan had been watching her from the doorway for a few minutes. It wasn't that she could smell him or hear his silent footsteps – she hadn't held onto any of his powers of heightened sensory perception or anything. She just had normal, human intuition, the kind that a person had about another person who they were close to. She'd always known, when Logan had been on the road, when he was about to call. She wouldn't always run to the phone, but she wouldn't be surprised when someone shouted that the call was for her.
"What's on?" Logan said, staring at replays on ESPN.
"Not much," Rogue shrugged, causing the shawl to slip from her right shoulder, the shoulder closest to Logan. With a tiny gasp that Logan almost didn't hear, she hurried to pull up the fabric and cover the creamy, deadly skin that had been exposed.
Logan leaned forward and picked up the remote control from the coffee table, clicking down the volume a few notches until the sound was barely audible. Then he put the remote down and leaned back again, watching the almost-silent screen as if it were the normal thing to do.
"What'd you do that for?" Rogue asked. Logan could hear the frown in her voice.
"'Cause you're not listening to it anyway. And this way, we can talk better." Logan still wasn't looking at Rogue. She still wasn't looking at him. They were staring blankly at the old sports news.
"What do you wanna talk about?" Rogue sounded tired, even to herself.
"What're you doin' up so late?" Logan asked.
"I dunno," Rogue lied. She'd been unable to sleep more than a few hours ever since…Jean. Coming downstairs in the middle of the night had become a normal state of being for her. And she knew Logan saw her. Sometimes, he even kept company with her. But he'd never talked to her about what she was doing up at all hours until now.
"You need your sleep, like anyone else," Logan said.
"So do you. I guess we both have our nightmares, though," Rogue responded without hesitation. Logan was taken aback by her bluntness. She was referring, of course, to his terrible nightmares of experimentation, and the fact that she had inherited them in some form when they'd touched; she was also saying, he knew, that they both had fresh nightmares now, minted from the tragedy at Alkali Lake.
It was times like this, when she said something so honest and sad, so accepting of horror and death and pain, that Logan got the awful and wonderful feeling she was a full adult, now. It was terrible to see how much she had to bear. And it was wonderful to see her bear it so honorably. He was proud of her. And he also *wanted* her to be grown up, he didn't want her to remain a child forever. He wasn't sure why that was important to him, but it was.
Rogue brought him out of his thoughts with her next words. "You haven't been sleeping any better than I have. No one here has been completely normal since we lost Jean." There. She said her name. Logan was surprised to hear her say it, most people pussyfooted around a direct reference. But Rogue had decided that Jean would have liked it better if people talked about her and remembered her as a person, not as a martyr whose name was taboo. Rogue picked at the edge of the shawl, looking down from the TV screen. "I'm sorry that you're hurting. I'm hurting, too, and so is every one else. We're all just working through it. No one said grieving would be quick or easy, or that it even should be."
Logan looked at her face, then, for the first time since sitting next to her. She looked like she was concentrating on picking some invisible lint off the corner of the green shawl, but he saw that her eyes were full up with mourning and tears.
"I'm sorry, Rogue. I know you miss her." Logan had been so wrecked by his own sense of loss that he hadn't bothered to console anyone else, except for the brief words he'd said to Scott about Jean choosing him. But he'd seen Rogue's listless sorrow. He'd felt her heavy heart. He always felt tuned into what Rogue was going through, plugged into her somehow, so he knew. He just hadn't said anything before now.
Rogue nodded, not looking up from the shawl. Still picking at it, she nodded. "I do. I miss her. I wish all the time I could talk to her. I expect to see her around every corner." She glanced up at Logan and saw his serious expression. Since she didn't have any gloves on, she reached out with her hand covered by the shawl, and touched his bare arm briefly. "I know it must be the same for you. Worse, even, in some ways." Rogue knew about Logan's feelings for Jean. Everyone did, but she always felt his emotions more acutely than others did. Even as she mourned terribly for Jean, and ached for Scott, and Storm, and the Professor, she said a few special prayers for Logan, for losing his unrequited love.
"Not worse. Not worse than anyone else," Logan said, his voice rough. He wanted to acknowledge that Rogue was suffering, that her pain wasn't less than his, and he also wanted to thank her for being on his side, for sparing him some honest sympathy, rather than thinking that he had no right to feel he'd "lost" Jean. But as usual, he wanted to say more to Rogue than he could find words for.
"It feels so horrible..." Rogue said. A tear finally fell from Rogue's downcast eyes, and neither she nor Logan reached up to wipe its trail from her face.
Rogue didn't bother because she didn't feel the wetness; Logan didn't because, even though his fingers ached to feel the delicate curve of her cheek, he wasn't wearing his gloves. He cursed himself for not tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans before he left his room. He usually had gloves in his pocket, because he never knew when he might run into Rogue.
Rogue took in a shaky breath. Logan debated whether to tell her something that he had been keeping to himself. It was a thought only half-formed in his mind, he had never even really admitted it, in all its force and power, in his consciousness. But looking at Rogue's grieving, sorrowful face, he decided he had to try to comfort her.
"As horrible as her death was, and is," Logan said, in a low, grave voice, "I've found something to be grateful for."
Rogue lifted her eyes to Logan. She sniffed. "What?" she asked gently, thinking he would say he was thankful for all that Jean had taught him and shown him. Rogue was thankful for all those things, too.
Logan carefully laid his hand on Rogue's shoulder, over her soft green shawl. "I'm so grateful it wasn't you."
Rogue stiffened in surprise. Logan didn't remove his hand. Rogue frowned.
"What?" she asked in a very different tone – uncomprehending, unsure, shocked to her core.
"Scott lost everything when he lost Jean. It's plain every time you see his face. He lost what mattered most to him. He lost what was best in life for him. But," Logan looked away, feeling suddenly cowardly, but decided it was too late to hold back the rest. Focusing his intense gaze back on Rogue's heartbreakingly pretty face, he said, "I didn't. I miss Jean, but when I think about her, on top of being sad about her, I feel so glad it wasn't you, Marie."
There, he'd said it. Cryptically and awkwardly, but he'd said it. He didn't want to tell Rogue more, tell her everything. He thought it would terrify her, the kinds of feelings he had for her – it certainly terrified him. What if he admitted to Rogue that there was a strange, desperate quickening of his heartbeat whenever he sensed she was nearby? What if he revealed that there was a word that popped into his head whenever he saw her face or figure, and that word, whispered in a small fleeting voice at the edge of his mind, was "destiny?" What if he told her that half of the tears he'd shed over Jean were tears of relief, thanking God or whatever was in charge that he wasn't in Scott's hell, that he hadn't lost the one thing that mattered, because Marie was still alive, still there to be seen and talked to and protected, still there to admire and watch from a safe distance, still there to run into when he turned a corner.
Logan was ill at ease with his emotions where Marie was concerned. He didn't give a damn about conventions or morality, but a part of him did feel ashamed that he should be so wrapped up in an eighteen-year-old girl, him being the Wolverine, the animal, the ageless, deathless wanderer with no last name and no past. And now here he was, muttering so clumsily about this inexplicable attachment. She would never understand. To her, he was a bodyguard and a big brother. Rogue had her boyfriend and girlfriends and high school and a normal life to live out. He had no business sharing his dark, secret thoughts with her. What the hell did he expect her to do with them?
Suddenly, Rogue said, "I need you too, Logan." She smiled a little, and one of her hands reached up under the shawl and held his, her skin warming his through the green fabric.
Logan blinked, amazed. Rogue had distilled the swirling confusion of his thoughts and feelings into one simple sentence, and had given it back to him. Need. Yes. That's what he'd been trying to say. He liked Jean, and lusted after Jean. He needed Rogue. He needed his Marie. He needed her like he needed light, wind, sound, breath, movement, sensation, and feeling. He needed her. Losing Jean was bad. If he'd lost Marie...his body may not have died, but everything in him that was worth half a damn would have.
Rogue held onto Logan's hand a moment longer, then wrapped the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and stood up, turning off the television with the remote control as she rose. "Walk me to my room?" she asked. Logan nodded. As they ascended the stairs, Rogue thought about how little she knew about Logan, and yet how strangely close she felt to him. All their differences and the distance between them came to nothing in the face of her need for him, and his need for her. She didn't know what it meant, that they needed each other so much, that they felt this strange involvement. But as Logan kissed the top of her head and watched her as she entered her bedroom and closed the door, she was grateful that they would have the chance to find out. They would have time. Thank God, there was time.
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