Rogue rolled over and looked at the clock.
Three forty-three am.
Yet another sleepless night.
Insomnia was an old friend; she actually preferred it to the nightmares, which had faded somewhat in the years since the Statue of Liberty, but never disappeared completely. Over the course of time, she'd run into various inhabitants of the mansion, each suffering their own form of sleeplessness. It was up to them as individuals to find their own coping methods or cures.
She curled up in the bed, still not quite used to sleeping alone again.
Now that her on-again/off-again romance with Remy was off for good, she'd moved back into her old room.
She thought about her years with Remy. She'd wanted an epic romance --fiery, passionate, wild -- and he'd given it to her, in spades. She was sure that there had been many good things over the course of their five years together, but at the moment she could think of only one.
Sex.
The only surefire cure for insomnia.
She rolled over onto her back and eyed the clock darkly.
Three fifty am.
She closed her eyes and let her hands drift down her body underneath the cotton t-shirt, lightly skimming soft skin encasing taut muscles.
An embarrassing -- and nearly deadly -- emergency one night soon after Logan had left, convinced her that pajamas were the way to go. Remy had liked to buy her lingerie -- she had drawers full of sheer, lacy concoctions that made it seem as though he were really touching her skin when they were together. Now that she was alone again, she found a t-shirt and boxer shorts worked well enough.
Her eyes closed as her hand moved over her right breast, kneading and teasing until the nipple tightened against her palm.
This was the only way she might get some sleep.
She floated off into fantasy, and in her mind's eye she saw Logan looming over her, his eyes intent as his hands stroked her body --
And she bolted up, surprised, trying to shake the images out of her head.
How many years had it been since she'd entertained fantasies of Logan? They'd passed quickly upon his return, nine months after he'd left. His unrelenting pursuit of Jean those first couple of years had been enough to turn her off for good, or so she thought.
Then Remy had come along and swept her off her feet, and she'd had no more time or energy to pine for the gruff Canadian. She'd easily slipped into the role of his friend and confidante, a role in which she was quite comfortable, thank you very much.
She and Logan were good friends, yes. And he was hot as balls, yes. But there was no sexual tension between them. They'd long ago moved beyond that.
As long as she closed her eyes and saw Logan, she wasn't comfortable. She tried replacing him with the latest heartthrob, but no dice.
Okay, option one wasn't going to work.
That left option two.
She got up and pulled on her sweats and gloves. Spandex was all well and good, but sometimes it was much nicer to have soft, loose clothing against her suddenly sensitized skin.
She made her way down to the gym easily. Her eyes, sharper than most (thanks to the two large doses of Logan she'd absorbed) and already used to the heavy darkness of the hallways, were stung by the pool of soft light spilling from the doorway of the gym.
She paused, breathing deeply and centering herself, sniffing the air and listening.
Shit.
Logan.
He'd already caught her scent -- he was at the door before she was able to slip away.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh, darlin'?" he said softly.
She shrugged one shoulder, willing her body to calm down.
"Nightmares?" she asked sympathetically. He nodded and she reached out a gloved hand to cup his cheek.
The past few years hadn't been any easier on him than the fifteen he could remember before that. Loss and death permeated his life, and she sometimes found herself praying -- she, who had cursed God the day she learned there was no cure for her mutation -- praying for him, that he'd catch a break somehow, somewhere. He'd already borne more sorrow and heartache than any one person should have to.
Touching him was a mistake, she realized, as her heart rate increased with the feel of his whiskers through the thin nylon of her glove. When he turned his face and pressed his lips to her palm, she whimpered. He raised an eyebrow as she snatched her hand away.
"I'm just going to--" she said breathlessly, moving toward a treadmill.
He grabbed her hand again and she turned back to face him.
"Marie," he whispered, and it had been years since anyone called her that, years since she'd wanted anyone to.
"Logan?" she asked. She wasn't even sure what the question was, but he somehow knew the answer.
He gently pulled her toward him, giving her ample opportunity to escape if she wished. He slid his other hand around to the small of her back and brought her hand to his lips again.
"Didn't you ever wonder?"
"About this?" Her voice was a shell of a whisper.
He nodded, lowering his head to kiss the top of hers, then sliding his lips down to her temple, shielded from her skin by the silky chestnut and silver fall of her hair.
"Not for a long time," she answered softly, dipping her head to grant him access to her throat.
He pulled back slightly. "I know I'm not Remy--"
"And I'm not Jean," she answered.
"I don't want Jean," he whispered, his hand on her back applying pressure to bring her body in closer contact with his, so she could feel the evidence of his arousal.
"And I don't want Remy," she said. As if to prove her willingness and desire for him, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his t-shirt-clad chest. He sucked in a breath at the touch of her lips. She drew back again. "Should I stop?"
His hand dropped hers, and moved to cradle the back of her head.
"Not now," he rasped in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "Not ever."
They moved out of the doorway and sank down onto the mats, limbs entangled. When she'd imagined this moment, long ago, she'd always expected it to be feverish, desperate -- a furious coupling that devoured her body in flames.
It was nothing like that. It was better.
It was soft and gentle and knowing. It was love between two people who'd always felt it but never realized what it was, and it filled her soul to overflowing as he kissed his way down her body and made her call out his name. She always figured he would have this kind of effect on her, but she was stunned to see his response to her. His voice was hoarse with passion, and his touch was sure and firm, and his eyes, oh his eyes were filled with so much love that she trembled again just to think about it.
When they were done, they curled up, unwilling to be apart even for the amount of time it would take to walk up to one of their rooms, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Scott found them the next morning, and he smiled. Apparently they'd discovered their own cure for insomnia.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete. Yeah, I have chronic insomnia. And did you read that article in the NY Times a few weeks ago about fatal familial insomnia? Freaky.