"I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw."
Shakespeare: King Lear, IV:1

The first time was quick and hard and nothing like she imagined--not that she'd ever imagined it with him in anything beyond abstract daydreams. They did it standing up in the downstairs coat closet, a vague mothball scent in her nose and the itch of winter tweed on her legs. He had on jeans and she had a long skirt bunched up at her waist. She remembered the clacking noise of the hangers and a detached gladness that she'd already done it with Bobby so she wouldn't get blood on anyone's coat. Neither one of them would say they planned it; they came back from a drink and a round of pool and, as she hung up her leather coat she only wore when she went out looking for trouble, he gripped her waist and pulled her flush against him. "Rogue," he whispered, heat infusing his voice.

"Okay," she said, and her eyes focused on where she thought he was looking.

They didn't kiss because there wasn't anything to use as a barrier.

The second time was on Halloween. She wore an I Dream of Jeannie costume--that's what the salesperson called it, although Rogue told people it was a belly dancer outfit--complete with veil. "What's scarier than me baring midriff?" she said when questioned.

He caught her in the hall on her way back to her room. "Okay," she said. It took longer this time and she peeked at him, her eyes the only uncovered part of her face. The thought that his were the only concealed part of his face flitted briefly through her mind and she almost laughed. He held her head still and kissed her through the thin costume veil.

It'd been nine months, but it was like time had slowly ground down to a standstill in the mansion. The world kept passing by everywhere outside the gates to the school, but inside it was like it'd only happened yesterday. No one said Jean's name; they said "it." As in, "Well, you know, after it happened..."

The third time, he came to her room as she slept. She woke to see him sitting in the chair across from her bed. He took a long time, using his gloved fingers to touch her, and she had an orgasm, keeping her eyes on him till she cried out and had to close them. After, he pulled her nightshirt down to cover her navel and rested his head--careful so his glasses wouldn't poke her skin--on her belly, taut with muscles she'd built training for the team. "I'm sorry," he said. "I-"

"No. I don't want to talk yet," she said, touching his hair. "Let's just do this a little while longer."

"Okay," he said, and clutched her hips tightly.

---

Rogue was in the kitchen late one night, unable to sleep. She was ostensibly making tea, but the kettle had been whistling for over a minute as she stood next to the stove, staring at the pot.

"You wanna get that thing off the stove before I fuckin' claw it off?"

She didn't have to turn around to know it was Logan. "You'd burn your hand," she said, picking the kettle off the burner.

He opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer. "Don't matter much."

Rogue nodded. Those words would've have made her wince at one time--feeling his pain by proxy. "How is it you get to keep beer in the kitchen fridge?"

"Nobody's gonna steal beer from me," he said. "Chuck and Cyke know that."

Shaking her head, exasperated and amused, she said, "Logan... the kids all know you wouldn't harm a hair on their heads."

He grunted. "They ain't ever seen me really mad. Beer-thieving mad."

"I suppose that's a few steps beyond attack-on-the-mansion mad." She pried the cap off the bottle he offered and took a swig, smiling the first completely open smile she could remember in a long time. It made her face feel nice.

"Hey, Marie... haven't seen that in a while. Looks good on you," he said, squinting his eyes and looking closely at her.

Her smiled faded. "Haven't heard that name in a while."

"Maybe you should hear it more often," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

She set her bottle down hard on the counter. "Don't do that. Don't clam up and get all Wolverine-y on me. If you have something to say--"

Grimacing, he cut her off abruptly. "You gotta stop this shit with Scott."

"I-- I don't gotta do anything," she snapped, blinking in surprise. No one was supposed to know. "What the fuck do you care, anyway?"

---

What the hell did he care? She'd made it clear again and again that she was an adult and didn't want him interfering in her life. Not that he'd been tryin' to do that. In fact, he'd pretty much let her slip away from him in the past nine months. She'd tried to be nice to him, and he'd shut her down--cutting her as deeply as if he'd used the claws.

He didn't notice then, but looking back he could see that she'd blocked him off. Sure, she talked to him in passing, but she stopped smiling that special smile for him and always found a way to leave the room quickly if they happened to find themselves alone. Something she was about to do right now if he didn't say anything. Damn it. "Doesn't the Sno-cone care?" Uh-oh. That struck a nerve. She was glaring at him.

"I'm not with Bobby anymore." Her mouth was tight. "I'm not a cheater."

"Yeah?" He felt a twinge at that, like she'd meant to hurt him, to imply something about the feelings he'd had for Jean. In the nine months he'd lived in the mansion, he'd learned that words could be used as a weapon, too--a formidable one. "Breakin' up the morning after don't count as not cheatin', sweetheart." Direct hit. Her face fell and suddenly he was sorry and he wished he could take his words back. She looked at him for a minute, the sheen of unshed tears coating her eyes. Then she turned and walked away from him without a word.

He could've let her do it--walk away from him--and that would be it. They'd be teammates and acquaintances, willing to fight for each other come crunch time and that's all. It'd be so easy; they were halfway to barely speaking as it was. Hell, he was already halfway to barely speaking with pretty much everyone in the mansion, except maybe for Kurt. It'd be so easy. "Wait. Marie, wait."

---

Rogue was determined to get out of the kitchen before he saw her cry; he wasn't going to make her cry, damn it. For nine months she hardly registered on his radar, and now he suddenly wants to act like it's his damn business what she does with Bobby or Scott or anyone. Screw crying; she was pissed. She whirled around at his words and yelled, "Fuck you! You don't know anything." Her hands were shaking with pent up anger. She felt like stripping her gloves off and grasping his bare arms till he fell at her feet.

"Yeah, I don't know shit," he said, setting his empty bottle on the counter. "Why don't you tell me?"

She stared at him. "Why the fuck would I want to do that? Because you've been such a good friend to me?"

He winced, almost imperceptibly. "Nah. I've been a crap friend--I know it. I don't have much experience at it."

"That excuse is wearing a little thin," she whispered, wavering.

"Maybe so. You gonna walk away when I'm tryin'?"

Picking up her beer bottle and taking another drink, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She should walk away; she knew that. Talking to him, opening up, was only going to get her hurt again. "It wasn't the day after. Not really." She'd had a fight with Bobby that afternoon--a bad one. It was the kind of fight that ended relationships. Scott had run into her in the hall, grabbing her coat.

"Rogue? Is something wrong?"

"Not now, Scott," she spat. "I'm not in the mood. Unless you want to come get drunk with me and possibly start a fight, back off."

He didn't hesitate. "I'll drive."

Her fake ID got a raised eyebrow and a beer.

A couple beers and a game of pool later and they were sitting in a small booth, not talking. "What does the room look like to you?" Rogue said, breaking their silent drinking. "Is it really dark red, or is it something like infrared glasses?"

"It's pretty much all red, all the time," Scott said.

"Don't you-- do you ever feel like ripping it off and-- and... doesn't it frustrate you to--" she cut off, tugging on the fingers of her gloves. "Of course you do. I guess we all do."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Scott ran his hands over the scarred table, marked with years of carved and scratched graffiti. His fingertips skated dangerously close to her gloved hands. "What?" he said to her scowl. "It's the only question anyone's asked me in nine months. I think I should get to ask it once in a while."

"I don't want to talk," Rogue said. "Not yet." She smiled crookedly. "And people also ask you if you're okay--if you're doing all right."

Scott laughed, a short bark. "That they do. They want to make sure I'm holding it together. Sometimes I wonder what people would do if I really lost it. Maybe I wonder what it'd be like to--"

"Do the exact opposite of what people expect you to?" She looked at him and wished she could see his eyes.

"Yeah."

So when they'd got back to the mansion, and he'd held her to him and said her name, and she had condoms in her jacket because of that time with Bobby out by the lake, it had happened and neither one of them could say they'd planned it.

"It wasn't the day after," she repeated, not looking at Logan, not wanting to meet his eyes, because she knew if he wanted to he could see right through to her secret-self. If he wanted to see it.

---

She wasn't leaving; at least she wasn't leaving. When he'd figured it out--what she and Scott were doing--he'd felt a kind of hot rage burn through his body. Nine months of feeling nothing, then this fury. Deep down, a part of him wanted to gut Scott for having them both. He'd had them both. The two women most responsible for tugging him out of fifteen years of aimless drifting, and Scott got both of them. What this burst of emotion said about whatever undiscovered feelings he had for Marie, he didn't know. Wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Tell me," he said, trying to catch her eyes. She wouldn't look at him.

"It-- it just happened. I don't know.... It's been really hard for him, you know? And then with Bobby.... Maybe we both needed something that wasn't played out in public, on the mansion stage. It was something--" she paused, thinking. "Between us."

"Do you love him?"

"Of course I do," she said. It made his chest hurt in strange ways. "I'm not in love with him, though. It's not like that. It can't be like that."

"You know what that sounds like, darlin'? He don't come off too good." Beer wasn't strong enough for this conversation. He wondered if Chuck hid any whiskey in the kitchen.

"I went into it with my eyes wide open. I don't need to be saved from it." Her expression was hard, but her voice had a tremor and she smelled so sad. Why hadn't he noticed this shit before? He was supposed to care about what was going on with her. Instead, he'd spent the last nine months wrapped up in his own cocoon of grief, anger, and doubt. He'd thrown himself into the team, in mansion life, in sticking around. He had to stick around; he stayed because he had to prove he was a good guy. Now, he was starting to realize it took a little more than just sticking around.

"Don't be the other woman to a ghost." Damn, it hurt more than he would have guessed to say it out loud like that.

She slapped him, hard. "That's funny, coming from you." Her chest rose and fell in shallow pants and she stared at the hand that had slapped him like it was alien to her. It was probably the first time she'd hit someone outside of training since her mutation came on. "You might live forever, and what are you doing? Spending your life proving yourself to a ghost."

He clenched his fist, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. "Tell me, Logan," she continued. "What are you going to do when we're all gone?"

---

That might have been too much, Rogue thought. He didn't say anything for the longest time, and when he moved, it was to pick up her hand and pull her towards him roughly. His grip crushed her fingers. With his other hand, he cupped her jaw--through her hair--and forced her to look him in the eye. Christ on the cross, she thought. What did she have to lose? With a shuddering sigh, she relaxed her defenses and let him see what he would. He studied her face in silence, never lessening his grasp on her hand.

She loved him; she knew that. More than she'd loved Bobby, different from how she loved Scott, but she didn't know if it was enough. Maybe she was too young for this; it was intense and had the potential to consume her till there wasn't a shred of her left. That was already a danger from her mutation; she didn't know if she could bear any more threats to her sense of self.

"You won't be gone for a long time," he finally said, dropping the hand on her jaw to pull her into a hug. It was warm, encircled in that mass of metal and muscle.

"I hope not," she said, muffled against him.

He rested his chin on her head. It wasn't romantic or sexual, she thought, but it could be. Right now it was just safe and good. "Close your eyes, Marie," he said. "I'll stick around."


---end---