Unlikely Bedfellows, Unholy Alliance

by

Moviemom44

Jean was still gasping in the throes of her orgasm when she heard the familiar sound of Harley pipes rumbling toward the institute's front gate.

As her latest conquest slammed his cock deep inside her and came with a guttural groan, she told him, "You better go, lover."

"Why? Once has never been enough before," Bobby replied, still gulping for breath, as he dipped his head to lick one of her nipples. He watched as the glistening mauve flesh rose to its full height.

"Well, if you think you can get me off again before Tall, Dark and Claw-some parks the bike and comes upst—"

Bobby was out of her and off the bed like a shot. As he dove for the moonlit window, he tripped over the pants he hadn't even gotten all the way off before Jean had pulled him down on top of her. Looking out into the night, he saw Wolverine turn the motorcycle into the long driveway that led to the garage.

Holy shit, what had he been thinking? What was he even doing here? Risking his life to screw his chemistry teacher, that's what. Sure, she was one hot, lonely widow, and God, the things she could do with her tongue…but she wasn't worth losing his balls over. The affair she'd been having with Logan ever since Scott died was the worst kept secret in the mansion. And everybody knew how the Wolverine felt about anybody touching what was his.

"I'm outta here. See you in class, Dr. Grey," he mumbled as he slammed the door behind him and sprinted down the hall to the safety of his own room.

Jean didn't hear a word he said. As soon as he'd gotten out of bed, she'd done the same and headed for the shower. She figured she had maybe ten minutes before Logan came in. As the hot water stung her back, she reached for the gardenia scented body wash and her loofah.

While she scrubbed her skin, spreading the creamy, fragrant suds from her neck to her toes, she hoped Bobby hadn't been too upset at being sent away. She hadn't had nearly enough of his eager attentions to satisfy her completely before she'd heard the motorcycle roaring up to the gate. But if she ever wanted to have the 19-year-old's rather large and amazingly agile dick inside her again—and, oh, did she ever—then she couldn't let Logan find them together. That would be disastrous, especially for Bobby. The first chance she got, she'd explain to the young man that making him leave wasn't meant to punish him; she was saving his life.

*-*-*

Logan heard Bobby's door close just as he reached the top of the stairs. It was past midnight. What the hell was the kid doing prowling the halls at this hour? He damn sure better not have been in her room…

He sniffed his way along the darkened corridor, but as he passed Jean's door, Icepop's scent dissipated and was gone completely by the time Logan reached the last door on the right. He stood there for a moment, listening to the deep, even breathing of the room's sole occupant. No nightmares tonight, thank God. He wished with his whole soul for the days when she welcomed his return instead of fearing his very presence, like she did now, because of those nightmares. He brushed his fingertips against her door, fought the urge to open it just to watch her while she slept, and then turned and walked reluctantly back to his original destination.

He hesitated, his hand on the door knob, conjuring images guaranteed to bring him to a raging arousal—-soft, silky ivory skin, a strand of snow-white hair wound around his fingers, a Southern drawl breathlessly calling him 'sugah'…

He held fast to the sensation of his cock swelling into his already tight jeans, letting it build, letting his body's needs take over when his mind had to swerve abruptly and focus on the redhead he was about to fuck into oblivion.

*-*-*

Sure enough, ten minutes and two different heavily scented body washes later, Jean turned off the shower just as the bedroom door opened. She heard Logan's boots clomp across the carpet. She held her breath, listening for the thud of his stuffed duffel hitting the floor—-the signal that he would be staying for longer than a week—-but the sound never came. Damn.

Of all the lovers she'd taken since her husband's death, Logan stood head and shoulders above the rest when it came to satisfying her almost constant craving for sexual contact. One night under him was like a week with a lesser man—-or a month with Scott. But his prowess came at a price—-monogamy.

If she wanted him for her own, he had told her on their first night together, then she had to be his and his alone. She had readily agreed. And she was faithful to him—-as long as he was at the mansion. But he never stayed more than a few weeks and then he was gone again, sometimes for months on end. She tried to wait for him, but dammit she had needs and St. John had the most delicious way of looking at her as if he were seeing her naked right there in the classroom or across the dining hall. What was a sex-starved girl to do?

Temptation surrounded her—-St. John's bedroom eyes, Remy's toe-curling accent, the bulge in Bobby's jeans, Warren's magnificently sculpted torso—-and she had succumbed to them all, taking each of them to her bed, reveling in their ardent attentions.

But now the best of the best was back. She left the towel on the bathroom floor and went to greet him wearing nothing but a smile.

*-*-*

"You smell like a garden, Red," Logan crooned as he brushed her wet hair behind her shoulder and nuzzled her neck.

Cautiously, he let his true thoughts pass through his mind.

Do you have to use so much flowery shit to wash with? Christ, I've been in roadside toilets that use less deodorizer and still manage to actually cover up the stink.

"And you smell like you've been on that bike for three days straight," she returned, oblivious to his unspoken criticism. Apparently, his recently installed defenses against her telepathic abilities were fully operational. Hallelujah.

Looking up at him with raw hunger in her eyes, she opened his belt buckle. "Were you in that big a hurry to see me again?"

"Aren't I always?" he replied, bending to take one hard nipple into his mouth while he teased the other with his thumb. He growled as she arched into him and ran her hand over his crotch.

"Oh, God, Logan, I've missed you so much. I need you…" she purred as she unzipped his jeans and shoved them down past his hips, freeing his already throbbing erection.

"Show me, Red," he coaxed as he pulled his shirt off over his head and began trailing kisses from her ear to the base of her throat. "Show me how much you missed me."

Dropping to her knees, she took him deep into her mouth, running her tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. Grasping his hips with both hands, she set a vigorous rhythm, her head bobbing up and down as she applied a constant, even suction.

Eyes closed, head thrown back, he bucked into her warm, slippery mouth. Holy Christ, he really had missed this. The woman could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. He felt his balls tighten and considered coming in her mouth, but quickly decided against it. He knew she'd expect to be fucked and he didn't want to be here any longer than he had to. So to spare himself the recovery time, he grabbed a handful of her hair and growled, "Let go and turn around."

She did as she was told, waiting on all fours while he pulled off his boots and jeans. She moaned in anticipation as he knelt behind her and aligned himself with her dripping wet core. He slid into her fast and hard, pounded into her, his hips pumping like a jackhammer as she rocked back into him on each furious thrust.

She heard his breath hissing through his clenched teeth and knew he was about to unload inside her.

"Aaah, fuck…fuck…Oh, God…don't come…don't come without…me…please, Logan…" she begged.

He held tight to her hip with his left hand and found her clit with his right, rubbing it expertly with his fingers as he pumped his cock into her with urgent, punishing strokes.

"Come for me, Red…that's it…oh, God…oh, yeah…right there…there it is…Right! Fucking! Theeeeeeeerrrrre!"

She screamed his name as their orgasms exploded into one another simultaneously, sending both of them into spasms of ecstasy that shook them until they both collapsed, sweaty and spent, onto the carpet.

*-*-*

Logan rolled onto his side and gathered the still trembling woman in his arms. Lifting her up, he carried her to the bed and climbed in beside her, spooning her from behind.

"I guess you missed me, too," Jean said softly.

Like a toothache.

He felt her stiffen and instantly regretted his mental slip. He couldn't afford any stupid mistakes now, not when he was so close to reaching his goal. But when he searched his mind to see if she was listening in, he realized he was all alone in his head. For now.

"You OK, Jean?" he asked, hoping she heard tender concern in his voice and not trepidation.

"Uh-huh, just took a chill," she answered as she snuggled her backside tighter against his belly.

"As for me missing you, you did notice the state I was in when I got here, didn't you? I figured you'd sensed my, uh, distress, and that was why you greeted me all naked and primed and ready to rock."

He knew damn good and well why she was naked and overly scented when he walked in, but he was careful not to let any images of the tall, blond boy into his mind. One day soon, maybe he'd be able to thank the kid for warming her up for him.

Jean rolled over to face him, laid a hand on his cheek and looked directly into his eyes.

"So, no extracurricular activities while you were gone? No cute waitresses or cage fight groupies for a whole month? I'm amazed."

Even as she spoke, he felt her searching his mind for images that would prove that just the opposite was true. She had no idea that he'd been taught to detect the tickle of her telepathic fingers, no matter how delicately she probed. He was ready with carefully constructed mental pictures of him turning down offers from numerous women and then pining away, alone in his motel room, for a certain woman with red hair and green eyes.

"There's only one woman I want, Jean, and she ain't a waitress or a cage fight groupie. It ain't that hard to resist temptation when I think about what's waiting for me right here," he said sincerely.

The feelings he let her access were very real, but the face that accompanied them—Jean's face—was a sort of hologram that had been superimposed over the one he truly adored. The mental 'costume' reminded him of an old joke about how to screw an ugly woman—throw a flag over her face and do it for God and country.

In his case, it wasn't his patriotic duty that had him fucking the wrong woman; it was his need to protect the right one from the evil, malicious bitch drifting off to sleep in his arms.

End Chapter 1.

As soon as he was sure Jean was asleep, Logan snuck out of bed with well-practiced stealth. He slunk around the moonlit room, using his heightened senses of sight and smell to locate his clothes and put them on, moving as quickly and quietly as possible so as not to wake the sleeping dragon lady.

Having sex with her was one thing; sleeping with her was another. Beyond the fact that he wanted to spend as little time in her presence as possible, he'd never been all that comfortable spending a whole night with her, or with anyone, come to think of it.

Well, there was someone…No, mustn't think of her, not in this room.

Although his new 'head gear' seemed to be working perfectly, he knew better than to underestimate the flame-haired telepath. Unwilling to push the limits of the mental roadblocks and emotional detours while he was still within easy reach of her twisted mind, he forced his thoughts back to the subject at hand as he left the room and made his way to the kitchen.

Christ, did he need a beer. Or six. Between the long ride from the motel in Massachusetts, where he'd secretly spent the last month taking a crash course in what he called 'Telepathy for Dummies', and the obligatory fuck session upstairs, he'd worked up a powerful thirst.

Anxious to wash the rotten taste of his predicament out of his mouth, he yanked open the door to the stainless steel subzero fridge in search of his old friend Mr. Molson.

"Oh, yeah, come to Papa," he murmured as he opened the first bottle. He welcomed the bite on his tongue, the burn in his throat and the mild buzz in his head—-he hadn't eaten since lunch—-as he drained the golden liquid in four long gulps. Still holding the fridge door open, he gawked around looking for the trash can—-Dammit, Ororo, where'd you move it to this time?—-gave up, set the bottle and the cap on the counter and one-handedly snagged two more before letting the door go shut.

He thought about going to his room, but the kitchen was dark and quiet and he knew he'd just be back for more beer sooner rather than later, so he parked his butt on one of the counter stools. For the first time since setting foot on the institute's grounds tonight, he let his thoughts wander free…

Jean wouldn't be surprised to wake and find him gone. Right from the beginning, even when he thought he'd never get enough of her no matter how much time they spent together, he'd always returned to his own room long before daylight. He told her it was because of the nightmares. He told himself the same thing, because it made more sense than the truth, which didn't make any sense at all.

For the thousandth time he pondered the mystery of it. How was it that he never felt right sleeping next to the woman he'd waited almost two years to be with, but he could slumber like a baby with Rogue?

"Where're you going?" Jean had asked sleepily as he tiptoed to the door. It was their third night together, but it was the first time she'd caught him leaving in the wee hours of the morning. The first two nights she'd been too tuckered out from their wild, pent-up fucking to notice.

"Back to my room," he'd replied matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"It's…dangerous for me to sleep close to you. If I have a nightmare…the claws…I can't control them in my sleep…I don't want to hurt you…"

"Oh, right," she said, propping herself up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall away from her naked breasts as she looked up at him enticingly. "But I want you to stay—"

"Jean—"

"So what we need is a way to keep you awake, right?" She licked her thumb and began rubbing it around one dark pink nipple until it stood at attention. By the time she'd moved on to the other breast, he'd abandoned all thoughts of leaving…

Her ability to seduce him at will notwithstanding, he was finally able to convince her later that night that he had to sleep sometime, especially if she expected him to perform at his masterful best, which meant he needed to bed down solo.

He really didn't want to risk hurting Jean, but in a way, he was almost glad for the danger his dreams brought. It kept him from having to explain to her that sharing his bed while he was at the mercy of his violent, uncontrollable subconscious involved an intimacy, a trust that he shared with only one other soul on earth—-and it wasn't her. How could he expect Jean to accept that it was Rogue who stilled the voices and dulled the pain when he didn't fully understand that connection himself? He'd infected Rogue with his horrific visions and yet sleeping next to her was the only cure for them he'd ever found. The bottom line was the only way the big, bad Wolverine ever felt safe in bed was with that petite teenage girl tucked against his side.

No sense, no fucking sense whatsoever.

Glug, glug.

Another dead soldier on the counter. Where the hell did they hide the trash can? Ah, screw it.

Pop. Glug, glug.

As a rule, Logan didn't do sleepovers, let alone relationships. Until last year, when he and the recently-widowed doctor first became lovers, he couldn't remember ever being with a woman—-any woman-—for more than a few hours, much less a whole night. His sex partners, whether they were pros or not, never expected an all-night cuddle. They usually had someone waiting for them—-a pimp, a husband, a babysitter—-so once the sheets were good and sweaty they were out of bed and out of his life with all due haste, which suited him just fine.

But Jean was different. From the moment they met, the attraction that sparked between them was stronger than anything he'd ever felt before…

One look at her that long ago day in the Med Lab and he knew the smokin' hot lady doctor was somebody special, a world apart from the kinds of women he usually associated with. She was class on two delectable legs and if his nose wasn't fibbing—and it never fibbed—she was highly aroused. Being the only male in the room, he naturally assumed he was the object of her interest. And why not? He was a rather amazing specimen of masculine perfection, if he did say so himself.

But then, despite the oozing pheromones that plainly told him she was into him, she went all clinical on him and because he had more than his share of reason to fear anything that even remotely resembled a doctor or a lab or a pointy medical instrument, he let fleeing win out over fucking and skedaddled…

Got as far as Xavier's office where the professor introduced his little band of X-geeks led by none other than Scott Summers, a.k.a. Cyclops, who turned out to be the sexy doc's tight-assed boyfriend.

So, she'd chosen the leader for her mate. Good for her. But then why did she keep shaking her tail feathers and wafting her 'come hither' scent in his direction? Comparison shopping? Seeing whether the newcomer might have more to offer her than her current alpha male?

He had no interest in finding a mate, or in staying any longer than it took to make sure the kid hitching a ride with him was OK and would be safe here for as long as she wanted to stay. And he definitely had no interest in knocking heads with that pompous, one-eyed…Hmmm. On second thought, this might be fun…

And maybe it would have been fun, Logan reflected, had it not been for what happened that first night—-waking from a nightmare to find his claws buried in the kid's chest, her touch siphoning his healing power and unwittingly absorbing his vicious dreams and jagged memories in the bargain. All of which effectively shit-canned any notions he had about dumping the kid, or about playing as much 'doctor' with the sultry redhead as he could get away with and then vanishing into the night. If she still had any silly female ideas about competing mates and such, well, that would be her problem.

No, that night changed everything, starting with his connection to Rogue.

As he had with Jean, Logan felt an instant attachment to the gutsy, pretty teen from the moment he laid eyes on her. As emotions go, it was more shadow than form, nothing he could name. But by the time she was sitting in his camper, asking him the one question no one had ever cared enough to ask about his claws—"When they come out, does it hurt?"—he felt weirdly responsible for her, like she was his to protect. He hadn't even had time to decide if it bothered him or not, that simple bond, before it was forever deepened by her soul-melding touch.

But by then, it didn't matter if it bothered him. It was real; he was part of her and she was part of him and, like it or not, he couldn't turn his back on that—-or her—-ever again.

So, when he found himself cradling her lifeless body in his arms high atop Liberty Island, he did what he had to do. He touched his bare hand to her lethal skin—-risked his life to save hers—-not because he was 'brave' as Jean had said when he woke up the next day, but because without her there was no him. She mattered, he didn't; it was as simple as that.

"That's still true, darlin'," he thought to himself as he let himself envision a sleepy-headed Rogue looking up at him with tender eyes. "You're all that matters. I can stand anything as long as I know you're alright."

Then, as if to test his heartfelt conviction, the memory of the last time she'd actually seen him came unbidden to his mind.

She was afraid. So terribly afraid. Of him.

It was all he could do to squelch the black rage that boiled up in him every time he recalled that horrible moment.

God, if he'd known back then how both of them would suffer at Jean's hands...if he hadn't been so blinded by lust…so hung up about Rogue's age…

"Yeah, and if a frog had wings it wouldn't bump its ass hopping down the road," he informed the three empty beer bottles lined up neatly on the counter.

No use wasting time on 'what if' and 'shoulda, coulda, woulda'. He had a plan and a timetable. Jean's days were numbered. If he'd had his way, she'd have already joined her husband in the hereafter, but a rather unexpected ally had revealed himself and offered his services on the condition that Logan keep the claws out of it. What was in it for his accomplice Logan still wasn't quite sure, but he needed the help so he agreed.

"Fine, we'll do it your way—for now. But if she ever hurts Rogue like that again, it's gonna be balls to the wall and you and your non-violent solution can kiss my ass. Comprende?"

"Yes, Logan, I understand. But don't mistake 'non-violent' for 'merciful'. I assure you, when all is said and done, Jean will suffer a fate far worse than death…"

Key word being 'suffer', as far as Logan was concerned.

He stood up and roamed the kitchen intent on solving the mystery of the A.W.O.L. trash can. He was getting sleepy and he didn't want to just leave his empties on the counter. He'd rather not have Storm bitching at him over breakfast.

He circled the island, peeked around the end of the counter by the French doors that led to the patio, and checked inside the cabinets under the sink. Nada.

Finally, he opened the pantry door and there it was in all its gleaming stainless steel glory, complete with a foot pedal that opened the spring-release lid. Fuckin' thing probably cost a hundred bucks. Yeah, here at Xavier's School for the Gifted, Logan mused, even the garbage had style.

A slow, sly smile spread across his face as he caught his own double meaning.

And when I say 'garbage', I ain't just talkin' about empty beer bottles and week-old leftovers…

He let the thought trail off as he gathered up the bottles and turned back to throw them away. It was then that he noticed the bulletin board hanging on the inside of the pantry door. Half of it was a white board and the other half was a cork surface covered with photographs. Even his enhanced night vision couldn't read what was written on the board or make out any details of the individual pictures. After depositing the bottles in the trash, he flipped on the pantry light to get a better look.

On the white board was a list: bananas, brown rice, lentils, grape jelly, trash bags, AA batteries. On the bulletin board was...

Scooter. Here, there and everywhere he saw at least a dozen photographs featuring the former X-leader with his red shades, expertly styled dark hair and ridiculously deep dimples. As Logan studied the images, he realized that they were arranged in a sort of collage, with smaller pictures overlapping larger ones, but always with Scott's face showing even if others were covered over.

The picture in the upper right hand corner caught his attention because he was in it, along with Scott, Jean and Rogue. Logan remembered that night. Winter festival last year. Storm had talked him into chaperoning at the last minute, promising him he could have 'terrace duty' so he could smoke outdoors and still keep a watchful eye—and nose—out for any overly hormonal teenage couples seeking refuge in the shadows.

Rogue had come looking for him toward the end of the night and asked him to dance with her. He'd tried to turn her down, gently—-the long, clingy, forest green velvet dress and matching opera gloves she had on were giving him ideas he had no business entertaining—-but she wouldn't take 'please don't make me do this' for an answer. They ended up on the dance floor right next to Scott and Jean, who were wrapped in each other's arms like the newlyweds they were then.

Funny, he didn't remember anyone taking their picture.

As he studied his own expression, he understood why he had no such recollection. Rogue's back was to the camera, so he couldn't see her face, but his was on full display. There, preserved forever in glorious Kodachrome, was the face of a man falling in love with the woman-child in his arms. NASA could have launched the space shuttle from the mansion's front lawn that night and the man in that picture would never have noticed.

And he sure as hell hadn't noticed the steely glare Jean was shooting at him—or was it at Rogue?—over Scott's shoulder. He saw it now as plain as day; she looked meaner than cat shit.

Holy Christ, what an idiot. Stupid, blind fool.

Alright, alright, kickin' yourself now ain't gonna rewrite the past…

If he could go back, if he could change just one day, it would be the day before Scott was killed. He'd been an X-Man for not quite two years by then. With Scott's grudging approval, he had become an essential part of the team as well as the self-defense instructor at the school. After Liberty Island, even Scott couldn't deny the immeasurable value of Logan's skills, or his courage.

From his earliest days at the mansion, Logan had flirted openly with Jean, mostly to piss off Scott, but with enough real intent to keep the fires of attraction smoldering—just in case she ever got tired of the goddamn tease and really let him have what he'd come to crave. And crave her he did. Their game of 'look-but-don't-fuck' kept his need alive and growing stronger with each passing month.

When he couldn't stand it any longer, he'd leave the mansion, sometimes following Chuck's sketchy clues in search of evidence of his past and other times just hunting for relief in the form of violent fights and anonymous sex. On some trips, he sought out redheads; on others, he studiously avoided them. For reasons he never let himself think about for too long, the combination of soft brown eyes and long chestnut hair was strictly off-limits. And, as for any women with starkly contrasting highlights, well…he didn't go there either.

He was on one of his 'fuck hunts' that day. He swiped Scott's bike and roared away from the mansion. No special place to go, no hurry to get there, nothing more important to do than get drunk and get laid, not necessarily in that order.

That night, while Logan was adding to his vast carnal knowledge courtesy of a sweet-faced blond who knew more tricks than her shy smile had led him to believe, Xavier sent the team to shut down what he was told was a mutant experimentation lab somewhere in Ohio. It turned out to be a trap. The Friends of Humanity had planted the stories about the lab to lure the X-Men to a heavily armed base that was 'salted' with just enough mutants to make Cerebro sit up and take notice. The fuckers opened fire as soon as the team stepped off the jet. Scott saw them just in time to step in front of a hail of machine gun fire that was meant for Ororo. He was dead before Ororo and Jean could drag him back into the plane and haul ass out of there.

He'd never really know for sure, of course, but Logan could never shake the feeling that if he'd been there, Scott would still be alive. For one thing, Logan would never have let Storm take point leaving the jet. He'd have been in front and then those cowardly, bushwhacking FoH bastards would have had one pissed off, bullet-riddled feral to deal with...Scott would still be with Jean and Logan, well, he'd be with the person he should have waited for all along.

But he wasn't there, and Scott was dead, and his widow took all of six weeks to mourn him before she led Logan to her bed. His new and not altogether welcome feelings for Rogue were no match for his long-denied lust for Jean. He practically dove into her hungry arms. Somewhere deep down a voice warned him to get the hell away from her while he still could, but he was too busy devouring every inch of her to listen.

And so it went for the better part of a year, he and Jean retiring to her room together, banging each other's brains out, and then finishing out the night in separate rooms.

Occasionally, he reflected, she would come to his room, but that was only when she was in the mood for something quick and dirty. He hadn't noticed the pattern until the day she showed up wearing nothing but her white lab coat and a pair of red stilettos. He'd yanked her inside and fucked her blind right up against his bedroom door with those spiky heels digging into his ass…

Holy shit, that happened three months ago and, even now, when everything had changed, just the thought of taking her like that…

...his jeans around his knees…her legs around his waist…her prim and proper white coat in cock-hardening contrast to her naughty-girl nakedness…her dark, lusty scent setting his blood on fire…his hips grinding, thrusting, ramming his thick cock deep…so deep…into her quivering pink sex…her gasping moans matching his driving beat…Fuck…Me…Oh…Sweet…Christ…Fuck…Meeeeeeee…her high heels drilling into his ass cheeks…sharp, sweet pain ramping up the pleasure…white lights exploding behind his eyes...his hot cum shooting like a goddamn Uzi…

God! It was almost enough to make him want to go wake her up and tell her to find those screw-me-silly shoes. Oh, yeah, the animal in him would always appreciate a good fuck, even if the 'fuckee' was a soulless witch of the highest order.

But he was more than the animal, and he deserved better than Jean.

Thinking back, he realized that notion first occurred to him immediately following the 'dirty doctor' encounter, which as he recalled, had taken less than ten minutes from 'knock-knock, let's fuck' to 'zoom-zoom, gotta go'.

When she'd unwound her legs from his waist and slid down his front, she'd told him her class was taking a test and she had to get back before 'the smart ones' finished. Something about how she looked when she said it had disturbed him, but he hadn't figured out what until after she left.

Then it hit him.

Once she put her dress back on, the students would never even suspect she'd been gone. She didn't have a hair out of place; even her makeup was still flawless. She'd just been fucked good and well by the Wolverine and yet it didn't show.

The next revelation had even more profound implications: He didn't give a damn.

What the fuck? He'd just worked his manly magic on her, she showed not the slightest sign of it, and he didn't care? The feral in him should have been screaming at him to run down the hall, grab her, slam her against the wall and fuck her until she collapsed into a boneless heap, or until her eyes glowed with adoration for his male attributes, whichever came first. Or, at the very least, use his sharp canines to mark her flesh and claim her as his. But the Wolverine hadn't demanded any of those things. He stayed silent as a gravestone.

That mute response, Logan now realized, was the beginning of the end of his need for her. And in all likelihood, the first step on his journey into a whole new level of Hell.

End Chapter 2.

Unlikely Bedfellows, Unholy Alliance – Chapter 3

Jean woke just as the first bright rays of daylight were slipping between the blood red velour curtains that covered her bedroom windows. Lying on her back, she lifted her arms above her head and pointed her toes, stretching her well-toned nude body to its ultimate length. She held it there to a count of three and then relaxed again, a thoroughly satisfied smile on her face as she rested amid the pile of plump pillows with their lavish champagne-colored Egyptian cotton pillowcases.

Another stretch had her clamping her thighs together, which created a delicious pressure at her core, awakening her clit and making it throb. Oh, yes, a little morning stimulation would be a marvelous way to start the day.

She ran her left hand down the taut, flat surface of her belly and slid it over her mound. Her fingers delicately parted her moist flesh as her mind sorted through her catalog of favorite fantasies she used to heighten the pleasure and guarantee a volcanic orgasm. Hmm. Last night's doggie-style with Logan was still ultra fresh in her mind, but would that be better than the scrumptious sixty-nine she'd shared with Remy last week? Or maybe the time Warren fucked her in flight…

…her arms around his neck holding on for dear life… his hands guiding her hips up and down, up and down, as she rode his hot shaft…his majestic wings pumping back and forth carrying them aloft… nothing but the cool night wind under her naked back…

Oooh, yea—Ouch!

As soon as her two fingers invaded her entrance, she felt an unfamiliar sting of pain. She backed off and rubbed her swollen bud rapidly with her fingers for a few seconds until the emptiness between her folds ached to be filled. She tried again.

Ouch. Again.

Annoyed at having to either bear the discomfort of her tender pussy or settle for the less explosive external orgasm, Jean chose the latter, but her disappointment ruined the moment and instead of a bang, her climax was more like a whimper.

Climbing out of bed produced another twinge of pain at the apex of her thighs. Now she was past annoyed; she was pissed off.

She was no inexperienced innocent. Why should the 'morning after' make her feel like one? As she entered the bathroom and turned on the shower, she laid all the blame at Bobby's feet.

Damn that Bobby Drake and his super-sized manhood. If he's going to be that big and thick, he needs to learn a little control. He fucks with all the finesse of a Tasmanian devil. I'm going to have to teach him a thing or two…

Then, as an afterthought…

…as soon as Logan hits the road again.

Logan. Come to think of it, he'd had his part in torturing her poor privates last night, too. True, there was a lot of magic in his ten-inch wand, and usually he wielded it with unparalleled wizardry, but this time he left her hurting. He could have just let her suck him off and not insisted on fucking her, too, she reasoned as she gingerly washed her raw spots.

I mean, it's not like I hadn't already been fucked to hell and back right before he got here. Didn't he know—?

The irony of her internal rant struck her as hilarious and she laughed out loud at her own expense.

"Of course, Logan didn't know, silly! If he did, Bobby would be in Med Lab right now having Hank sew his dick back on."

In truth, none of her bed partners knew about the others. One tiny little psychic suggestion and each of them believed he was her one and only, would have sworn to it in court on a stack of Bibles.

Well, everyone except Logan. His mental pathways were so convoluted and full of booby traps—and boobies *tee-hee*--that she hadn't risked planting any ideas in his head. With him, she couldn't predict how he might interpret her suggestion after it had gone through the tavern puzzle that was his psyche. Instead, she covered that base by planting another suggestion with all her other lovers that guaranteed they were scared shitless of ever letting the Wolverine find out they were playing in his sandbox.

Still chuckling to herself, she stepped out of the shower, grabbed a thick, white towel off the heated rack next to the shower and wrapped it around her freshly scrubbed body. The warm cocoon of the plush towel reminded her of how Logan had held her close last night, his strong arms pulling her against the heat of his body, cradling her in his embrace.

He'd said such sweet things to her about how she was the only woman he wanted and how easy it was to resist other women because he had her waiting for him at home. It was hard to believe; the Wolverine so thoroughly smitten with one woman. But she'd seen it with her own mind while they snuggled in her bed, him turning down several women—very, very beautiful women—out of fidelity to her.

She didn't go traipsing around in his head too much—so little of what she saw in there made any real sense to her anyway—but now and then she took a peek just to make sure she was still uppermost in his mind. It was a habit she got into after she'd caught him looking a tad too deeply into Rogue's eyes –and staring a bit too long at Rogue's blossoming body—at last year's Winter Festival. She hadn't made a point of keeping Logan's libido aimed in her direction for all this time just to let some jail bait parasite steal him away from her.

Oh, it hadn't been difficult, a word here, a touch there, a lingering look across the dinner table when Scott wasn't paying attention—and when had Scott ever paid her enough attention?

Hell, she probably could have been screwing Logan right from the start for all Scott would have noticed. He was too busy following the professor all over creation to be any kind of attentive to her needs. He'd claimed to love her, but he was always distracted by some mission or other.

Even in bed, his focus often drifted and she had to coax him back to the task at hand—pleasuring her—by giving him a taste of what she would do for him once she'd had her moment in the sun. Sometimes, though, he'd come a little too soon and then she would have to pull out all the stops to get him hard again—sucking his cock, squeezing his balls, playing with herself while he watched, changing the names of all the men in her fuck fantasies to 'Scott' when she talked dirty to him—so he could finally give her an orgasm, which she was damn well not going to miss out on just because he had such inconsistent control.

Just one of the many differences between Scott and Logan. Oh, yes, Logan…and his fascination with Rogue…that's what she'd been thinking about when her mind wandered.

Reaching for her hairdryer, Jean turned her thoughts to Rogue. The little pest. Always trailing after Logan, hanging on his every word, making a general nuisance of herself. It was embarrassing, or it should have been, but instead of rejecting the girl outright, Logan seemed to actually enjoy the hero worship.

He'd always been quite protective of her, right from the first, even after her mutation nearly killed him—twice. He was kind to her, more so than Jean would have thought him capable of, being the beast that he was. Then again, the moppet from Mississippi seemed to inspire that in people, even Scott had grown fond of her in a big brother sort of way.

"And the professor positively gushes over her," she lamented to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, "almost as much as he did over me when I was her age."

Well, if the old man wanted to dote on young Rogue, that was just fine, but when Logan's interest in the willowy mutant began to shift from platonic to something more, uh, primal, Jean knew she had to put a stop to it.

At the Winter Festival, she'd seen something in Logan's demeanor that set her teeth on edge. He wasn't just humoring Rogue by dancing with her; he was enjoying it, not in an I-can-stand-this-for-one-song way, but in an I-never-want-this-to-end way.

She'd decided right then and there to do whatever it took to keep her hold on Logan, even if it meant finally giving in and letting Logan have her, married or not. She would not play second fiddle to that little leech!

For a week after that dance, Jean found every excuse to be where Logan was while at the same time making sure Rogue was busy elsewhere. Being a teacher had its advantages when it came to creating extra chores for students. She made sure to include other students in the additional duties—everything from cleaning and organizing the classroom supply closets to updating the library's card catalog—so it wouldn't look like she was singling the girl out. She couldn't have her complaining to the professor that mean Dr. Grey was picking on her.

On what turned out to be the day before Scott's last mission, she recalled, she found Logan alone in the gym, cleaning up after his last self-defense class. He was shirtless, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that showed off his finely sculpted ass to perfection. She had half a mind to just walk up and cup his butt cheeks with both hands and damn the consequences, but decided to stick to her original plan instead…

Standing just outside the door, out of his sight, she reached out to his mind with her own. To her everlasting satisfaction, one of the very first images she bumped into was her own face. Well, actually it was her entire body, clad in the bikini she'd worn on a teachers' day out at a local lake the previous summer, and stuck to it like a tattoo was a feeling of barely-tethered desire. So far, so good.

She waited in the women's locker room until she heard the shower turn on in the men's locker room across the hall. After stripping off all her clothes, she turned on one of the showers and stood under it until her hair and skin were thoroughly soaked. She then applied a handful of shampoo and worked it into a frothy lather all over her head. Then she turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and, after making sure the shampoo had dripped a bit down into her eyes, dove into the men's locker room.

She heard the shower cut off as she stumbled toward the stalls, her eyes squeezed shut. She dropped the towel and groped blindly for the faucet. Her hand landed squarely on Logan's wet, naked butt.

A split second later, she found herself slammed against the tile wall at the back of the stall, held in place by a large feral paw.

"Jesus Christ, Jean! I nearly skewered you!" a rather flustered Logan shouted.

Jean didn't have to open her eyes to know that three adamantium blades were aimed at her throat.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he asked incredulously as he pulled back the claws and released his hold on her.

"The shower cut off while I was rinsing my hair. I couldn't get it back on, so I came over here. I'm sorry, Logan, I had no idea you were in here. I couldn't see for the suds in my eyes," she replied shakily.

She heard Logan inhale deeply just before the shower came on again.

"Oh, OK, well, here, let me help you."

Jean thought she detected a mischievous undertone in his offer, but she ignored it. Big mistake.

She felt Logan take her by the shoulders and direct her under the spray of the shower. He then placed one hand on her neck, keeping her from tilting her head back, which meant the shampoo was now flowing down over her face, forcing her to keep her eyes closed. His other hand went straight for the cookies.

Three calloused fingers parted her lower lips, felt her readiness and rubbed her folds with slow, deliberate strokes. It took less than two seconds for all her carefully laid plans to come undone. She'd only meant to let him get a good look at her with no clothes on, to take the game up a notch, to reach him in a way that a girl with poisonous skin never could.

Once Logan realized he could see her, but she couldn't see him, he was supposed to look his fill but then sneak out before she got her eyes open so she wouldn't catch him looking. It wasn't supposed to go this far, dammit!

"Logan, stop…" she protested weakly as she squirmed in his hold. Even she didn't know if it was from the desire to escape or just plain desire.

"Why? Smells to me like this is just what you came in here for," he taunted as he continued to ply her moist flesh with ever increasing pressure.

"No!" she bit off, trying to turn her head to avoid the running water.

He slid his hand up the back of her head and yanked it back by her hair. As soon as she no longer felt the spray on her face, she opened her eyes to see him staring down at her, his eyes almost black with lust and fury.

"Really? Well, here's a little lie detector test for ya."

With that, his lips slammed down on hers in a kiss blazing with raw need. Her hands flew to his chest, pushed against him for one tiny instant and then slid around his neck as she kissed him back feverishly.

The fingers in her crotch zeroed in on her clit, working it in the same rhythm his tongue was keeping as it danced with hers. Her whole body tensed in anticipation of her climax—one more stroke, one more—

--and then he let go with his lips and his hands and she fell right on her pretty little ass.

"Ow! Logan!" she yelped, her voice coated with indignation as her orgasm fizzled like a spent sparkler at a Fourth of July picnic.

"If you can't run with the big dogs, honey, stay on the porch," he growled at her. "You either intend to cheat on your husband or you don't. You can't have that both ways. As for me, I know better than to shit where I eat. If you want me, say so and leave him. Otherwise—"

He paused, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. When he spoke again, he sounded weary, almost pained.

"Otherwise, let's quit this stupid game, Jean. I can't take it anymore."

He didn't even help her up off the floor before he threw a towel around his waist and left. Her only consolation was the raging hard-on she saw jutting against the white terry cloth as he walked out…

Less than an hour later, she'd heard him leave on Scott's motorcycle. Barely twelve hours after that, she was a widow.

As she left the bathroom and opened her double-tiered, walk-in closet, the widow Summers reassured herself once more that Scott's death was a well-planned assassination and there was nothing she or anyone else could have done to stop it. For the millionth time, she told herself that even if she had tried to scan the minds of those waiting at the FoH base, it was unlikely that she'd have learned anything useful. The attack was meticulous in every detail. Chances are they had anticipated a possible use of telepathic powers—they knew who they were dealing with—and had taken measures to hide their true intentions from 'inquiring minds'.

Still, for weeks afterward, she was tortured by the memory of Scott's final moments. She'd spent them comparing the sweet, brief kiss he gave her as the jet's gangway opened to the torrid liplock Logan had laid on her earlier. There was no doubt about which she'd preferred. So, as she watched her husband's body being all but torn to pieces by machine gun fire, in addition to the shock and horror and pain she felt, a measure of guilt was there, too.

The doctor in her knew it was hopeless, but as his wife, she refused to accept that he was gone, that there was nothing her medical knowledge and training could do for him. All the way home, she battled the blood loss and tried to wrestle his heartbeat back into his chest, but the fight was over before it even began.

Logan had come back the next day, but other than a brief offer of condolences, he barely spoke to her. She suspected that he, too, felt guilty about the shower incident and couldn't face her. The silent treatment had lasted for a week and then he left the mansion again and stayed gone for almost a month. She'd known it was killing him to keep his distance once she was free, but he'd done it out of respect for her, to give her time to grieve the way a loving wife should.

So, even after they had become lovers, they had remained discreet. There were never any public displays of affection, no open endearments, no romantic dinners or nights on the town. Rumors abounded, of course, but neither she nor Logan ever confirmed or denied anything. Charles' particular gifts made it impossible to keep the truth from him, but he made it clear that so long as they behaved 'like adults', he wouldn't stand in their way.

Jean remembered the first few weeks of their relationship as a blur of almost constant hot, sweaty sex. The kind of sex she wouldn't be having tonight, not with her sore bottom. Logan was going to be so disappointed, especially if he intended to be here only a few days. Wouldn't it be great if she could borrow a little of his healing factor to speed things along?

But only one person had that ability, Jean thought darkly, the same sneaky little snitch that could ruin everything if she ever told Logan what she saw.

Jean's blood boiled as she recalled the moment several weeks ago when Rogue had walked into the laundry room to find her, naked from the waist down, perched atop one of the washing machines, her fingers wound in Warren's blond hair as he knelt in front of her, his face buried in her pussy. The kid had turned three shades of purple and run out of there like a scared rabbit. If only Warren had remembered to lock the damn door! But he hadn't, so after he'd licked and sucked her to a spectacular climax, she punished him by denying him 'equal time' while she went in search of Rogue to do some damage control.

Her performance as a guilt-ridden girlfriend, begging Rogue to keep the secret of 'the one and only time' she'd ever done anything like this, was truly Oscar-worthy. And it likely would have sufficed to keep the girl quiet, had it not been for the similar incident three nights later when Rogue caught St. John bending his teacher over the pool table in the rec room while he ground his dick into her from behind. What the fuck? Did the chick have some kind of illicit sex radar?

Jean had no idea how much Rogue knew about the true nature of her relationship with Logan, but she knew Logan considered the girl a friend, someone he could trust. While she doubted Rogue could get past her own mortification long enough to tell Logan anything, Jean just couldn't take that chance. What she needed was a way to keep Rogue and Logan apart and what she came up with was pure genius, if she did say so herself.

It had taken a few days to do the unpleasant but necessary 'research', but the final effect had been breathtaking. Jean doubted Rogue would ever speak to Logan again, let alone be in the same room with him—at least, not voluntarily and certainly not by herself. Her secrets were definitely safe now.

Still, perhaps a little 'touch up' was in order since Logan was back in the mansion, Jean thought as she stepped into a pair of low-heeled navy blue pumps that matched her navy mini skirt and white silk blouse perfectly. After all, she thought as she left her room and headed downstairs, there was no sense risking Rogue letting her guard down around Logan—not when all Jean had to do was reach out with her mind to the girl still dozing quietly in her room down the hall…

As the blood-curdling screams echoed through the mansion, Jean smiled to herself and pondered what to have for breakfast.
------------------
Remy reached her first. He was just on his way to bed after an all-night poker game when he heard screams coming from Rogue's room across the hall. In two seconds flat, he was through her door, red eyes flaring, ace of spades at the ready to blast whoever was threatening his young friend. But she was sitting alone in the bed, her eyes wild and rolling, her chest heaving like an Olympic sprinter.

"Oh, mon p'tite, what happened?" he asked gently as he let the card fall harmlessly to the floor and carefully approached the bed.

Rogue looked up at him, tears of fright running down her face, but when she recognized him a look of utter relief washed over her. She flung her arms open and he gathered her to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing her back through her long-sleeved cotton nightgown.

"Now, now, pet, you be OK. It's all over," he soothed, "Remy's here, chère. Remy's here."

Rogue held on to him like her life depended on it, her heart thudding against his chest. He held her and stroked her hair until he felt her breathing even out. Taking her by the shoulders, he held her out from him and looked into brown eyes overflowing with bitter misery.

"You tell Remy what make da Rogue so scared, non?" he offered.

She tensed, gave a half-hearted effort at pulling away from him. He held firm and hugged her again.

"Dey say if you tell a bad dream it lose all its power over you. You ever hear dat, pet?"

"Yeah, Ah heard it," Rogue replied softly. "It didn't feel like a dream…it felt…like him…like he was—"

She fought down the lump in her throat and looked up at Remy. To his surprise, she smiled at him.

"But that's silly, isn't it? He's not even in the mansion, so it couldn't have been him, could it?" she asked rhetorically.

"Who you referrin' to, chère?" Remy inquired, reflecting her smile back at her.

"Logan. He's been gone for weeks, so—"

Remy shook his head, cutting her off.

"Non, p'tite, da Wolverine is here," he corrected her. "I saw him in da kitchen last night…" His voice trailed off as he watched the horror return to her eyes.

"No! Oh, no, not again!" Rogue cried as she clung to him once more. "Don't leave me, Remy! Don't let him hurt me again!"

Remy had no idea what Rogue was talking about, but he was damn sure going to find out—as soon as she released her death grip on him, that was. For now, all he could do was hold the trembling girl and murmur sweet Cajun comfort against her hair.
----------------------
Rogue and Remy were too lost in their own thoughts to notice the hulking shadow just outside her door. Logan stood there, his heart ripped open by the pain in Rogue's voice. He could feel the fear emanating from her like heat from a fire and it was killing him.

He didn't know which was worse, her being afraid of him, or her finding comfort in the arms of that red-eyed Cajun card shark. Just the thought of both made his knuckles itch.

He thought about gutting Gambit just on general principles, but he knew the Cajun wasn't his real problem. With one last look at Rogue's tear-streaked face, Logan and his shattered heart headed downstairs.

Five minutes later, Logan burst through the door of Xavier's office like a hurricane from hell. "In case you ain't heard yet," he snarled, "That bitch is at it again, and this time, old man, the claws are comin' out!"

End Chapter 3.

Unlikely Bedfellows, Unholy Alliance

Chapter 4

She would not throw up. She would NOT throw up. She wou—

Oh, fuck!

"Remy, let me go!" Rogue hollered as she pushed out of his embrace.

She caught the look of confusion on his face—hadn't she just begged him NOT to let go?—as she scrambled out of bed and ran for the bathroom. She barely made it to the bowl before her last meal made a return appearance.

Jesus, she hated helpless females, hated being one even more. She hated being clingy and needy and so distraught over Logan's return that she was puking her guts out. She didn't want to lean on Remy as he knelt beside her on the floor bathing her face with a cool cloth, but she was so shaky and weak she couldn't have stood up on a bet.

"Chère—"

"Don't, Remy," she stated as firmly as her quivering voice would allow. "Don't ask. Ah can't talk about it."

"Dat's fine, pet, but Remy only want to know what you had for dinner las' night."

Rogue gave him a puzzled look that clearly said, Huh?

He gave her a brilliant, teasing smile as he answered her unspoken question.

"So he don' make da same choice. Remy don' wanna be sufferin' da Rogue's fate, mon amie, not by—-how you say?—-da long shot," he explained, looking a little green around the gills as he tossed the wash cloth in the sink and reached past Rogue to flush the toilet.

"'Scuse me, if mah heavin' bothers you, but ya didn't hafta follow me in here. And we both know it wasn't somethin' Ah ate," Rogue snapped. She knew he meant well, but she was in no mood for squeamish hand-holders. Still, there was one thing he could do for her.

"Remy, sugah, would ya be a dear and go find Jubilee and tell her to come see me right away?"

"Oui, pet, Remy do dat soon as we get you back to bed," he said as he wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her to her feet. "Remy never miss a chance to see da lovely Mademoiselle Lee."

As she watched her friend's eyebrows waggle up and down, Rogue wanted to tell him that Mademoiselle Lee went out of her way a hundred different times a day just to catch glimpses of him, too, but she knew Jubes would kill her. The two best friends had sworn one another to secrecy with regard to their true hearts' desires. Hell, they hadn't even told Kitty in so many words, even though she knew them both well enough to figure out who 'you-know-who' was for each of them.

As Rogue crawled back under the covers, her eyes filled with bitter, angry tears. She'd never joke about her 'you-know-who' again, and if she ever used that hyphenated reference it would only be to avoid saying his name out loud, a name that used to stand for everything good in the world and now only called up images filled with fear and pain and humiliation.

"Now, you rest, p'tite, and Remy send Jubilee tout de suite, non?"

She looked up at him with wet, bloodshot eyes. "You're a good friend, Remy. Tres bon ami."

"Merci, pet, but Remy jus' hate to see da fille cry over dat, dat—" He finished with a mouthful of French curse words, his eyes flashing from glittery black to glowing scarlet.

Rogue knew that look. She'd seen it last when Bobby had made a lewd remark within Remy's earshot about how 'tasty' Jubes' ass looked in her fighting leathers. The only reason Bobby could still walk upright was because Jubes had incinerated that jack of spades with one of her paffs before it did any harm. Bobby never knew what almost hit him, the lucky little creep. Jubes had glared at Remy long and hard, and he'd glared right back until he realized that discretion was the better part of valor and finally shrugged it off with an 'I couldn't help myself' grin.

Later, when he wasn't looking, Jubes had a smile on her face you couldn't have budged with a crowbar. Rogue teased the fiercely independent firecracker unmercifully for a week afterward, never letting her forget how much she relished Remy's protective gesture.

Again tears threatened as Rogue realized that the days of Logan serving as her protector were over. Now, he was her tormentor.

~No, he isn't. It's all a lie, dar-~

She shook her head, unwilling to listen to her inner Wolverine's protests, and cast a warning look at Remy.

"Promise me ya won't do anythin' stupid, like takin' on that whatever-ya-called-him in mah defense. Ah'm fine, or Ah will be as long as he leaves me alone. Ah'll have Jubes with me. She won't let him within a country mile of me."

"Dat be true, chère. She more fierce den da mama bear, I t'ink. Da Wolverine be no match for her!" he agreed, smiling broadly. He turned to leave, but turned back again, the smile replaced by a look of tender concern. "You sure you be OK, pet, 'til your mama bear get here?"

"Yeah, now git. If Ah know her, she's runnin' late for her first class right about now, so you can probably catch her if ya take the back stairs to Storm's classroom."

"C'est bon," he called over his shoulder as he and his trench coat swept out the door.

The minute she was alone, she heard a familiar voice echo inside her head.

~I tried to stop it, to not let it in, but -~ the Wolverine murmured apologetically.

It? It wasn't an 'it', ya useless fool! she spat back silently. It was him! Ah felt him, dammit! Ah smelled...everything, just like before.

~No, you were dreaming-~

Ah know that! Ah know this time was a nightmare, the same nightmare Ah been havin' since the night Logan raped me!

~The man would never-~

Ah don't care what you or the professor says. It happened! Dreams don't leave bruises. Ah did not imagine the pain or the blood on mah thighs or the total humiliation of havin' to lay there with mah legs spread while the bastard's girlfriend sewed me back together!

If she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never get over the devastation of that procedure.

Someday, a long time from now, she might outrun the pain of being brutally raped by the man she loved. She might get far enough ahead of it to go weeks or even months before the memory caught up with her, permeating her every waking thought as well as her dreams. But the sight of Jean's red head between her naked knees—or worse, the gloating green eyes peeking over the pleated white surgical mask, brimming with feigned compassion—had left scars that would never fade. Not for a second. Not in a million years.

Of course it wasn't until the next day that she'd even remembered Jean's part in her ordeal and her inner Wolverine had tried mightily even then to convince her that it hadn't happened. But every detail was sharp, every sensation crystal clear, right down to the smell of Jean's latex gloves and the sting of the sutures she'd used to repair her ravaged flesh. Dreams, even nightmares—even Logan's nightmares—were never so concrete, so linear in their unfolding. No, these were memories. Horrible, unbearable memories…

She's in his room, a rare visit, but she braves the awkwardness that separates them these days so she can tell him about Jean and the other men, about what she'd seen with her own two eyes, but he won't listen.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I can't keep quiet anymore. She's playing you for a fool, Logan. She swore it only happened once, with Warren, but then I saw her with John-"

"You're lying, you pathetic little pest! You're the fool if you think I'll believe you over her. I love her. You I tolerate because I enjoy the hero-worship. Don't think I don't know how jealous you are of Jean, how you lie awake at night and wish I'd do to you all the things I do to her."

His cruelty leaves her speechless, unable to think past the one phrase that keeps echoing in her head. Pathetic little pest. Pathetic. Pest. Pestpestpestpestpest. Is that what he really thinks of her? No...no...

"No? That's another lie," he shoots back, misinterpreting the pitiful denial she doesn't even know she's spoken aloud.

She's never lied to Logan. Never! As for the other, well...yes, she's wished more than once that he would pass Jean's door in the night and come into her room - her bed, her arms - instead. But how could he know that? She's never told anyone, not even Jubilee. It's too private, too precious a dream to share with anyone. And he's tearing it all to pieces with his vicious, filthy accusations.

"Wait...I didn't mean..." she starts, but he cuts her off, grabbing her by her shoulders and dragging her toward the bed.

"Don't bother to deny it. You're forgettin' I can smell a lie at fifty paces - and a willin', wantin' pussy a lot farther than that. Right now, this close, you reek of both."

He shoves her backward-hard, forcing her onto her back on the bed. With practiced ease he uses one hand to quickly undo his belt buckle, unsnap his jeans and lower his zipper. From the other hand, he releases a single claw and in less than a blink, slices open her t-shirt, baring her to his eyes from the waist up.

Oh, God, she'll kill him! He's stripped her to the skin...her deadly skin. She doesn't want to hurt him any more than she wants him to hurt her, but she's still a long way from having control even under the most tranquil and serene conditions. He can't expect to survive if he touches her here, now, with his bare...

Before she can even form the thought that she should scream-as much to warn him off as to call for help, he flicks his wrist and her sweat pants and panties seem to disintegrate into thin air. The scream makes an attempt to cross the threshold of her throat, but the point of the claw traces along her lower lip and her lungs fail her, leaving her silent and breathless, not with desire, but with abject terror. As he lowers his big body on top of hers, she forces herself to look into his eyes.

Logan is gone. His promise - I'll take care of you - forgotten, he's left her here, unprotected, vulnerable, completely exposed. He's handed her over to the beast. The Wolverine stares back at her, his lips curling in a sadistic smile.

"And while your mouth can fib all night long that you don't want to be fucked, your body is tellin' the real story," he growls. "I choose to believe the lips that can't lie."

She loses count of how many times in the next three hours she says the word, "No."

*knock, knock*

The sound was somehow wrong, out of place. She didn't remember anyone knocking that night. She'd awakened to the sound of voices, one hard as steel, the other softer, almost defensive...

"...didn't mean anything, Jean, I swear. She told me you were fuckin' other men. I was just teachin' her a lesson for tellin' lies about you."

"So you didn't enjoy it?"

"No! Christ, she's a lousy lay. Hell, virgins always are, but with this one I had to keep my clothes on and use a condom every damn time 'cause of her fucked up skin."

"Every time? So you did get off - more than once. How is that NOT enjoying it?"

"OK, so I came...a few times. You know how I get, baby. Once I start, the cock wants what it wants. But she was cryin' and bleedin' all over me most of the time. Sort of took all the fun out of it. I think my zipper might've done some damage that last time, 'cause once she was loosened up, I could go real deep and..."

She hears footsteps approaching the bed. She tries to curl up, to roll away, but it hurts too much to move. A hand on her knee, moving her legs apart. Someone bending over her. A gasp, not her own.

"Jesus, Logan. Go take a shower or something. I'll see to her..."

*KNOCK, KNOCK*

"Roguey? You decent, chica?" Jubilee called out her customary greeting, although why she bothered Rogue had no idea. By the time she said it she was not only through the door, but halfway across the room.

"Not if Ah can help it, sugah," Rogue answered with more grit than she was feeling at the moment. It wouldn't be the first time she'd literally talked herself out of bed since Logan had ravaged her, body and soul. She'd learned a long time ago that a bad attitude was as effective as Kevlar at deflecting harmful projectiles, like unwanted questions and pitying looks. If she had a little trouble reining in the snark once she was up and moving, well, that was why she'd asked Remy to fetch the firecracker, so she could run interference.

"So my you-know-who said you wanted to see me, said he heard you scream and found you in bed shaking like a leaf. Oh, and you barfed."

"With reporting skills like that, it's a wonder you-know-who hasn't been snapped up by The New York Times."

~Down, Snarky, down. Yellow is here to help, remember?~

SHUT UP!

"So...?" Jubilee made a rolling motion with her left hand, which, for her, translated into, "Well, spill it already. I can't ride to the rescue like the fearsome X-woman I am if you don't tell me what the problem is." Well, it was that, but not in a bitchy way.

"Ah had a nightmare is all. Nothin' unusual." It was mostly true, except for the 'unusual' part. This latest episode had been much shorter than the rest, a kind of surgical strike of the subconscious focusing on only the most painful highlights of the ordeal. Something else was odd. The nightmares almost never came in the morning.

She didn't like telling half-truths to her best friend, but she still couldn't bring herself to tell anyone but the professor what Logan had done, much less that she relived it every time she closed her eyes for nearly three weeks afterward. Truth be told, she hadn't exactly volunteered the information to Xavier either.

During one of their private 'control' sessions, he'd commented that she looked tired. She'd made the mistake of saying she hadn't been sleeping well lately. He'd asked why and she'd given her standard answer, 'Nightmares'. When he didn't ask her to elaborate, she figured he'd taken her at her word and let it go at that. She couldn't have been more wrong.

"Hello! This is me, remember? Former roommate. Still best friend. You had a nightmare. You? Really? Do tell. Nothin' unusual? My ass, chica," Jubilee countered as she marched over to Rogue's closet and began poking through her clothes, slinging hangers from one side of the rack to the other. She paused in her search, scanned a maroon blouse with a critical eye, shook her head and kept pawing until she reached the far closet wall, empty-handed.

"It's the first one you've had in weeks," the Asian girl continued as she crossed to the dresser. Pulling open the middle drawer, she rummaged while she talked. Rogue knew better than to interrupt. Mama Bear was on a roll. "AND it just so happens to show up the minute Logan steps foot in the mansion after a two-month absence. Coincidence? I think not, especially since Remy breaking the news that he saw Logan guzzling brewskis in the kitchen suddenly had you worshiping the porcelain god. That, sista, is UNusual with a capital 'UN'." On the last syllable she yanked something dark green and woolly out of the drawer, then picked a pair of jeans up off the floor. Tossing both onto the bed, she said, "Get dressed, Dorothy. We're off to see the wizard."

Silently reminding herself that she'd known exactly what she was getting herself into when she asked Remy to find Jubes, Rogue managed to not grumble as she climbed out of bed and got dressed. Still, with her own guts in turmoil and now Jubes in 'fierce protector' mode, she just hoped they could make it to Xavier's office without one of them killing the first person who looked at her crosswise. Bobby was usually good for that on any given morning since Remy had replaced him as her best-male-friend-who-wasn't-Logan.

#There's another title, like 'you-know-who', you won't have much use for anymore.#

Stuff a sock in it, Erik, or I'll let the feral have his way with you.

#Promises, promises.#

Oh, Lo-

#Kind of hard to sic him on me if you can't even think his name#

-gan. Logan! Hah! So there!

~Grrr.~

#I'm going. I'm going.#

Of course, her biggest worry was running into the real Logan, with puking again at just the thought of running into him coming in a very close second on the worry scale.

Unlikely Bedfellows, Unholy Alliance

by

Moviemom44

Chapter 5 -

"Make her stop! Goddammit, make her stop!"

Logan issued the ultimatum through gritted teeth. "Right now, Chuck, or I swear to God I'll play gut-the-slut in front of the entire school!"

For the briefest of moments, Xavier considered what might happen if he allowed Logan to satisfy his thirst for revenge. He envisioned Jean, flayed beyond recognition, her dead green eyes staring sightlessly out of a claw-ravaged face.

His first reaction to the mental picture shocked him. Not revulsion, as he'd expected. Not even sadness.

Relief.

The kind of lightness of being that follows setting down a great burden after carrying it too long. The feeling was startling, yet somehow familiar, as though some part of him he didn't dare acknowledge secretly longed for the day when he could let down his guard and relinquish his rigid control over Jean's dark side—a control that she had learned to recognize in recent weeks, and to a dangerous degree, overcome.

Instantly, guilt swamped him. He didn't wish her dead! He didn't! He didn't want her killed, any more than a parent who tells an obnoxious child to 'shut up and go away' actually wants them to disappear forever. It was only a terrible impulse, born of frustration and sorrow over how his former pupil, a woman he once loved like his own daughter, had destroyed an innocent girl.

He'd broken his own cardinal rule that night several weeks ago when he'd entered Rogue's mind uninvited, but he'd had little choice. The young woman was in agony, unable to sleep or eat and certainly incapable of concentrating on the techniques he'd been teaching her to control her mutation. Finally, he'd asked her point-blank what was troubling her. "Nightmares," she'd answered, a little too quickly. He didn't have to be a telepath to know she'd been deliberately vague, hoping he'd assume she meant the nightmares that she'd suffered so often over the years she referred to them as 'same old, same old.'

But he'd known there had to be more to it than that. He'd wrestled with his conscience for the rest of the day, but by that night he'd struck a deal with himself. He'd wait in the vacant room across the hall from Rogue's and listen - with his ears, not his mind - for any sign of nocturnal distress. If none came, then he'd roll quietly away, but if she actually cried out...well, he had a duty to protect her, didn't he? Even from her own subconscious, if that's all it was.

For the first three hours, all was quiet, but just after the grandfather clock downstairs struck two, he heard a whimper...

He could still see the horrific images, the twisted lies Jean had used to poison Rogue's heart and mind against Logan. It killed him that he was too late to undo the damage. Jean's projections had been expertly crafted. The emotions built into them were so real, so deeply embedded in Rogue's mind, that only the professor's knowledge of the true nature of Logan and Rogue's relationship kept him from believing what he was seeing were actual memories of real events. But they couldn't be real, because Logan would not be capable of bringing such harm, let alone such humiliation to his mate.

Xavier watched Logan pacing between the door and the desk and wished for the millionth time that he'd discovered that truth sooner, before Jean had gotten her claws into the Wolverine. He stifled a humorless chuckle at the irony. God help him, he'd never have guessed hers would be the more dangerous weapons, or that she would use them so savagely against someone so innocent.

Clearly, he was losing control; she was growing stronger every day, nudging the boundaries Xavier had installed years ago in her mind, back when she was a brilliant but troubled teenager. In those early days, Jean knew she could scare most people with her powers, but she had no idea she was the singular Level Five mutant on the planet, or that she could, with a mere thought, reduce that very planet to dust.

What he wanted more than anything was to have the old Jean back, the brilliant doctor, the loyal friend and colleague, the devoted wife. Scott was her anchor to that side of herself and now that he was gone, her primal instincts - sexual conquest, domination, survival - were storming the gates that he'd so carefully built. He couldn't let them win, or the Jean he knew and loved would disappear and what remained would be too powerful to fight, let alone destroy.

So he had come up with a plan, a way to bring Jean back —or at least, as much of her as would be left when all was said and done. He made a mental note to tell Henry McCoy that the tests on the new serum would have to be completed more quickly than they'd originally planned. Time was of the essence now.

But first, he had to soothe the savage beast whose size thirteens were pacing a path in his Oriental rug while he growled angrily about how 'no payback could be bitch enough for that bitch', or words to that effect.

"Logan, please, calm down. I understand-"

"The hell you do! It ain't you shovin' your dick into that red-headed she-devil now, is it? Holy Christ, I'll admit I've fucked some sorry cunts in my day-"

"Enough! Honestly, Logan, get a grip on yourself or so help me I'll shut you down like the maid switching off the vacuum cleaner."

The feral's fists clenched as his body stretched across Xavier's big mahogany desk. His eyes narrowed.

"You could try."

The professor didn't back down an inch. One corner of his mouth hitched into a half-smirk.

"As you wish."

And just like that, Logan dropped like a sack of rocks, cracking his skull on the edge of the desk and passing out cold on the floor.

When Logan came to he was in the exact spot where he'd fallen five minutes earlier. The gash in his head had mended, which was more than could be said for the split in the corner where his head hit the desk, but it still took him another few seconds to remember what happened.

"You double-crossin' son of a bitch!"

Xavier glared first at his wounded desk and then at Logan in a credible impersonation of the feral's trademark scowl. "I admit to keeping mum about that particular feature of your 'head gear', as you call it, but this morning proves the need for just such a measure. I can't have you rampaging through the mansion, disemboweling everyone you believe to be a threat to Rogue."

Logan got to his feet slowly, like an elephant shaking off the effects of a tranquilizer dart.

"Not everyone," he corrected. "Just the person terrorizin' her, makin' her think I'm the one who hurt her." Logan flopped heavily into one of the high-backed leather chairs facing Xavier's desk. "I still think I should tell Rogue the truth about us-"

"No," Xavier interjected. "Perhaps if you'd told her before Jean's treachery, she might have believed you, but..."

Logan winced at the implied blame in the professor's remark. If you'd told her sooner...If you'd only done the right thing for once...

"Don't go putting words in my mouth, Logan," Xavier scolded, but his eyes lost their hard glare. "I don't blame you for any of this. How could I when you didn't know the truth yourself until it was too late?"

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Logan had known there was something different, something special about his feelings for Rogue, but he thought it was because of what happened that first night in the mansion and again on Liberty Island, a connection rooted in the mingling of their mutations. What he didn't know was that their bond was forged before she ever touched him, even before he first saw her. Their destinies became entwined the day she was born.

But thanks to Stryker and his evil cohorts, Logan had lost his innate ability to recognize her for who she really was-his one true mate.

During the preparations for Logan's conversion from a natural born killer to a scientifically-enhanced one, Stryker had seen to it that his mating instinct was shut down. They couldn't have their walking weapon falling in love, now could they? Thoughts of home and family couldn't co-exist with the level of bloodlust their creation required, so they short-circuited his mating instinct, leaving his sex drive intact, but deleting any need to connect, to belong, to commit to another with a bond so strong it could only be broken by death.

Still, Stryker's handiwork could not entirely silence the ancient call of her blood to his. Now and then, faint whispers of the truth would reach him, usually in the form of her scent. He would find himself following it with an urgency he could not explain, desperately, breathlessly searching the mansion until he located her, only to realize he hadn't a clue why he'd needed to find her, much less what he would say to her once he had.

In the end, it was another scent entirely that proved to be the key to unlocking the mystery...

About two weeks after the 'dirty doctor' session, Logan came home unexpectedly and caught the unmistakable smell of day-old sex in Jean's room—and he'd been gone a whole lot longer than a day.

Standing alone in her room that afternoon, surrounded by the combined aromas of Jean's lusty arousal and LeBeau's gumbo-flavored stench, he waited for the possessive rage to overtake him, but it never did. He wondered briefly how she could be so clueless about his feral nature. Had she forgotten about his amazingly sensitive—and outrageously accurate—sense of smell? Out of curiosity, he lifted two of the decorative throw pillows from her bed to his nose and discovered that Bobby and St. John had been there, too.

Been there. Did her.

He carefully replaced the pillows and left the room, a little angry, but even more confused by his own indifference. Why didn't he want all their heads on a platter?

Needing a quiet place to puzzle out his feelings, he made his way to the roof, to the bench where he and Rogue used to sit on warm evenings and talk, or sometimes not talk and just share the sunset. He didn't realize until he sat down there how long it had been since they'd done that, or how much he'd missed those talks.

He tried to focus on Jean and her broken promise, even popped the claws just to see if that would stir him up any, but it didn't. He closed his eyes, thinking that if he could conjure the image of Jean and, say, Bobby, fucking in the bed she was supposed to share only with him it might incite him to action. And so a picture formed…

A bed, two bodies, a blond man on top of a dark-haired woman, her long, silky legs wrapped around his hips as he slides his cock into her again and again, her gloved hands grasping his shoulders as she moans and begs —

Gloves? Since when did Jean wear—

GRRR!

Snikt.

There it was, the volcanic, possessive fury he'd been searching for. But it wasn't Jean who'd inspired it.

Ho. Ly. Fuck.

It was Rogue...

"Dammit, Chuck, Rogue's my mate and she's in pain. And instead of lookin' t' me for comfort, followin' the natural order like things ought to be, she's upstairs right now in the arms o' that Cajun thief, probably wishin' me dead. You have no idea, Chuck, no fuckin' idea..."

"Yes, actually, I do. I know what she means to you. I'm not a fool, Logan. I know what I'm asking, but you agreed to follow my timetable on this and then proceeded to ignore my instructions completely."

"But—"

"But nothing!" Xavier scolded, his legendary calm veneer cracking suddenly in a burst of exasperation. "I told you not to come back for another week, that Rogue needed more time. I warned you that your presence could escalate Jean's behavior. This will set Rogue's progress back at least a week, maybe more. She's worked so hard. She doesn't deserve this—"

"You think I don't know that? You think I wouldn't give anything—any goddamn thing—to spare her this?" Logan growled, angry enough to ignore the risk of invading Xavier's personal space again as he leaned once more across the damaged desk, his breath making Xavier's pale blue pocket square flutter against his dark gray jacket.

Again, Xavier held his ground, but his expression softened considerably. "Of course you would. You allowed me into your mind, Logan. I know that went against every survival instinct you possess. I also know there is no one else on earth for whom you would have made that sacrifice, no one but Rogue."

It would never have happened under any other circumstances. But he'd done it because the professor had convinced him it was the only way to guarantee that Jean wouldn't detect how he felt about Rogue—or about Jean and her infidelity.

Initially, Logan knew Xavier expected he'd have a harder time quashing Logan's feral need to hunt down and kill each and every one of Jean's partners, not because he still cared for Jean, but because they threatened his Alpha male status. Had Logan followed his instincts to the letter, the X-team would have been decimated. As a feral - and an Alpha male - Logan was honor bound to neutralize any and all competition for his chosen female's sexual favors. Whatever female he claimed was his and his alone for as long as he wanted her, whether that was a few minutes, a lifetime, or anywhere in between.

But when the professor had probed the part of Logan's mind where those urges should have been snarling and straining to be let free, he made a rather astounding discovery.

According to one memory Xavier accessed, even Logan was surprised to learn that his feral possessiveness no longer centered on Jean. Instead, he saw that it rested squarely with Rogue-and Logan had no idea why. The only way to find out, Xavier had insisted, was to launch an expedition into the depths of Logan's psyche, something he later described to him as 'more gut-wrenching than an archeological dig through every battlefield that ever felt your boot or tasted your blood.' Several grueling mind-mining sessions later, Xavier unearthed Logan's muzzled mating instinct and, after offering up a silent prayer to never regret what he was about to do, he set it free.

But by then, Jean had already wreaked havoc in Rogue's mind...

"I'm trying, Chuck. It ain't like I care anymore who Jean fucks." Logan's voice coupled with his customary profanity brought Xavier back to the present. "Hell, as long as she's spreadin' her legs for the whole school—"

Logan saw Xavier stiffen at his vulgar description. "Sorry, guess you didn't need to hear that, but it ain't her screwin' around that makes me sick. If nothin' else, she's keepin' the rest of these horny bastards from wantin' to get their hands on Rogue. But turnin' Rogue against me, makin' her afraid of me-that's what's makin' it harder and harder to separate myself from the urge to rip Jean's throat out every time I see the sleazy bitch, let alone touch her…or let her touch me."

Lately, the only way he'd been able to accomplish the deed was to think of fucking Jean as a sort of enhanced masturbation that had nothing to do with Jean herself. It was purely a means to an end, involving only his body and its urges.

But waking up to Rogue's screams shot all that psychobabble bullshit all to hell.

Right now, he just needed the pure, uncomplicated satisfaction of killing something and a redheaded slut was definitely the prey du jour.

"No, Logan, you're right," the professor acquiesced; his tone deliberately moderated to stroke the feral's nerves. "I can't imagine what it's like for you. I won't even pretend to try, but I do know that having Jean's blood on your hands is no way to begin your life with Rogue. Surely, you can see that, too, can't you?"

Much as Logan hated to admit it, he knew Xavier was right. Rogue couldn't stand the sight of him as it was. How much more would she loathe him if he killed Jean, a woman who, as far as Rogue knew, Logan still—shudder—loved?

And that was part of the problem. On the surface, nothing appeared to be wrong with Jean. She was still seen by everyone else as an excellent teacher, a caring physician and even a valued member of the X-Team, although she'd been on very few missions since Scott's death and even then she was there only to provide any necessary medical assistance.

No one would ever believe she was capable of inflicting such unspeakable cruelty on another person. Even Logan wouldn't have believed the story Xavier told him if it hadn't been Xavier telling it. But the utter disillusionment and despair in the professor's voice that night had been unmistakable; he had to be telling the truth.

Six weeks earlier…

"Logan, I…I have something to tell you, something…awful…"

Logan's stomach dropped to his knees. The hand holding the cell phone clutched it tighter against his ear. He had never heard Xavier sound so rattled before, not even when he'd called to tell him about Scott. Whatever had happened was way, WAY beyond even an X-man's definition of 'awful'.

"What happened? Is it Rogue? Is she…hurt?" He couldn't bring himself to voice the alternative.

"Yes, it involves Rogue…and Jean, but she's not hurt…Rogue, I mean…well, not physically…"

Again with the stammering from the smoothest talker Logan had ever met. Charles Xavier at a loss for words was like the Wolverine ordering a well-done steak; it never happened.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Logan barked, his concern masquerading as anger.

"It means I know why she was so afraid of you, why she ran from you…"

Xavier's voice broke, but Logan couldn't hear him. All his focus suddenly turned inward as he relived a moment more terrible than any nightmare he'd ever endured, more devastating than any enemy he'd ever faced…

Three days before Xavier's call...

As Logan made his way along the path from the garage around the side of the mansion, he saw Rogue sitting on the edge of the fountain, reading a book. His breath caught at the sight of her.

God, she was lovely. Her long hair was swept back into a ponytail that cascaded in a mass of chestnut and platinum waves down her back. Her soft brown eyes were devouring her book with the same quiet intensity that she brought to all her studies, allowing Logan to go unnoticed and simply drink her in.

She wore a long-sleeved white peasant blouse with a lacy ruffled collar that billowed like white clouds around her shoulders. A silver concho belt was wrapped around her slender waist, pulling the flimsy fabric of her blouse tight across her full breasts. Covered in second-skin black jeans, her legs seemed to go on for days, finally stopping at a pair of well-worn, light gray, suede cowboy boots that matched her gray satin gloves.

Holy shit, she had more curves than the Pacific Coast Highway. He'd known she would grow up-eventually-but when did she go from gawky and gangly to hotter than Satan's backyard barbeque? He'd only been gone two weeks since the last time he'd seen her, but he had to admit he hadn't really been paying her much attention ever since he and Jean hooked up. She'd blossomed right under his nose and he'd missed it-until today.

Her beauty was out of this world.

His arousal was instantaneous and total. He couldn't remember the last time Jean had that effect on him.

The low growl unfurling in his chest wasn't meant to be audible, but Rogue must have heard it, because her head suddenly jerked up like a fawn alerted by a snapping twig.

And like a hunted animal, she froze, at first, her eyes wide and wary, searching peripherally for an escape…avoiding the predator's hypnotic gaze, lest she be helplessly pinned in place by that stare…

Instinctively, the hunter in Logan reacted in kind and he stilled where he stood, every muscle at the ready, every sense on high alert.

He was close enough to hear her heart thudding furiously against her ribs, to smell the bitter scent of her adrenaline-spiked blood. Realizing that he must have startled her, he relaxed his stance a bit and started to apologize.

"Hey, kid, sorry I—"

In that instant, she looked directly at him. He saw recognition dawn and then watched, dumbfounded, as raw terror twisted her pretty face into a grotesque mask of unrelenting pain.

He was still reeling from her shocking reaction to him when he was stunned yet again to see her spin on her heel and run from him, legs pumping, hair flying, and the gut-wrenching scent of fear flowing like a vapor trail behind her as she sped toward the French doors leading into the kitchen.

Fear?

She was terrified—of him!

But why?

Over the next three days, that question ate a hole in his guts the size of Cleveland.

He'd started to follow her toward the mansion, but the memory of her horrified expression stopped him. Whatever caused it, he couldn't knowingly strike that kind of fear in her, nor could he bear to have her look at him like that again. Not her, not his Rogue, the one person on the planet who had never been afraid of him, even when she'd had every reason to be.

So, instead of following her, he'd gone straight back to the bike and tore hell for leather down the highway until the gas tank idiot light flashed at him, forcing him to stop and try to figure out where he was.

Not that it mattered. One smoky roadhouse, one crusty motel was as good as any other. He found a bed and a bottle and set to work trying to erase her fear-filled eyes from his mind. Two days and a dozen bottles weren't enough to do the job, so on the third day he'd asked the motel clerk if there was a distillery within a hundred miles. Shot glasses were for wimps. Bottles were for pansies. Wolverines drank whiskey by the barrel. Or maybe they'd have a vat he could drown in…

The heavily tattooed clerk just shook his head and went back to thumbing his tattered copy of Biker Ink.

Damning his healing factor and his now fuckin' iron-clad memory all to hell, he figured maybe he could stay drunk if he didn't eat, but the feral in him couldn't ignore the smell of steaks grilling in the diner across the street from the motel.

He'd just cut into his third very rare T-bone when his cell phone rang…

"You know? How do you know?" Logan hadn't told a soul about what happened, which meant the professor must have talked to Rogue.

At last! Now he would know what he was up against; now he could apologize, assure her that whatever he had done it would never—never—happen again.

But Chuck was hesitating again.

"Dammit, Chuck, what did she say?"

"Logan where are you right now?"

"Chuck—"

"Answer me, Logan. Tell me exactly where you are at this very moment." Xavier's voice had regained its quiet authority.

Logan choked back a string of curse words and answered in a clipped tone.

"Some diner just south of Providence, Rhode Island. Why?"

"You'll have to leave there before we can talk further. Find a secluded, rural area and call me back." Click.

Logan threw some cash on the table and exited the diner, all the while fighting to keep his claws sheathed beneath his skin. Behind the diner was a wooded area that stretched for about a mile before the land dipped down into an embankment with a highway at the bottom. Logan trudged through the trees for several hundred yards and checked to make sure he still had a cell phone signal out here in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere before hitting the speed dial code for Xavier's cell phone.

"Logan."

"So I've done my Little Red Riding Hood thing. Now tell me what the fuck she said!"

"Normally, I'd want to tell you something this…this serious…in person, but under the circumstances, I think this way will be safer for all concerned."

"Holy fuckin' God, Chuck, I swear if you don't quit pissin' around—"

"She thinks you raped her."

"—just spit it…WHAT?!" Logan roared, nearly skewering his own head as his claws shot out uncontrollably from both hands while he was still holding the phone to his ear.

"She thinks you raped her. Repeatedly. At least, that's what she believes—"

Logan's voice boomed with explosive feral rage.

"I DID NOT AND I WILL KILL THE MOTHERFUCKIN' SONOFABITCH WHO DID!"

He felt himself giving way to the animal within. His whole body shook with the effort to keep the beast at bay while his ears took in what Xavier told him about Rogue's ordeal and Jean's part in it. He had heard the words, but it would be hours before his mind was capable of processing any of it into anything resembling rational thought.

And then he just let go. The phone fell to the ground, the call still connected.

Back in Westchester, Xavier listened as the howls of an anguished soul and the violent snap and crackle of falling trees told him he'd been right to break the news from a very long distance.

Present day...

"OK, so I can't skin the skank alive," Logan said, "But can we at least tell Rogue the truth? Can't you and your super mental mo-jo make her see that it never really happened?"

"You, of all people, Logan, should know that it isn't that simple when it comes to the workings of the human mind," Xavier replied. "Jean's projections provided the outline, but she used Rogue's own subconscious to fill in all the details. At this point, it would be impossible for me to separate the images in Rogue's mind from their source without doing irreparable harm to her psyche in general."

Logan cringed inwardly at the implication that on some level he was partially responsible for Rogue's pain, that the way he had treated her had made her susceptible to Jean's suggestions.

"So where does that leave us?" he asked, refocusing on the real problem instead of his own self-recriminations. There'd be plenty of time to beat himself up later.

"Well, as I said, I cannot undo the damage, but Rogue can-with your help."

Logan gaped at the professor. "Me? She won't get within fifty feet of me. What can I do?"

"Be the man she loves, not the one who hurt her."

Logan was about to protest that he damn well did not hurt Rogue, but then the professor's meaning sunk in.

"You mean, show her that she can trust me, prove to her that I'd never do what she thinks I did?"

"Exactly. You must present her with an alternate reality. Give her a reason to question what she believes. Once you do that, her own memories, her own feelings-and presumably the you inside her head-will be there to help her reject the lie and embrace the truth."

"And how am I supposed to do that? Especially with Little Miss Mind Fuck still on the loose?"

"For one thing, you must take Rogue someplace beyond Jean's reach. I have a place in mind..." Xavier picked up a pen and began to write on a small notepad. "This is the address and the name of the owner. Ask for her when you arrive; she'll provide you with anything you might need during your stay."

Logan took the offered note and read it, one eyebrow quirking in approval.

"Don't get me wrong, Chuck, the idea of me and Rogue in a seaside resort is pretty damn exciting, but how do I get her there? Hog-tie her to the back of the bike?"

Logan smiled in spite of himself at the mental image his comment conjured-a belligerent Rogue, arms and legs flailing, trying to land a blow to his crotch while he worked to subdue her with all the finesse of a man trying to stuff a live octopus into a burlap bag.

Then the significance of the address in his hand dawned on him and his heart skipped a beat-or two.

"Hey, uh, does this mean what I think it means?" he posed. "Um, 'cause...it's August...and...um, I mean...you wouldn't send her there at the height of summer if she couldn't...if she still had to-"

"Yes, Logan, she's done it. We finished that part of her training just yesterday morning, in fact."

Xavier wore a faraway look as he replayed their last session in his mind. "You'd have thought someone had just handed her the keys to Heaven itself," he mused aloud as he looked out at the brilliant blue sky.

Logan felt the connection open between his mind and Xavier's and then he saw Rogue's positively triumphant smile as she'd exercised complete control over her gift, switching it off and then on and then off again at will.

"Oh, Professor, it's...amazin', isn't it?" Rogue gushed joyfully. "Now that Ah know what to do, it seems so simple. Makes me wonder why it took so long to figure it out. Ah can't wait to show Lo-" He knew the exact second that her happiness collided with despair. Her face crumbled like an imploding skyscraper. Something in her eyes shattered and Logan knew that it wasn't the first time she'd had to remind herself that he wasn't who he used to be.

As painful as it was to watch her come undone like that, Logan found himself oddly optimistic for the first time in weeks. If sharing her victory with him was still her first thought, even after all Jean had put her through, then the professor's plan just might work after all.

"Thanks, Chuck, for sharing."

When Xavier didn't respond, Logan reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "Professor?"

The wheelchair spun around so fast it nearly cut Logan's legs out from under him. Xavier's face had lost all color.

"You must go, Logan. Now! Rogue is almost-"

An exceptionally brief knock was followed by the door swinging open as Jubilee's customary greeting announced her presence.

"Hey, professor, you decent?"

And where Jubilee went, Rogue was sure to follow. Holy shit! Logan gave a second's thought to jumping out the window. Broken legs he could handle, even without his healing powers, but his heart couldn't take another shredding. He couldn't stand to have her look at him again with all that fear and hatred in her eyes. It was desperate and cowardly, he knew, but as Rogue's scent wafted into the room, Logan turned his back to the door and braced himself for the scream.

-end-