Chapter One

Rogue's ass was freezing.

A damp, early fall chill emanated from the concrete steps beneath her and had quickly permeated through her blue jeans. Rogue shifted uncomfortably and considered pulling the leather jacket currently draped over her lap back on over the plum-colored, long-sleeved pointelle tunic she wore.

From the corner of her eye she watched the front room curtains twitch for the umpteenth time since she'd knocked and made her inquiry at the door. This time, though, the twitching was followed by a stream of shrill stage whispering, barely audible. The reply as the front door opened, however, was crystal clear and in a voice she knew well: "Don't worry, Mom. That won't be an issue."

The door slammed closed and Kitty Pryde stood behind her with foot tapping.

"What are you doing here, Rogue?"

Rogue stared down at the laces on her Doc Martens and said nothing.

With a grumble that sounded like a puppy's attempt at a growl, Kitty stomped down the stairs and glared up at Rogue with arms crossed. The piece of Wolverine that lived in Rogue's head purred his approval of her acquisition of the high ground.

"Why are you here, Rogue?" Kitty asked again. "If you're looking for the new flop house for super-powered youth that's at May Parker's. I can give you directions."

Again, the front room curtains twitched catching Rogue's eye. "What's up with your mom?" she asked in lieu of answering Kitty's question.

"She's afraid you're going to ask to stay. So don't ask. Where have you been for the last six months, anyway?"

"'Walking to and fro in the Earth. And up and down in it.'"

Kitty snorted. "You quoting Scripture? That's rich! Now. What. Do. You. Want?"

"The box."

"Box," Kitty's forehead wrinkled, "what box?"

Rogue's eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb with me, Kitty. The box Logan gave you before the confrontation with Magneto."

"Fine, what about it?"

"Why'd he give it to you?"

"Oh my God!" Kitty threw her arms in the air. "You did not come here to be jealous over the last wishes of a dead man!"

"He's not dead," Rogue whispered.

Kitty gaped at her. "God, Rogue! What's the matter with you? Yes, he is!"

"No," Rogue gave her head a violent shake, "he can't be."

"Can't be?" Kitty's face hardened and her entire demeanor shifted from chilly to downright arctic; her eyes bulged and blazed with barely contained fury. "Can't be? Magneto switched the fucking magnetic poles! Millions of people died! Many of our friends died! But Logan--oh, well, he's just completely exempt from that because Rogue said so! Yes, he was a healer but he wasn't invincible! Magneto ripped the adamantium from his bones for Heaven's sake!"

"He survived having the adamantium bonded to his skeleton in the first place," Rogue replied, matching Kitty's frigid tone. "So why would its removal kill him?"

"Because Magneto fried him with both Cyclops' eye-beams and Iron Man's weapons! His healing factor was toast!"

"He's survived far worse! The Hulk once ripped him completely in half! Logan had to claw his way up the side of a mountain just to get his legs back!"

They were both shouting now and had drawn the attention of those out strolling the neighborhood. Most just slowed down for a moment to take in the scene--two girls shouting over a guy, while entertaining, was nothing new--before continuing on their way. An elderly lady walking an apricot toy poodle gave a haughty sniff and hurried past Kitty's house while two pre-teen boys took up station under a glowing streetlamp to watch the unfolding drama.

"Rogue, all that was left of him was an arm! You were there when we buried it. He's GONE! Why can't you accept that?"

"Because I love him!" Rogue all but roared.

Kitty stumbled back at the force of Rogue's confession. "Oh Rogue!" she gasped, her fury subsiding.

Rogue's chin dropped against her chest; her nose and eyes burning with tears she refused to shed in front of Little Miss Kitty Pryde. She fisted large handfuls of the leather jacket--Logan's--folded on her lap in her gloved hands like the security blanket she'd never admit it was. The well-worn black material now smelled more like her own lavender shampoo and vanilla lotion than Logan's scent of pine forests and cigars, but it was his and, therefore, precious.

Kitty climbed the stairs and eased herself down next to Rogue. She noticed the two boys watching and snickering under the streetlamp and her icy demeanor returned in the form of a glare that sent the two scampering home. Kitty raised her right arm as if to lay it comfortingly across Rogue's shoulders but, halfway through the motion, she hesitated and let her arm drop awkwardly between them. "OK. Tell me why you're so sure he's alive."

Rogue knew that Kitty no more believed in Logan's survival than she did two minutes ago, but now she felt sorry enough for Rogue to at least listen.

Rogue hated being pitied.

"Kitty, you know how my mutation works: the piece of Logan in my head is telling me he's alive!"

"But it's been over six months," Kitty pointed out. "Why are you here telling me all this now?"

Rogue heaved a sigh. "It'd been a while since I last absorbed Logan and I don't know if it was a side-effect of that damn Banshee drug--"

"--That you took voluntarily," Kitty interrupted.

Rogue glared at her.

Kitty shrugged, "I'm just sayin'."

"The voices in my head of the people I'd absorbed just sort of faded away," Rogue continued. "Then all that shit with Magneto happened and I got a whole new set of voices in my head, Juggernaut being the loudest. I was in Tennessee washing dishes in a crap diner to pay for food and a roof over my head when Juggernaut's powers finally went away. His voice faded to background noise soon after. I was getting ready for bed one night when I heard Logan whispering in my head. I thought it was my imagination but I kept hearing him. It's the barest echo of what it was before Banshee, but he's there and he's adamant that the real Wolverine survived Magneto."

Kitty shook her head sadly, "Rogue, a voice in your head is not proof."

Rogue twisted around to face Kitty. "You think I'm nuts, don't you?" she spat.

"No, I don't think you're nuts," Kitty returned, her hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "But I do think you're hearing what you want to hear."

"Fine!" Rogue snarled and started to stand. Kitty grasped her by the elbow; protected from Rogue's life-sucking mutation by the long-sleeves Rogue wore. "Wait! Tell me what this has to do with the box Logan gave me."

Rogue stood considering a moment before she reluctantly sat back down. "After Tennessee I came back here to the mansion. I've been waiting there the past two months in case he makes his way back home..."

"The mansion? But we destroyed it."

"Bobby's little freeze-and-shatter didn't destroy all those reinforced Super-Hero basement levels; they're pretty much intact."

Kitty cringed slightly. "We probably should've thought of that."

"Anyway," Rogue rolled her eyes, "all this waiting around has the Wolverine in my head chomping at the bit and patience has never been a virtue of mine either. It's time to try something different. That's where Logan's box comes in."

Kitty folded her arms across her chest. "How do you even know about that box? It's not like you were around when Logan gave it to me."

"Aside from the fact I have Logan in my head--Bobby told me," Rogue replied with a humorless, tight-lipped smile.

"What?" Kitty exclaimed, incredulous. "When?"

"I ran into him at the gravesite a couple weeks ago. He said he was on his way to see you and, oh by the way, did you know Logan gave Kitty some mysterious box before going off to fight Magneto."

Kitty muttered a stream of curses; most to do with certain parts of Bobby Drake's anatomy that should be frozen and shattered, followed by: "It's a wonder the Government didn't murder us all in our beds with Can't-Keep-A-Secret-To-Save-His-Life Bobby Drake around!"

"Who'd you give the box to?" Rogue interrupted Kitty's rant before it took on a life of its own.

"I can't tell you that," Kitty shook her head. "And if Logan's in your head, why don't you know who the box was for?"

Rogue grit her teeth, she knew that Kitty would inevitably ask that question. "It's a mixed bag what I get when I touch someone. I can picture the box in my mind but as to what's inside or who it's for I've got nothing. Besides, he gets a bit... growly in there when I dig in that direction."

Rogue shifted on the cold, uncomfortable concrete. "Was it for Jean?" she reluctantly asked.

Kitty snorted, "Jealous much? No, it wasn't for Jean."

"Storm?"

"No!" Kitty bellowed as she pushed off the stairs and began pacing the ground in front of Rogue. "It wasn't for Storm or any other X-Man. Or the Avengers. Or the Ultimates. Or anyone else we've ever dealt with. You don't know this person."

"Fine. Tell me this: would Logan go to this person?" Rogue asked when Kitty had ceased her pacing and stood facing her with arms crossed.

"No, definitely not. Why?"

"Because knowing where not to look is just as important as knowing where to look," Rogue replied evenly.

"All right, I'll bite: look for him where?"

"There's this place," Rogue's eyes unfocused as she gazed at what only she could see, "I've seen flashes of it in my mind. Logan would spend long stretches of time there when he wanted to get away from everything. Since he didn't come back to the mansion, that's where he'll be. I'm sure of it."

"And where is this 'place'?"

"Canada," Rogue said, her gaze returning to the here-and-now. "It's in Canada."

"Where in Canada?"

Rogue shrugged. "I can see landmarks: mountain peaks, rivers, trees; but I don't have an exact address or anything."

"Then how the hell are you going to find this place?" Kitty scoffed, "walk from one end of Canada to the other?"

"If I have to," said Rogue, undaunted.

"Rogue, listen to yourself! This is just plain nuts!"

"I'm not giving up on him, Kitty! He's out there and I'm going to find him!"

Kitty climbed the steps and retook her seat next to Rogue; her body angled towards the other young woman. "I know we've never really been friends, but Rogue, you've gotta listen to me. Don't do this to yourself!" she pleaded. "You're setting yourself up for major heartbreak." Rogue shook her head, but Kitty soldiered on, "Listen, stay here tonight--I'll talk my mom into it--and tomorrow I'll take you over to May Parker's. You've met Peter and Bobby's there along with Johnny Storm. I'm sure May has room for one more and Gwen Stacy will be happy to have another woman around."

Rogue, still shaking her head, stood up and shrugged on Logan's jacket--far oversized on her small frame; the sleeves hung miles past her hands and the bottom hem hit her low on her thighs. "No, I'm doing this," she said as marched to Logan's motorcycle and slung her leg over. "I'll tell Logan you delivered his box."

She kicked the bike to life and roared away.

To Be Continued...

Chapter Two

Like arriving home to your locked apartment and finding your knick-knacks rearranged, Rogue knew as soon as she pulled into the drive that led to the remains of Charles Xavier's mansion that something was off.

She stopped Logan's motorcycle halfway up the drive instead of continuing on to the boathouse that gave her access to the intact lower-levels of the mansion. Rogue shrugged off Logan's leather jacket and laid it across the saddle of the motorcycle. She slid into the shadows caused by unruly hedgerows and ruined masonry and crept along with ears and eyes alert to anything out of place.

Mutant hunters were first to come to mind as Rogue stealthily slipped through the shadows. After Magneto, mutants became persona non grata; even more so than before the attack, with standing orders for the police to arrest or shoot them on sight.

Garden-variety looters would be preferable.

Rogue silently sidestepped a pile of bricks and the back grounds came into view. Her heart clenched and her stomach dropped as she saw the graveyard and the mound of dirt that used to be Logan's grave.

No!

All thoughts of looters and mutant hunters fled at the sight and Rogue dashed across the grounds. "No, no, no!" she chanted as she ran. She slid on her knees the last few feet, grass and dirt staining the legs of her jeans; gloved hands sinking wrist deep into the mounded earth. This time she didn't attempt to hold back the tears that streamed down her cheeks as her head twisted from side to side searching for any sign of the grave robbers.

But, aside from the pile of dirt and the hole in the ground where Logan's arm should've been, all was as it should be.

A shrill, animal-like keen erupted from her throat.

Rogue hadn't been lying when she told Kitty she'd come here to wait for Logan; what she'd omitted was the role Logan's buried arm played. After the Hulk ripped Logan in half, Logan had to retrieve his legs in order to heal. However, when Logan lent Rogue his healing ability after her arm was shot off by one of Cable's goons, her arm had completely grown back. So Rogue was unsure, now that Logan was unencumbered by the adamantium, if he needed the arm they buried or if he'd re-grow the limb like she had. Her inner-Logan was no help in this matter since he couldn't remember life before the adamantium.

If he needed that arm then she'd failed him; failed to protect a piece of the man she loved.

She had no idea how long she'd sat there in the damp fall night air, her hands reflexively clenching and unclenching fistfuls of dirt, when twin cones of light illuminated the graveyard. Rogue didn't flinch or whip her head around; she already knew who those headlights belonged to.

When she returned from Tennessee two months prior she'd been shocked at the beautifully maintained state of the graveyard--in stark contrast to the overgrown, neglected condition of the rest of the grounds. Two days later their mystery benefactor was revealed when, in the early morning hours, a black limousine pulled into the drive. The chauffeur opened the door for a tall, dark-haired man with mustache and Vandyke beard: Tony Stark--Iron Man. His hair was mussed and his expensive, tailored suit was rumpled. He shuffled unsteadily to Wolverine's grave where he stood with shoulders slumped and head bowed.

This scene would repeat twice a week, sometimes more. Always unkempt, Stark would stand before Logan's grave until his chauffeur shepherded him back to his car. Rogue would watch him from her various vantage points on the mansion grounds and, she knew, Stark was well aware of her presence. They never spoke. If Stark noticed her watching him, he'd nod and go back to staring at Logan's grave. Every Monday a grounds crew arrived to care for the graves.

She listened to the opening and closing of car doors, the crisp crunch of shoes on grass, the stumbling falter of those steps, an astonished curse.

"Rogue, are you all right?" Tony Stark asked. He stank of liquor and a headache-inducing mixture of ladies perfumes.

"Did you do this?" Rogue rasped, uncaring in her anger and despair if her question offended him. While she believed his guilt and grief over his role in Logan's "death" to be genuine and believed him an ally, even allies have agendas of their own.

But if Tony Stark was offended he showed no sign. "No," he replied as he walked the perimeter of the graveyard, checking the other graves for signs of vandalism, "I'm not a return-to-the-scene-of-the-crime sort of guy."

"S.H.I.E.L.D?"

Stark shook his head, "I'm not as privy to their day-to-day operations since we decided to see other people but, while S.H.I.E.L.D certainly isn't above a bit of grave robbing if it suits their purposes, this doesn't scream S.H.I.E.L.D to me."

"Care to elaborate?" Rogue challenged.

"Well," Stark began, "those wacky S.H.I.E.L.D scientists do love their DNA samples and here we have a veritable smorgasbord of powerful mutants all laid out and only a single grave is disturbed. No," he shook his head again, "a collector did this, that's my guess."

Rogue's eyes narrowed. "What kind of collector?"

Stark finished his survey of the graves and stopped before Rogue. He eyed the damp, cold grass with distaste but eased himself down upon it; the hole that was Logan's grave gaped between them. "Mutant memorabilia has become a hot commodity. The items showing up on the online auction sites--belt buckles branded with an 'X', genuine costume swatches, and the like--are pretty innocuous and most likely fakes. However, for the rich mutant-hater whose den just wouldn't be complete without that perfect mutant trophy over the fireplace, there's the black market bone trade. Logan's arm that you buried, the claws retained their adamantium, didn't they?"

Rogue nodded. The claws on that arm were imbedded deep in Magneto's chest when the rest of the adamantium was stripped away; or that's how Storm related it. Stark would know better considering he was there.

Stark plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. "Then I'd say someone came here searching for X-Men memorabilia to sell and got lucky with a metal detector. Is anything else missing?"

"I don't know," Rogue shrugged. "I haven't been inside yet." And, she mused, the likelihood of anyone finding the concealed entrance to the sub-basements in the boathouse was slight.

"Then you weren't here when it happened?" he inquired.

Rogue shook her head, "No, I went into the city to see someone. I discovered this," she nodded at the hole between them, "as soon as I returned."

"That's probably for the best," Stark stated. Rogue didn't agree. She'd have loved catching the grave robbers in the act; they'd be laid out on the grounds, nothing but twitching masses.

"If this was a private collector," he mused, "our chances of getting it back are slim, unless they brag about their find. If it's a black market supplier, however, they'll know what a prize Logan's arm is and will start putting feelers out for a buyer ASAP. And, when that happens, we'll pounce."

"You keep track of black market dealings?" asked a dubious Rogue.

Stark traded the ruined blade of grass for a small stone from the dirt pile. "I keep my ear to the ground." Rogue arched a single eyebrow. "All right," he amended with a roll of the eyes, "I pay people to keep their ears to the ground and report back to me. I have a rather large room filled with high-powered computers and the highly-caffeinated technicians to run them that I like to keep busy."

"Every cliché in the book, eh?"

Stark offered her a wry grin, "You can't be a brilliant, billionaire playboy without them."

An idea then occurred to Rogue, "And these high-powered computers and caffeinated technicians, could they locate, say, a remote cabin in Canada with only landmarks to go by?"

"Oh, undoubtedly."

"In that case," Rogue stood on stiff legs and brushed the dirt from her gloved hands on the seat of her stained jeans, "care to give a girl a hand?"

To Be Continued...

Chapter Three

For over two months Rogue had kept her belief in Logan's survival close to her chest and now, in the space of a day, she'd confided in not one, but two people. But any reluctance she'd had in telling Tony Stark faded away with his reaction. His entire demeanor altered: his eyes brightened, he stood straighter--no longer the guilt-riddled man bent over a grave.

"How long have you known?" he'd asked after she'd confided in him. There was none of Kitty Pryde's condescending pity. No drawn-out questions and explanations about her mutation and Logan's voice in her head--but, Tony Stark being Tony Stark, Rogue had no illusions that he didn't already know everything about her down to her birth weight and every nuance of her mutation. Tony Stark took her belief as gospel.

Now she was packing her things while Stark made some phone calls.

Rogue looked around the Med Lab that had served as her temporary home: she had very little to pack.

Rogue had returned to the mansion with the intention of living in the small attic area of the boathouse. It was only a whim which led her to investigate the concealed entrance to the sub basements.

Her first surprise was the soft glow of emergency lighting that filled the corridor beyond the concealing panel. Not the harsh red common to emergency lights, but a soft white glow like that of a 60 watt bulb. The emergency generator--fueled by solar panels on the boathouse roof--must've kicked-in when the mansion above was destroyed four months prior.

The sub basements were dusty yet, otherwise, pristine; so much so she half expected the locker room door to open and Cyclops exit with a towel draped around his neck. It was the same with each room she passed: magazines, books, and clothing left waiting for owners that would never return. The only sound the electric hum of equipment.

Rogue had settled on living in the Med Lab since it had everything she required: a bed, albeit a hard, uncomfortable one; the attached office had a microwave and its own full bathroom. Her second surprise was that water still flowed through the pipes.

Charles Xavier had designed these basements to support the X-Men through a small siege so, located in the lounge was a compact kitchen and a deep pantry filled with cases of bottled water and non-perishable foods. Food wouldn't be an issue.

Her final surprise was finding that the Wi-Fi still worked. She had no idea why it worked, just happy for the internet access it provided.

Rogue had gone through the sub basements turning off and unplugging whatever she could to lessen the strain on the generator. She left the large banks of computers in the War Room alone, unsure of what exactly they controlled.

Now she stood over the bed she'd claimed in the Med Lab stuffing her few possessions into her duffel. Her clothes went in first, followed by the novels she'd found scattered about, then her portable DVD player and small collection of DVD's, and finally her laptop.

Tony Stark appeared in the doorway just as she closed the zipper on her duffel. "The grounds crew will be here first thing to fix Logan's grave," Stark assured her as he looked around her makeshift home.

"Thank you," Rogue said.

"So," Stark clapped his hands together, "ready to go?"

Rogue took one last look around the Med Lab, sucked in a deep breath, and slung her duffel over her shoulder. "I'm ready."

* * *

Stark Towers consisted of a trio of buildings: a skyscraper flanked on either side by a building 2/3 its size. The building to the left of skyscraper was cordoned off, still in the midst of flood repairs.

On Logan's motorcycle, Rogue followed Tony Stark's limo down a ramp to a private parking area beneath the largest of the buildings. In the time it took her to kill the engine and kick down the stand, Stark was already standing next to his limo; his chauffeur a step behind and to the side with her duffel over his shoulder. When Rogue went to take the bag from him, the chauffeur gripped the strap tighter and took a hasty step back. She looked to Tony Stark; his lips were pressed firmly together and his eyes glittered. Whether from residual alcohol in his system or suppressed mirth, she couldn't tell.

Rogue shrugged. If the guy was so bent on carrying her bag, so be it.

Stark chuckled quietly and led Rogue to a bank of elevators where a tall, sandy-haired young man stood waiting with a tablet computer clasped in his hands. "Welcome home, Mr. Stark," the young man said as their trio approached.

"Thank you, Mr. Morrow," Stark replied with a brisk nod. "Mr. Morrow, I'd like you to meet Rogue. Rogue, Mr. Morrow."

"Paul, please," Mr. Morrow offered her his hand to shake.

Rogue tried not to let her eyes boggle at the proffered bare flesh. People--people that knew her and what her mutation can do--did not voluntarily offer their bare skin for her to touch. She grasped his hand in her gloved one, thankful that she'd put on clean gloves when she returned to the Med Lab to pack; her jeans were still grass-stained and muddy from knee to ankle. Paul Morrow smiled and shook her hand firmly. She hoped her surprise and hesitation hadn't been too obvious.

Still, Rogue wondered if Paul Morrow suspected her of being a mutant.

Paul released her hand, his smile still in place, "Nice to meet you, Rogue."

Rogue replied with a closed-lipped smile.

The three of them entered the waiting elevator followed by Stark's chauffeur with her duffel. As he switched the heavy bag to his other shoulder his eyes seemed to bore into Rogue, daring her to offer to take it off his hands. Rogue had no intention of doing so.

"Destination?" a sultry, feminine computerized voice--better suited for a porn version of 'Star Trek'--asked. Rogue rolled her eyes.

"89th floor," Stark announced. The elevator doors slid closed and began its ascent. Stark clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the digital display showing the current floor. "What's the word, Paul?"

"The initial search of the usual channels came up empty. But it may be too soon for anything to show; you said the item was just stolen tonight. I've assigned Franks and Christensen to keep tabs on it."

So, Paul Morrow is one of Stark's highly caffeinated technicians, Rogue thought. Her hackles had risen at hearing Logan's arm referred to as 'the item'. But she choked down her anger; these people were only trying to help and Paul wouldn't have known her emotional attachment to 'the item'.

"Very good, Mr. Morrow," Stark nodded, still watching the numbers on the digital display rise. "Keep me informed."

The elevator pinged their arrival and the doors slid open to reveal light gray walls and Nero Marquina marble floors. Niches along the walls held modern art representations of the Iron Man armor--some shockingly beautiful; others twisted and grotesque.

Thinking back on that cordoned-off building next door, Rogue wondered how much of what she was seeing was brand new; if the floodwaters had reached this height.

In front of one of those art niches stood a stunning woman attired in what could be best described as Sexy Librarian Chic. Her glossy, jet black hair was pulled back into a low, tight knot; the pencil skirt of her royal blue suit barely touched the tops of her thighs--Rogue wondered how she sat without displaying her attributes to the world. Logan's voice in her head chuckled, Darlin', that's the whole point. Designer rectangular-framed glasses in that same royal blue graced her heart-shaped face. Blood red lips and nails and ultra-high royal blue heels completed the ensemble.

Sexy Librarian sashayed over to them using her best runway model walk; the biggest, brightest smile Rogue had seen this side of a toothpaste ad plastered on her face. "Mr. Stark, the room has been prepared per your instructions."

"Thank you, Bonnie," Stark replied as Sexy Librarian--Bonnie--stopped in front of them. "This is Rogue, she'll be our guest while we complete a project. Bonnie is my Personal Assistant," he added, turning to Rogue.

"Hi," Rogue said to Bonnie with a slight wave of her fingers.

Bonnie's assessing gaze was like a physical thing, taking in Rogue's worn and muddy combat boots, filthy jeans, and oversized jacket. That toothpaste smile took on a condescending edge. "Oh," she began, "and how long will Rogue be your guest?" Stark lifted a brow at either her question or the tone she'd used as Bonnie quickly amended, "The housekeeping staff will need to be informed."

"That's unknown at the moment," Stark replied with a sidelong glance at Rogue. Bonnie's own eyes cut from Tony Stark to Rogue and back again; that toothpaste smile drooping to non-existence.

"I'll let the staff know," she mumbled, cleared her throat, then turned to Rogue, "Let me show you to your room."

Bonnie led the group down the marble hallway past widely spaced doorways and more creepy Iron Man art pieces. She stopped in front of the door marked 8909 and ran a keycard through the lock. "Here we are," she said and opened the door.

The suite was spacious, the decor rich yet... stark--like the man himself. The black marble floors and light gray walls continued into the space, but thick, plush light gray rugs in the sitting and bedroom areas softened the effect. The wall opposite the door was lined with great oversized windows set about two feet apart with blinds that responded to the touch of a button. Which Bonnie now demonstrated, exposing to them the twinkling New York skyline. Rogue knew she was expected to 'ooh' and 'aah' at the stunning view, but, tired and emotionally-drained, she just didn't have it in her at the moment. She'd 'ooh' and 'aah' tomorrow.

The bed was a wide, low platform affair with thick white bedding and a mountain of accent pillows in white, black, and gray. A single red pillow provided a pop of color. A white padded bench sat at the foot of the bed and low nightstands of the darkest wood flanked the bed on either side. A rectangular framed mirror and low, dark wood dresser finished the bedroom area.

The sitting area consisted of a white loveseat, overstuffed armchair, and a coffee table in that same dark wood. A large flat-screen TV was mounted to the wall, easily viewable from both the bed and the sitting area. A low media cabinet sat beneath the television. Low dark wood bookcases stacked with leather bound classics and recent bestsellers lined the near wall.

The door to the bathroom stood just to Rogue's left beyond the bedroom area, but she'd investigate it later when there was less of an audience.

Stark's chauffeur brushed passed them to set her duffel on the bench at the foot of the bed. Then, with a slight tip of his hat to Tony Stark, he was gone just as brusquely. Stark's lips curled into a grin and his eyes danced with that same mirth as earlier in the parking garage.

"Well," Stark clapped his hands together, "the kitchen is staffed 24/7; use the phone by the bed to order whatever you'd like. If there's anything else you need, call the Concierge or just give me a yell--the floors above are mine. Your keycard should be cleared for penthouse access." He looked to Bonnie for confirmation. She nodded, frowning.

"I've assigned Mr. Morrow here," Stark continued, "to head our project. And since I'm sure he's eager as a little beaver to get started, and I'm eager for a bottle of aspirin--or a hair of the dog that bit me," he rubbed at his temple, "I'll bid you adieu."

With a smile and a nod to Rogue, Tony Stark exited the suite and Bonnie's heels clip-clopped across the marble floors to follow him. Just as she reached Rogue and Paul and the open doorway, she brought one of those ultra-high heels down on Rogue's toe. Rogue yelped and jerked her foot back, more out of surprise than pain--her boots had steel toes.

Bonnie gasped theatrically, "Oh my God! How clumsy of me!" she apologized with a hint of a sneer on her lips. Then she was out the door, jogging after Stark as best she could in those heels, calling "Tony! Tony!"

Rogue blew out a breath and closed the door. "Gee, I get the feeling dear ol' Bonnie doesn't like me so much."

Paul chuckled, "Could be because her name is actually Brenda."

"But Stark called her--," Rogue stuttered, "--how long has she worked here?"

Paul did a quick mental calculation. "Six weeks. Two months, maybe."

"And he still doesn't know her name?"

"Well, to be fair," Paul shrugged, "the turnover rate for his Personal Assistants is pretty high. None before Bonnie/Brenda have lasted longer than three weeks."

"Is he that hard to work for?"

"Nah, just a short attention span when it comes to attractive women. Bonnie/Brenda must possess super special skills to keep his interest this long."

"And I have a pretty good idea what those 'skills' are," Rogue murmured as she collapsed into the overstuffed armchair. She caught Paul stifling a yawn as he sat himself down on the loveseat. Rogue glanced around the suite for a clock and found one atop one of the nightstands. She read the luminous blue numbers, blinked her eyes a few times then read them again, "Is it really 4:20 AM?"

Paul glanced at the watch on his left wrist, "Sure is."

"Are you usually here at just past four in the morning?" she asked, thrown by his peppy tone of voice; in utter contrast to the yawn she'd just witnessed.

"Not usually," he answered, "but we're still trying to fix or replace equipment lost in the flood. I just happened to be working on that when the call from Mr. Stark came in."

Again, Rogue remembered the cordoned-off building below. And it explained why he was dressed in worn blue jeans and a Stark Industries T-shirt, Rogue mused, instead of business attire like Bonnie/Brenda.

"And speaking of the flood," Paul began fiddling with the tablet computer on his lap, "I understand that we're attempting to locate a remote cabin belonging to a friend of yours who went missing after the flood."

"Yes, that's right," Rogue replied, silently thanking Tony Stark for his revised version of events. While Paul Morrow seemed a perfectly decent guy, you never knew who could be a closet mutant-hater--especially after Magneto.

Paul nodded in sympathy and offered her a sad smile. After Magneto's wave crashed through New York, the news had been filled with stories of loved ones lost or missing in the aftermath so, Rogue knew Paul would accept that explanation at face value and wouldn't dig any further.

"Mr. Stark explained that you've only seen photos of the area where the cabin is located so, that's where we'll start," Paul handed her the tablet along with a stylus. The curser blinked at her on a document blank except for Paul Morrow's name and contact information. "Write down everything you remember with as much detail as possible. We'll feed it into the computers and they'll grab pictures from various sources that match the descriptions. It'll be up to you then to go through those pictures and mark the ones that match what you remember. With enough pictures the computer should be able to determine a location. We'll send a satellite then to scan that area and, hopefully, we'll find your cabin."

Rogue's hands were beginning to shake. She laid the tablet and stylus on the edge of the coffee table and tucked her hands beneath her thighs. "How long will it take?" Her voice shook, too.

Paul spread his palms, "I wish I could say for certain, but there's really no way of knowing," again he smiled sadly, "Canada's a big place."

Rogue closed her eyes and drew in a deep, stuttering breath. Paul pushed off the loveseat, "I'll leave you to get started."

Rogue waited for the door to close behind him before grabbing the tablet and stylus off the table. She drew in another deep breath, pulled Logan's memories to the front of her mind, and began to write.

To Be Continued...

Chapter Four

It was a little past 7:00 AM when Rogue finally crawled into bed. She'd written her descriptions with as much detail as she could muster and the handwriting recognition software did an admirable job of deciphering her chicken-scratch. Then she'd gone over it again and then again until she was absolutely certain she had every detail of Logan's cabin and its environs from Logan's memories down on that tablet.

She called Paul Morrow who came to collect the computer. "I'll bring you the first batch of photos as soon as we have them," he said and then he was gone. Rogue closed the door behind him, thankful that he hadn't expected any drawn-out conversation.

Writing the descriptions with both Logan's memories and personality pulled to the forefront of her mind had been disconcerting--like someone constantly reading over her shoulder. It left her head throbbing to the beat of her pulse. She rubbed her temples, wishing for Tony Stark's aspirin bottle. She could call down for something, but that took effort and she'd have to stay up until they brought it to her room. And she just wanted to go to bed.

Rogue moved her duffel from the padded bench at the foot of the bed and sat down to remove her combat boots; her head spinning briefly as she leaned over to untie the laces. She pushed the mountain of throw pillows onto the floor and, rubbing her eyes, pushed down the plush covers.

She'd sleep her headache off.

* * *

Rogue awoke around dinnertime to find that a night on her knees in the damp fall air without a coat had caught up with her.

Her right ear and nostril--the side she'd slept on--were clogged. She rolled onto her back in search of relief, her head throbbing painfully. Now she couldn't breathe. She rolled onto her left side; now her stomach ached. She pushed herself into a sitting position against the headboard, swaying with the wave of dizziness that crashed over her. She whimpered; her throat burned when she swallowed.

She shouldn't have shrugged-off the signs--the shaking hands, the throbbing headache. She should have called for those aspirin before calling it a night.

And now she needed to use the bathroom.

Rogue whimpered again; she was sick and weak and the bathroom seemed miles away. But the cringe-inducing prospect of wetting herself in one of Tony Stark's posh suites spurred her on.

Rogue pushed the thick covers aside and dangled her legs over the edge of the mattress. She went slow, using the nightstand to help her stand, her head spinning all the while. She used the wall as her guide, leaning against it and clenching her eyes shut when the dizziness became too much. By the time Rogue reached the toilet she was exhausted and shaking. She did her business and forced herself to make the long walk back, though it was tempting to just stretch out on the cushy bathroom rug or in the deep bathtub and just stay there.

She stopped at the telephone and called down for the three T's: Tylenol, Toast, and Tea. Then used the wall again to get to the row of low bookcases where she perched on top of the one closest to the door to wait. If she laid back down she wouldn't be getting back up again in a hurry and she doubted that Room Service would just let themselves in.

But, apparently, Tony Stark would.

The skinny young man who'd delivered her order must've ran straight to him because, not ten minutes later, Tony Stark barged into her suite. He found her hanging half out of the bed digging through the nightstand drawers in search of tissues--the fourth 'T' she'd neglected to order. Rogue came away clutching a flimsy travel pack and rolled back against her pillows.

Tony Stark was studying her from the foot of the bed. Rogue took a tissue from the pack and blew her nose with an indelicate honking noise. Stark grimaced. Well, if he's going to barge into a sick girl's room he deserves what he gets, she thought.

"I'm calling a doctor," Stark pronounced.

Rogue's eyes widened and she violently shook her head, defying her dizziness. Doctors plus mutants equals Very Bad Things. What could she possibly say to a non-mutant doctor? Gee, Mr. Physician, I'd love to have you examine me. However, there's this minor issue with my life-sucking skin. She'd wake up tomorrow morning to soldiers surrounding her bed and guns pointed at her head. No, they wouldn't wait for me to wake-up. A whole-body shudder rushed through her, "No doctors!"

Stark frowned deeply. So much so that Rogue didn't kick-up a fuss when Bonnie/Brenda arrived, wearing a facemask and surgical gloves, with an ear thermometer to take her temperature.

101 degrees. Stark's already deep frown deepened.

He sent Bonnie/Brenda for Saltines and ginger ale. "And tissues," Rogue called to her retreating back.

As soon as the door closed Stark said, "If your temperature doesn't come down--and fast--I'm going to have to call in a doctor. I promise they'll be trustworthy."

Rogue reluctantly nodded; in her mind, trustworthy doctor was an oxymoron.

Bonnie/Brenda returned with the skinny Room Service guy pushing a cart. They'd brought her a fresh pot of tea, soda crackers, small bottles of ginger ale, and--wonderfully--a box of tissues. But what really made Rogue smile were the packages of crystallized ginger and peppermint candies. The ginger candies always helped her upset stomach far more than the ginger ale and the peppermints--those she just liked. "Thanks," Rogue rasped. Skinny Room Service guy grinned and took his leave. Bonnie/Brenda, however, glared over the top of her facemask; clearly believing this all an elaborate pantomime to garner attention from Tony Stark.

Bonnie/Brenda click-clacked out the door and Stark followed with a promise to check-in on her in a few hours. Rogue dropped a cube of crystallized ginger into a steaming mug of tea and nibbled on a piece of toast. She flipped on the television with the remote and settled deeper into her pillows where she tossed and turned to home improvement shows until Tony Stark let himself into her suite around 11:00. He took her temperature again, careful of the exposed skin of her face. 101 degrees. At least it hasn't gone up.

She made another trip to the bathroom, this time leaning on Tony Stark's arm. After she was safely back in bed he bid her good night and let himself out. Rogue ate three Saltines and swallowed two Tylenol with room temperature ginger ale before settling again to sleep.

She fell asleep to the "What's the sitch?" of Kim Possible and awoke to the "Sweet Nibblets" of Hannah Montana. And Tony Stark dozing in the armchair.

He awoke when she attempted to get out of bed. He helped her again to the bathroom and back, then he stuck the thermometer into her ear. 99.7 degrees. Rogue sighed in relief. Tony Stark, too, must've been pleased because he made no further mention of doctors. And she was feeling better: her head and throat no longer hurt, and the dizziness only returned with sudden movement.

Stark phoned down for toast, tea, and orange juice for her and coffee for himself. A pretty young woman barely older than Rogue brought their breakfast and smiled coquettishly at Tony Stark as she left. I wonder what Bonnie/Brenda thinks of her, Rogue contemplated.

Stark pulled a small metal flask out of an inside jacket pocket and poured a measure into his steaming cup. More hair of the dog. Rogue pretended not to notice by noisily scraping a bit of butter across her toast. "Any leads on Logan's arm?" she inquired.

Stark took a deep swallow of his spiked coffee. "Nothing," he re-opened the flask and tipped more of its contents into his mug, "I've asked Franks and Christensen to broaden their search. However, we must consider that the thief may've already had a buyer in mind when they stole Logan's arm."

"Or it was S.H.I.E.L.D," Rogue said around a mouthful of toast, "or some group like them."

Stark shook his head, "I really don't think so."

She swallowed her toast with a sip of tea. "Ok, what about the cabin? Has the computer pulled any pictures that match my descriptions?"

"A few thousand, actually, last Mr. Morrow checked-in."

"A few thousand!" Rogue sputtered, tea sloshing over the side of her mug onto the white bedding. She sat her mug on the Room Service tray and hastily mopped up the mess with a handful of tissues. "Well, where are they? Why hasn't Paul brought the first batch?"

Stark swirled the contents of his own mug, "Because you're sick."

"I'm not that sick!" she insisted, tossing the soiled tissues into the trash.

"You have a fever."

"Barely! It's not like I'm delirious or anything! It's a waste of time for me to be laying here when I could be going through those pictures!"

Stark stood, took a final drink from his mug and sat it on the Room Service cart. "You're not wasting time; you're getting better," he spoke as though talking to a stubborn child. He regarded her from the foot of the bed, "I thought finding Logan was important to you." Rogue frowned at what she considered a cheap shot. "Do you really want to risk making mistakes because you rushed into things?"

Rogue glared at him as she grabbed another handful of tissues and blew her nose noisily. Her right nostril was still clogged. "So when can I start with the pictures?"

"When you stop sounding like a goose when you blow your nose," Tony Stark smirked.

Rogue folded her arms across her chest. "And if I just happen to sound like a goose even when I'm not sick?"

"Then Logan has my sympathies."

Bonnie/Brenda arrived then to escort Stark to a board meeting or beard maintenance or whatever it was he did all day. Rogue collapsed back onto her pillows in a huff as the door shut. Rogue grabbed the television remote and flicked angrily through the channels until sleep, again, overtook her.

Tony Stark stayed away until dinnertime when he arrived carrying a paper sack containing two take-out orders of chicken soup. "From a little place two blocks over," he explained, claiming a container and plastic spoon. "Much better than the soup my kitchens produce." Rogue took a spoonful. It was delicious; the broth golden and swimming with chunks of chicken, thick curly egg noodles, and slivers of carrot and celery. But she was still annoyed so she wasn't about to tell him that.

Stark left as soon as the soup was gone.

The next morning began much like the previous with Tony Stark snoozing in the sitting area. This morning, though, he looked much as he had that horrible night in the graveyard: hair mussed, clothing rumpled, and the stink of booze reached all the way to the bed. Only then did Rogue recall that yesterday had been Friday. And it appeared that Tony Stark had made a night of it. Her chest clenched momentarily as she wondered if Paul Morrow worked weekends.

Rogue considered the sleeping Tony Stark and doubted she'd have reason today to find out.

He didn't stir when she rose from the bed and padded to the bathroom. She no longer had to lean on the walls and the trip no longer left her shaking and exhausted.

Rogue gazed longingly at the shower stall, but she couldn't clean up with Tony Stark sleeping in the next room. Bonnie/Brenda, if she happened to work weekends and came looking for her boss, may take things the wrong way. And then Bonnie/Brenda may do something rash like attempt to claw Rogue's eyes out and then Rogue would have a corpse on her hands. Not to mention another voice in her head--though her inner-Logan may enjoy the company. Not likely, Logan-in-her-head scoffed.

When she returned from the bathroom Tony Stark was expelling bone-jarring snores with his mouth hanging wide open. And he has the nerve to say I sound like a goose! Rogue grabbed her duffel from the floor by the bed and rummaged for clean underwear, pajama pants, and shirt. Bonnie/Brenda or no Bonnie/Brenda she was taking a shower. Getting clean trumped a potential epic throw-down.

Her shower took twice as long as usual. She dropped her razor more than once while shaving her legs and underarms; the muscles in her arms shook as she lathered her hair and she had to rest a few moments before she could condition.

Stark was still snoring with his mouth wide open when she returned to the room. "Catching flies, Stark?" Rogue muttered as she dropped her dirty clothes on the floor next to her duffel; she'd find out later where she could wash them. She cleared her throat a few times in Tony Stark's direction. No reaction. She banged the nightstand drawers open and closed. Nothing. She turned the television on and located an action movie filled with loud explosions, but Stark continued to snore away. Rogue rolled her eyes and returned to her bed.

Now that Rogue was on the mend, her inner-Logan began growling about the "liberties" Tony Stark was taking with her. His biggest gripes being Stark barging in unannounced and letting himself in while she slept. "I've been sick," she shrugged off inner-Logan's concerns. "And he's trying to help me find the flesh-and-blood you, not trying to make me the next notch on his bedpost."

Don't be so sure, darlin', Logan-in-her-head scoffed.

A little past noon Stark awoke with a snort. He looked around the suite, bewildered. "This doesn't appear to be my room."

No kidding, pal! Inner-Logan growled. Rogue shushed him.

Stark stumbled to her bedside table and confiscated her Tylenol bottle. He shook two pills into his palm and swallowed them down with a nip from his ever-present flask. Meanwhile, Rogue grabbed a tissue and blew her nose so Stark could hear just how un-gooselike it sounded. He paid her no mind, excused himself, and left. She didn't see him the rest of the day.

Nor was he sleeping in the armchair when she awoke Sunday morning. Something was, however, tapping on one of her windows. Her 89th floor window. She found the button that controlled the blinds and they rose to reveal Tony Stark--no, Iron Man--hovering outside the glass. His visor was raised, revealing his grinning face. He saluted her with the first two fingers of his left hand; Rogue laughed and waved in return. The visor lowered and Iron Man zoomed away, off to fight his own villains.

Rogue phoned Room Service for tea and whatever type of muffin they had on hand--she couldn't stand the thought of another piece of toast. Then grabbed a blanket and pillow from the bed and settled onto the loveseat for a change of scenery and to wait for her breakfast. She was flipping through the television when the knock on her door came. She opened the door expecting Room Service; instead, there stood Paul Morrow.

"He does make you work on weekends!" Rogue blurted without thinking. She slapped a palm across her mouth.

"No, no, no," Paul laughed as she ushered him in. "The Research and Development geeks are fed-up with sharing space with us computer geeks so, we're working overtime to get Gamma Building--" he nodded to the window and the cordoned-off building below "--up and running by the end of the month."

"Well, I'm sorry for whatever overtime you're putting in on my behalf."

"Don't be," Paul smiled sincerely. "All this overtime is paying for my wedding."

"You're getting married? Does she work here, too?" There was another knock on her door then--Room Service delivering her breakfast. It didn't surprise her that Paul Morrow was engaged, he was tall and good-looking and gave off that whole Good Guy vibe. Like Scott Summers. He reminded her of Scott Summers.

That thought took her aback. When she was under the influence of the Banshee drug, she'd kissed Scott--because she could was her excuse at the time. Now, looking back, she wondered if it was really a bit of revenge for all the kissing Jean had done with Logan once upon a time.

And now Scott's dead and Jean very much alive. What if Jean found Logan first? She is a telepath, and a strong one, after all.

No, Jean believes Logan to be dead; she wouldn't be looking for him.

But would Logan go looking for Jean?

Rogue gripped the handle of the Room Service cart as hard as her satin gloves would allow.

She took in a deep breath, shook off those thoughts and offered Paul tea and a muffin. He waved both away. "No, my Orla is a real triple threat," he answered a bit starry-eyed, "singer, dancer, actress. Mostly actress." Paul chuckled, pride and love evident in his voice.

"And she doesn't mind these wacky hours you're working?" Rogue asked, though her eyes were glued on the tablet computer sitting on Paul's lap. She'd noticed it as soon as he'd walked into the suite, but she was trying to do the polite thing by not ripping it out of his hands.

"If she was home she would," Paul grinned, "but she's in the chorus line of a traveling show at the moment. She'll be home by Thanksgiving."

And today is October 3rd. Rogue smiled slyly and pointed to the computer on his lap, "Then I should get started on those pictures so you have one less thing keeping you here on the weekends."

Paul laughed. "Mr. Stark said you were feeling better."

Rogue nodded, "And impatient."

"Well, then," Paul handed her the tablet, "who am I to stand in your way?"

To Be Continued...

Chapter Five

Deep U-shaped valleys framed by snow-capped mountain peaks. Clear, blue-green lakes surrounded by pines. Stretches of tree-lined highways--all blending together into one.

Rogue rubbed her eyes and clicked to the next photo.

Yes to that mountain range, No to that twisting river--this was how she spent her days.

Paul Morrow sent her the photos in groups of 250-300; anymore and her eyes began to cross and the images bleed together. He wouldn't give her a straight answer when she asked for the grand total of pictures she needed to go through, probably tipped off by Tony Stark after her mini flip-out at the word 'thousands'. Paul just reiterated that Canada's a big place.

When Rogue wasn't busy with pictures, she was busy exploring Stark Towers. She would have preferred to go out--anyplace that wasn't these four walls, but, Sunday evening, the weather had turned rainy and all the following week was drizzly and cold. And Rogue wasn't willing to risk a relapse and the inevitable days of forced inactivity that would entail.

Now she was recovered, Tony Stark quit letting himself into her suite. This pleased the Logan in her head--until the dinner invitations began. Rogue had dined with Stark every evening since her recovery. They didn't leave Stark Towers; Tony Stark is a paparazzi favorite and being photographed out and about with Stark would certainly lead to those gun-toting soldiers with orders to shoot on sight. So they ate in Tony Stark's penthouse, their meals catered by New York's finest eateries. The Logan in her head was alternately sullen or snarling during those evenings. Consequently, Rogue would return to her suite at the end of the meal with a splitting headache.

Rogue completed this latest batch of photos, grabbed Logan's leather jacket and the computer tablet, and went in search of Paul Morrow. The Stark Industries employees she passed in the hallways no longer eyed her with suspicion as she strolled past, a big change from earlier in the week when she had to flash her visitor's badge at everyone she encountered. The woman at the front desk, when Rogue inquired after Paul Morrow, pointed her to the Gamma Building.

Rogue dashed through the rain, ducked under the yellow caution tape, and into Gamma Building. She found Paul and his counterparts, Franks and Christensen, in a basement level lab installing a bank of computers.

She'd first met Joshua Franks--dark skinned with a boyish grin--and the slightly sullen Eric Christensen with his reddish-blond hair that flopped over his eyes a few days earlier when she'd wondered into their "Bat Cave". After introducing his fellow computer virtuosos, Paul had shown her a large wall monitor featuring a map of Canada covered in red, green, and yellow dots.

The red dots, Paul had explained, stood for the photos she'd marked 'No', the green for those marked 'Yes', and the yellow stood for all the photos she had yet to go through. Yellow dominated the map.

Franks had then shown her some of the auction websites he and Christensen were monitoring for Logan's arm. Those sites and their listings featuring dead mutant body parts left Rogue disgusted and sick to her stomach.

After a quick round of hello's Paul left Franks and Christensen to complete their work in the Gamma Building lab and walked with Rogue back to the main building. He took the tablet computer from her, downloaded the photos, and replaced them with a double batch. "To keep you busy until Monday," he explained, "I have this weekend off."

Rogue took the tablet back, "Any big plans?"

"Yeah: sleeping!" Paul grinned.

Rogue then returned to her suite. There would be no dinner invitation from Tony Stark tonight or the weekend ahead. He and Bonnie/Brenda had jetted off to Paris that morning for some Stark Industries business meetings and to walk the red carpet at a nightclub opening. They were expected to return sometime Monday.

Rogue exhaled a sigh of relief.

She liked Tony Stark and appreciated all his assistance, but Rogue was beginning to feel like a princess in a tower. She needed time away from these four walls, even for just a little while. Rogue looked out the windows at the grey skies and steady drizzle; if only the weather would cooperate.

Rogue pushed the button that lowered the blinds and flopped onto her bed. With any luck, the rain would stop by tomorrow.

* * *

It did.

Saturday dawned chilly and overcast with only a 30% chance of rain in the forecast. It was as lovely to Rogue as a clear, sunshiny summer's day. She requested a backpack be sent up with her breakfast bagel and tea. She ate quickly, rolled-up a pair of oversized bath towels and shoved them into the non-descript black backpack along with the tablet computer. She shrugged on Logan's leather jacket, grabbed the keys to his bike, and took off.

Rogue rode through the grey morning back to the ruins of Charles Xavier's mansion; that princess in a tower feeling receding in the open air. She parked the bike next to the lake house and negotiated the piles of broken masonry to the graveyard.

Logan's grave was fixed as Tony Stark had promised it would be. But Rogue's own guilt could not be so easily mended. If I hadn't gone to Kitty's that night I would've been here to stop the thieves, Rogue chastised herself.

Darlin', that arm would've been stolen either way, Logan-in-her-head contended, You wouldn't have seen or heard anything down in the sub basement. It wasn't your fault.

Rogue shook her head: it was her fault. She'd gotten impatient and left and now Logan's arm was in the possession of God knows whom doing God knows what to it. A vision of Logan's arm mounted like a rack of antlers brought angry tears to her eyes. She wanted to scream and break things; she wanted a set of claws like Logan's to carve a path of destruction until Logan's arm was found. She balled her hands into fists.

Rogue could feel that same frustration from the Logan in her head yet he reiterated It ain't your fault.

She walked the grounds until her anger and self-loathing slipped into the background then returned to the lake house where she spread the pair of bath towels on a relatively dry patch of ground and began going through pictures on the tablet. When her eyes began to cross, she sat the tablet aside and watched the movement of the water until late afternoon when her stomach began to grumble and complain. Yet Rogue was reluctant to pack up and go.

There was food galore in the sub basement; she could spend the night here and return to Stark Towers in the morning. Both Stark and Paul Morrow were gone until Monday, she wouldn't be missed. Except she would be. Tony Stark would inevitably have eyes keeping track of her comings and goings. Rogue could just picture Stark armoring up and zooming back from Paris if she didn't return tonight.

Rogue reluctantly shoved the computer tablet into the backpack and pushed to her feet. The bottommost towel she'd been sitting on was dirty and soaked. She rolled it inside the dryer top towel and rummaged through the lake house for a plastic bag to stuff them in--she didn't want to risk damaging the computer.

Rogue drove slower and took the long way back into the city. Her stomach still rumbling, Rogue stopped to wolf down a pair of chilidogs before returning to Stark Towers.

* * *

Tony Stark returned Monday afternoon gloomy and distant, in direct contrast to Bonnie/Brenda who was all smiles as Stark's chauffeur collected her shopping bags to carry inside the building. Stark remained distant throughout the week and Rogue made the most of it. Each morning she'd eat breakfast and then walk to either a park or coffee shop to go through that day's batch of photos.

Rogue finished earlier than usual on Thursday and decided to stop at the library to research the mountain ranges of Canada. She could most likely find the same information on the Internet, especially since Paul Morrow hooked her laptop into the building's Wi-Fi, but she wanted those few extra hours away from Stark Towers--it kept those claustrophobic princess in a tower feelings at bay.

Rogue recognized many of the pictures in the books from Paul Morrow's batches. She was leafing through pages of maps when a Wolverine Creek in the Willmore Wilderness area of Alberta caught her eye. Rogue huffed out a laugh and turned the page. Then she flipped back. Something about that map was niggling at the back of her mind. Again Wolverine Creek caught her eye, but that wasn't the detail drawing her to this map. There, 40. Highway 40.

Then came the flashes.

Tree-lined stretches of road with tall mountains in the distance. A road sign featuring the image of a big-horned sheep.

"Logan!" Rogue gasped.

I see it, darlin'

A deep lake. Telephone poles following the twists in the road. A gravel turn off leading up the side of a mountain--ending at a cabin.

Rogue stood so abruptly her chair fell backwards to clatter loudly against the hard library floor.

"Oh God, oh God!" she chanted under her breath.

Rogue righted her chair, ignoring the annoyed glares of her fellow library patrons, grabbed the book, and headed for the photocopier. She made copies of the map that triggered those flashes and another that showed more of Highway 40 then hightailed it back to Stark Towers.

Rogue raced into Paul Morrow's office flustered and out of breath. "Get Stark!" she panted while waving the photocopies in the air, "I know where to look! I know where the cabin is!"

To Be Continued...

Chapter Six

Stark sat at Christensen's workstation listening quietly as Rogue described the flash of Logan's memories. "It was like I was behind the wheel driving straight to the cabin." She spread her photocopied maps on the desk in front of him and Stark took a moment to look them over. A single eyebrow arched as he tapped a manicured nail beside the creek called Wolverine. "Yes, I noticed that too, but it's not the reason I'm sure Logan's cabin is somewhere in this area," Rogue insisted.

Paul typed rapidly on his keyboard. At the moment, he seemed to be taking all this talk of voices in her head and memory flashes in stride. But if he hadn't suspected her of being a mutant before, he knew for certain now. Only time would tell what he'd do with that information--the Government was offering high rewards for tips on stray mutants and Paul did have a wedding to pay for.

On the large central wall screen, the map of Canada with its dots of red, yellow, and green appeared. With a few more keystrokes the yellow dots disappeared, then the red, leaving only the green. There were stray green dots here and there across the map--mistakes she'd made or other places Logan had visited. The rest, with a bit of imagination, formed a broken path between New York and Alberta previously hidden by the multitude of yellow dots.

Paul grabbed a computer tablet and shoved it in Rogue's direction, "Write it down: everything you saw, just like before."

"How long will it take to modify the program to search only this area?" Stark asked.

"Not long," he was already typing, "It'll cut down the number of photos considerably." Paul looked from Rogue to Tony Stark, "We're close. Real close."

* * *

Tony Stark cornered Rogue at the elevator after they'd left Paul's office. "Are you alright?" he asked, grasping her by the shoulders. Rogue visibly tensed and the Logan in her head began to snarl.

"I'm literally giddy," she admitted while forcing her shoulders to relax.

"And you're certain about all of this?"

"Definitely," Rogue nodded. "I feel like I could hop on the bike right now and drive straight there by instinct."

Stark's face paled and his eyebrows jumped up. "But you wouldn't attempt that, right?"

"Not tonight." Rogue, confused by the note of panic in Stark's voice, smiled and added, "So long as Paul doesn't drag his feet."

Stark returned her smile, but the edge of panic remained in his eyes, "That's unlikely."

The elevator car arrived and Stark gave their destinations to that over-sexed Star Trek computer voice. "I wish I could invite you to a celebratory dinner this evening, but I'm afraid I have a project that requires my attention. So, tomorrow?"

Rogue forced another smile, "That'd be great."

* * *

That night the memories triggered in the library replayed in her mind over and over--as though she were behind the wheel of a vehicle following the curves of a tree-lined highway straight to the door of Logan's cabin.

* * *

Paul Morrow knocked on her door late in the afternoon with a tablet computer tucked under his arm. "Sorry for not being here sooner," he apologized as she closed the door behind him, "It took longer to re-index the photos than it did to modify the software." Paul handed her the tablet which contained just shy of a thousand photos instead of the usual two or three hundred. The surprise must've shown on Rogue's face because Paul grinned and added, "That's all of them."

Rogue blew out a stunned breath. All of them. She could easily go through a thousand photos before the weekend was over. Rogue sat the tablet down on the coffee table before she dropped it--her hands were shaking.

Paul, also, was fidgeting: reflexively opening and closing his hands, his gaze flicking here and there around her suite.

"Something wrong?" Rogue inquired.

Paul jumped as though he'd been shocked. "No, no, nothing's wrong," he stammered. "I, uh," he ran a hand through his short hair, "I just want you to know that I realize what a risk you took revealing what you did to me yesterday."

Rogue froze. Had she been wrong about Paul? Was the other shoe about to drop? She tucked her hands behind her back and began surreptitiously tugging on the fingers of her right glove. If Paul said the wrong thing she'd drop him where he stood. Rogue wasn't concerned about a personality like Paul's in her mind; her inner Logan would eat him for breakfast.

Paul licked his lips compulsively and shifted from foot to foot, yet he looked her dead in the eyes when he said: "I just want you to know that I'm... honored that you trusted me that much. And I promise not to abuse that trust--your secret is safe with me."

Rogue released the breath she'd been holding, "Thank you." She wasn't 100% convinced; nothing he could say would convince her completely--actions speak louder than words. She'd watch him closely but, for now, they could go back to where they were.

* * *

Rogue went through photos on the tablet until time came to join Tony Stark for dinner. And Stark had gone all out. The lighting in his penthouse was dimmed and candles flickered along the windowsills and the dining room table. A pink and white water lily floating in a glass bowl acted as a centerpiece.

Rogue felt out of place in her jeans and combat boots.

And the Logan in her head was none too pleased--growling ever louder as she took in the romantic atmosphere.

Stark greeted her with a nod and escorted her to the table where a meal of New York strip awaited them. He pulled out her chair and poured her a glass of champagne, unconcerned that she was a year and a half shy of the legal drinking age.

They ate in relative silence. Stark, wearing a pinched expression, paid more attention to his champagne glass than the perfectly prepared steak on his plate. Rogue nursed her own glass of champagne; she had every intention of going through more photos as soon as dinner ended.

"I apologize for leaving you to your own devices this past week or so," Stark finally spoke as the dinner plates were cleared and replaced with a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries, "I had a project of my own to complete." He removed a small, hinged box from an inside jacket pocket and sat in on the table. "I finished it today." He slid the box in her direction, "Open it."

Rogue put down the strawberry she'd been nibbling on and tentatively picked up the box. Inside was a ring of silver colored metal--Platinum?--with thin gold and reddish-gold interlacing traceries, like the twisting of a pair of curly vines. It was lovely and she told him so.

"I'm glad you think so: it's for you."

Rogue's stomach clenched and that princess in a tower feeling returned tenfold. The Logan in her head issued a low, threatening growl. "Excuse me?"

Stark grinned, "Try it on."

"Why? Are we getting married?" Rogue quipped as she tugged on the fingers of her right-hand glove. When it doubt, go with humor, or sarcasm, or both.

Stark shook his head, "Vegas is a bit crowded this time of year."

Rogue smiled tightly and slid the ring onto her right ring finger. "What the fuck!?" a warm, creeping sensation--like a colony of ants crawling just beneath her skin--traveled through her hand and up her arm to exit through the soles of her feet, leaving a trail of goose flesh and raised hairs in its wake.

"Ah," Stark smiled, "I see it's working."

Rogue's eyes snapped to his, "Working? Stark, seriously, what the Hell is this?"

"Give me your hand."

"Why?"

Stark slid his own hand halfway across the table, "Just give me your hand."

Rogue pressed her lips together and hesitantly slid her gloved left hand towards Stark's outstretched one.

"No," he shook his head, "your other hand."

"What?" Rogue clutched her bare hand against her chest, "Are you insane?"

"Just trust me."

Don't! Logan in her head rumbled.

If she refused would Stark withdraw his help? She'd told Stark earlier she felt she could drive straight to Logan's cabin on instinct, but could she really?

Stark caught her eyes then, "Rogue, please, you've trusted me this far; don't stop now."

Rogue glared at him across the table. She didn't want to do this, but she couldn't risk Stark getting pissed and withdrawing his help when they were so close. She laid her bare palm on the edge of the table, "Just remember, when you're a writhing mass on the floor, that you asked for this. And I'm not calling 911!"

"Fair enough," Stark had the audacity to grin at her.

Rogue resisted the urge to growl--her inner Logan was sitting very close to the surface--and began sliding her palm across the table. Stark reached out and grabbed it as soon as it was within reach. Rogue, eyes clenched tight, braced for the inevitable pull of her mutation. One second passed, then another, then another--no pull.

Rogue opened her eyes and locked-on to the sight of her bare palm held tight in Stark's equally bare hand, "What the Hell?"

Stark leaned forward and pressed a kiss on her knuckles, "Mutation suppression." He laid his free hand atop of hers, sandwiching her hand between both of his.

Fuckin' Hell! Logan-in-her-head roared. I told you he was up to something! Look at this place: he's trying to seduce you and he just took away the one physical barrier keeping him at bay! Ask him, Rogue, ask him why he's doing all of this!

Inner-Logan had a point. Part of Rogue wanted to wrench her hand away from Tony Stark. The other part, however, was busy basking in the feeling of bare skin-on-skin; something she hadn't felt since the Banshee drug wore off. It felt nice, addictive.

Which side would win out if Stark began touching her in other ways?

"Why, though," Rogue asked him, "Why make this and why give it to me?"

Stark slackened his grip on her hand and Rogue pulled it back while she was still able. Stark poured the last of the champagne into his glass and settled back into his seat, "While I was in Paris, I received a report from my set of eyes in D.C. that the word "Sentinel" was being tossed about with increased frequency."

Rogue's stomach dropped. Sentinels--giant, mutant hunting (and killing) robots--were the literal stuff of nightmares.

"My contact," Stark continued, "was adamant that the Sentinel program would be re-opened within the next six months."

Six months! "Thanks a lot, Magneto," Rogue murmured.

"That's the reason for the ring. S.H.I.E.L.D. captured a mutant called Forge and forced him to create tech for their use; the basic mutation suppression tech was his creation. I perfected and modified it into the ring you're now wearing."

Rogue narrowed her eyes, confused, "I thought you and S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to see other people."

The corner of Stark's mouth inched up, "We did, but I kept myself well informed while under their umbrella."

Of course he did. And, Rogue figured, probably still had someone on the inside feeding him information. "But, wait, suppressing my mutation isn't going to stop a Sentinel from detecting me: they scan for the X-Gene."

Good girl! her inner-Logan purred.

"Smart girl," Stark grinned at the same moment. "But, as I said, I modified and perfected the tech. That ring not only suppresses mutation, it will also shield your X-Gene from anything short of a DNA test. To a Sentinel's scanners, you'd be just another human."

While her inner-Logan approved of her being invisible to hunting Sentinels, he wasn't convinced that Stark's motives were completely altruistic; reminding Rogue of all those mornings she awoke to find Stark in her suite.

Rogue recalled the way Stark had caressed her bare hand between his and couldn't bring herself to argue.

"If S.H.I.E.L.D. had this technology, why didn't they use it against Magneto?" Rogue asked.

Stark shrugged and drained his glass, "I'm sure they would have liked to but lacked either the time or the ability to create something without a single metal component."

Rogue glanced down at the ring adorning her right ring finger. To the outside observer it was just that--a ring. Beautiful to look at, but just jewelry. Would anyone look at it and suspect its unique attributes?

"Why are you doing all of this--helping me, making this ring?" In the beginning Rogue had believed Stark's guilt over his role in Logan's "death" had fueled his motivation. Now, she wasn't sure.

Stark, who was rolling the stem of his empty glass between his fingers, smiled sadly at Rogue across the table. "Because if I had someone who cared for me as much as you obviously do Logan, I'd want someone looking out for them."

* * *

Despite her intentions of going through more photos, Rogue went straight to bed as soon as she returned to her suite; wishing she'd partaken in more of Stark's expensive champagne. She tossed and turned for hours, thinking of the ring resting in its box on the bedside table; of giant mutant killing robots; of Kitty Pryde, and Bobby Drake, of Storm, and even Jean. Why should she be protected while all the others were hunted down?

Rogue pushed herself out of bed and rode the elevator to the penthouse where a bleary-eyed, yet sympathetic, Tony Stark explained that the more examples of the modified tech there were, the greater the chance the Government would get a hold of it and modify the Sentinels accordingly.

"I assure you, large donations are being paid to the senators opposed to the Sentinel project as well as those still on the fence. The best way to protect our mutant friends is to stop the Sentinel bill in its tracks."

Crestfallen, Rogue returned to her suite but not to bed. She grabbed the tablet and went through photos until her eyes burned and refused to focus. Only then did she return to her bed--too tired now to think about killer robots.

Chapter Seven

Stark returned the favor of her late night visit by waking her at the crack of nine with his chauffeur in tow. Rogue stared bleary-eyed and uncomprehending as Stark handed her a black Stark Industries credit card emblazoned with the name R.M. D'Ancanto—Rogue Marie D'Ancanto—her codename and real name merged into one. Rogue rubbed at her tired eyes, "What's this?"

"It's only a matter of time now before we locate Logan's cabin so, now's the time to shop for the essentials."

Rogue shook her head; she really just wanted to crawl back into bed, "Essentials? You mean like toilet paper?"

Stark tossed back his head and barked out a hearty laugh. Even his chauffeur's lips curled upward infinitesimally. "No, no, that's all taken care of. I mean clothes, shoes, entertainment items—the essentials."

Rogue grimaced. Clothes shopping was more Kitty's kind of thing, and Jean's—no fun for the girl with the life-sucking skin. "Can't I do this tomorrow? Or the day after?" Or never!

"The clock is ticking down," Stark shook his head. "Look at it this way: it'll be a nice opportunity to break in your new ring."

That jolted her to complete wakefulness. Crowds of people with uncovered skin and her own life-sucking skin bared as well, that was the stuff of her nightmares. She imagined a trail of bodies—some twitching, some eerily still—in her wake; their angry, wrathful voices tearing her apart from the inside out. And Charles Xavier was no longer here to cast them out of her brain. "Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea," Rogue chanted, her hands shaking and her breaths coming in rapid, shallow pants.

She must've looked completely wild for Stark turned to his chauffeur and asked him to please wait by the elevator. Stark then led Rogue to the loveseat where he forced her to sit and sip at a glass of water until she calmed down. "Better now?" he asked. Rogue nodded.

"Rogue, I understand your reluctance, but you need to give the ring a chance. You walk out of here today without the gloves and all those protective layers and happen to run into someone familiar with the X-Men, they'll look at you and think 'Wow, that girl with the white streaks in her hair could be Rogue's twin!' and continue on their merry. They'd never suspect, with all that bare skin on display, that it's really the Rogue. Not only will that ring shield you from Sentinels, it'll allow you to hide in plain sight."

Rogue looked down at the gloved hands she was busy wringing together: tugging on the finger seams then smoothing them back into place. What Stark was describing was like tightrope walking without a safety net. For years, Charles Xavier had been her safety net; who would help her now should an accident occur? Jean? She'd have to be tracked down first and, even then, Rogue wasn't sure Jean would leap at the chance to help her.

One instance of Tony Stark touching her while she wore that ring was not enough to convince her the tech worked 100%. Rogue needed Logan. Logan, who could heal from her touch if the tech failed; whose personality was already in her head and wouldn't overwhelm her.

Those aren't the only reasons you wanna touch me, the Logan-in-her-head purred. Rogue couldn't help but grin.

Darlin', I may question Stark's motives over that ring, but I don't think he'd send you out there with faulty tech. Sometimes you've just gotta suck it up and take the plunge.

Rogue raised her head and considered Tony Stark: perched on the edge of the armchair seat, elbows on knees, rolling a clear glass votive holder between his hands. Did she really trust him and his ring enough to do this?

Rogue took a sip from her water glass to moisten her dry mouth before standing and retrieving the ring from its case on the nightstand. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."

* * *

Shopping turned out not to be the unmitigated disaster Rogue had anticipated.

There were plenty of people in the stores, but it was nowhere near the shoulder-to-shoulder press of humanity she'd imagined. Though the one and only time another shopper brushed against Rogue's shoulder nearly ended the entire trip. Ten minutes in the closest Ladies Room breathing deeply calmed the initial panic, but she had no desire to return to shopping. She had jammed an emergency pair of gloves into the pocket of Logan's leather jacket before leaving her suite and was seriously contemplating saying the Hell with Tony Stark and pulling them on when she spotted the payphone next to the diaper changing station.

Rogue understood Stark's reasons—and they were good ones—for limiting the ring tech but the others deserved to be forewarned about the Sentinels. Rogue had no idea where Storm was, or Jean, or Piotr, however, Kitty most likely did. And Kitty saw Bobby on a near daily basis. Warn Kitty and she'd warn the rest.

Rogue waited for a pair of middle-aged women to finish washing their hands and exit the Ladies Room before digging in her pockets for change. A quick check for legs under the stall doors and Rogue was dialing Kitty's number. She had to make this quick; someone could enter the restroom any moment and a conversation about killer robots wouldn't go unnoticed. Also, Tony Stark's chauffeur, Alfred, was standing just outside the door with her purchases. Sooner, rather than later, he'd get concerned and send someone in to check on her.

"This call is being forwarded to a voicemail box," a female computer voice informed her. Kitty either had her cell turned off or she sent all unfamiliar numbers straight to voicemail. It was probably for the best: Kitty wouldn't just accept the information at face value. She'd question and argue and Rogue didn't have time for that.

"Kitty, it's me," Rogue said after the tone. No sense in making life easier for the Government in case they intercept the message by giving her name. "I just heard from a credible source that the Sentinel program may be reinstated—soon. Pass the word to the others and keep your eyes open and head down."

Rogue hung up the receiver then dampened a paper towel and ran it across the keypad and receiver—something she could have avoided had she been wearing her gloves. She exited the Ladies Room, the weight on her shoulders lightened but not gone entirely.

* * *

In the end, Rogue and chauffeur Alfred returned to Stark Towers weighed down with enough bags to please Tony Stark who was waiting for them by the elevator.

"Ah, a successful expedition, I see," Stark beamed. "Excellent! I'll just tag along and see what you bought."

Rogue sucked in her bottom lip to keep from frowning. She wasn't thrilled with the idea, but Stark had footed the bill so she could hardly refuse. She was relieved, however, that the most risqué object in those bags was a jumbo-sized package of socks.

The elevator doors slid open on the 89th floor to the echoing clang of metal hitting the marble floors: one of those grotesque Iron Man sculptures had hit the floor and was rolling in lazy, drunken circles. The door closest to the alcove where that statue was housed opened on a feminine giggle and Bonnie/Brenda exited, attempting to fix a skirt that barely covered her bottom in the first place. She froze at the sight of Stark, Rogue, and chauffeur Alfred. "Mr. Stark," Bonnie/Brenda stammered while checking her suit coat buttons, "I thought you were out for the day!"

She hadn't closed the door behind her all the way and a male voice called from within, "Very funny, Brenda, but I'm not buying—" A not-unhandsome man in his late 30's or early 40's, hair graying at the temples, wrenched open the door to come face-to-face with Tony Stark "—it." The final word dying on the man's lips.

A deep, angry 'V' formed between Stark's eyebrows, yet his voice remained steady and calm: "Mr. Houston, as far as I'm aware, neither myself nor Stark Industries is being audited and it isn't tax season so, I can't think of a single reason for my Accountant to be here on a Saturday afternoon."

"Mr. Stark—," the man, Mr. Houston, began; Stark cut him off.

"Go home to your family, Chuck."

"Yes, Mr. Stark," Chuck Houston didn't need to be told twice. Without a single glance at Bonnie/Brenda, he took off down the hallway to the elevator, tucking his shirt in as he went.

Stark then turned on his Personal Assistant.

Bonnie/Brenda, suddenly modest, was busy tugging on the hem of her short skirt with one hand while holding the plunging neckline of her suit coat—under which she appeared to be wearing nothing beyond the mother of all push-up bras—closed with the other. "Mr. Stark—Tony—please, just let me explain..."

"Of course, Bonnie." Bonnie/Brenda's face broke into a relieved smile. Until Stark dealt the killer blow: "You can explain all you'd like—while I'm cutting your final paycheck."

Bonnie/Brenda gasped and tripped backwards on her ultra-high heels. Only the wall behind her saved her from a bad fall. "Tony! No!"

Stark was unmoved, "You have thirty minutes to collect your things and meet me in my office. I suggest you get started."

With obvious effort, and the beginning glimmer of tears at the corner of her eyes, Bonnie/Brenda pulled herself straight and, head held high, marched to the elevator.

Rogue watched this little drama unfold with growing repulsion. While she was no fan of Bonnie/Brenda, Tony Stark and his blatantly misogynistic double standard that he was free to sleep around all he wanted while expecting fidelity in those women he chose to sleep with disgusted Rogue to the core.

And Rogue made sure that disgust showed on her face.

"What!?" Stark snapped, raising his voice to her for the first time.

That tone may cow executives in a board room, but it didn't even faze Rogue, "So Good Ol' Chuck gets a slight ticking-off but Brenda—," she emphasized the name Stark couldn't bother to remember, "—gets her walking papers?"

Stark wasn't cowed, either, "Personal Assistants are a dime a dozen," he shrugged, "But a truly stellar Accountant who rabidly tracks down stray hands in my cookie jar is worth his weight in gold."

Rogue sneered and shook her head, biting back a snarky retort about Stark's stellar Accountant's own hands in a different type of cookie jar.

With a curt nod, Stark turned on his heel and stomped to the elevator.

"Maybe it's time to hire a male personal assistant," Rogue mumbled at Stark's retreating form.

Rogue picked up her shopping bags and continued with chauffeur Alfred to her suite; happy, at least, there wouldn't be a look-what-I-bought fashion show now.

* * *

Rogue spent the rest of the weekend avoiding Tony Stark and working on the final batch of photos. She finished in the pre-dawn hours Monday morning. Her head was pounding from having Logan and his memories pulled to the front of her mind for so many hours, but she was too keyed-up to even attempt sleep. So she didn't even try. Instead, Rogue left a voicemail on Paul Morrow's cell and settled onto the love seat with the television remote to wait.

Seven o'clock rolled around, then eight, then nine without any reply from Paul. Rogue, again, tried his cell phone and, again, was sent straight to voicemail. Had Stark given him a three-day weekend? Paul hadn't mentioned it. Maybe his fiancée's show ended early and had returned home. Or maybe Stark was so pissed that Rogue had dared to call him out that he was withdrawing his help.

Only one way to be sure. Rogue grabbed the computer tablet and headed for the Computer Technician's "Bat Cave".

"He's been with Mr. Stark all morning," Franks informed her when she stuck her head in the door. He merely shrugged when she asked why.

Rogue stopped short outside of Stark's private office when, through the glass doors, she spotted Paul standing next to Tony Stark's massive desk. He was barely recognizable in a charcoal suit sans tie in place of his regular uniform of T-shirt and jeans. A wave of panic swept through her: why else would Paul Morrow be in Stark's office dressed like that if Stark wasn't pulling him from the search for Logan's cabin?

Well, fine! she thought. The area was whittled down enough that, with the aid of Logan's memories, she could certainly—eventually—find the cabin on her own. To Hell with Tony Stark!

Paul looked up and noticed her standing on the other side of the glass office doors. He smiled and lifted a finger to indicate that he'd be with her in a moment. Stark looked up from his work, acknowledged her with a nod, and returned to his papers; making no move to invite her inside his office.

Paul met her in the spacious antechamber outside of Stark's office about five minutes later. "I'm so sorry," he began, "I was on my way to see you when Mr. Stark called me to his office."

"Nice suit," Rogue teased while mentally preparing herself for the anticipated 'go pack your bags: you're outta here!' pronouncement.

Paul's face went pink. "Yeah, it's not exactly my first choice—," he said with an embarrassed smile, "—but Mr. Stark likes his Personal Assistants to dress the part."

"Excuse me?" Rogue was stunned. Either Stark had heard her parting salvo the other day or a chauffeur-shaped birdie had whispered it in his ear. "And you agreed to this?"

"It's only temporary," Paul shrugged. "Besides, he's offering the main ballroom and full catering for my wedding reception as a bonus. Orla is going to lose her mind when I tell her!" Rogue smiled: Paul's grin was infectious. "But don't worry," he was quick to assure her, "I'm still heading our project, too."

Paul took the tablet from her hands, "Not long now!"

* * *

Rogue returned to her suite and forced herself to sleep-for no other reason than to make the time go faster.

She woke from a three-hour nap to brisk knocking on her door.

"May I come in?" Tony Stark asked after she'd opened the door. Rogue stepped aside to allow him entrance to her suite.

Stark stood awkwardly stiff in the sitting area; hands clasped tightly behind his back. "I wanted to apologize for this past weekend," he started, "For better or worse, I've grown accustomed to my orders not being questioned—at least not here at Stark Towers.

Arrogant prick! Logan-in-her-head harrumphed.

Rogue rubbed at her still-tired eyes while shushing her mental counterpart. "What you did wasn't right, Tony." It wasn't what she really wanted to say; she knew that Stark wasn't sorry for how he'd treated Bonnie/Brenda, only sorry that Rogue had been there to witness it.

A sly grin kissed Stark's lips, "That's the first time you've called me 'Tony'." Clearly, Stark was done talking about the events of Saturday afternoon. "This calls for a celebration! Join me in a late lunch?"

Rogue really didn't want to but she wanted to spend the next few hours pacing this room even less. "Fine."

As they were exiting Rogue's suite the elevator doors slid open and Paul Morrow launched out as though shot from a canon. "We have it!" he shouted, nearly bowling them over in his excitement, "We found the cabin!"

Chapter Eight

When Paul shoved the preliminary satellite image into her hands—a grainy, low-resolution affair showing what could have been a cabin, or just any old house in a wooded clearing, with a smaller building, perhaps a shed, behind and a bit to the right—Rogue's heart sank. She'd expected a flashing burst of memories like she'd experienced that day in the library. Instead, she felt nothing; not the slightest hint of recognition.

And the Logan in her head was no help either. Maybe, maybe not. Can't tell much of anything from a picture like that, was his non-committal reply.

Still, Rogue held on to that grainy printout as though, if she wasn't careful, it would vanish into thin air while she waited for the high-resolution images to resolve.

"Adjust camera position 20° southeast," Stark ordered, "Zoom and enhance."

Paul typed the directions on the keyboard in front of him.

They hadn't gone to the Computer Technician's "Bat Cave" as Rogue had expected. Instead, Stark had led her and Paul to a much larger basement lab far more deserving of the moniker. The entire lab: floor, ceiling, and walls, was a deep, charcoal gray. A floor to ceiling bank of monitors covered the farthest wall, while a vaguely boomerang shaped table featuring three computer workstations sat a few feet back. The other end of the lab was set up as a sort of workshop with stainless steel tables cluttered with tools and bits of metal and wire. Next to the door was a pair of lighted glass cases displaying Stark's Iron Man armor. Rogue assumed they must be spares as she couldn't imagine Stark schlepping all the way to a sub-basement lab to suit up.

Franks and Christensen had joined them a few minutes later and the Stark Industries satellite was brought online.

Rogue found the lag between Paul's typed commands and the satellite's response maddening. With every second that passed her fingers dug deeper into the back of Paul's chair back; noisily crushing the low-res satellite image printout she'd been holding so dear.

Finally, the new image resolved on the bank of monitors. It was an extreme wide-angle shot of the area where they suspected Logan's cabin to be located. On the far left of the image a river ran in a roughly North-South direction. A sort of tan smudge to the right of that river was evidently a town—Rogue could make out nebulous shapes that could be buildings.

"Grande Cache," Franks, noticing her attention on his set of monitors, supplied the town's name. He'd been looking up information about the area while they waited for the satellite image to resolve. "Smoky River," he named the aforementioned river to the left of the town. "And Highway 40," his finger traced the outline of a winding path barely visible in the smaller version of the satellite image on his computer monitor.

A quick glance at Christensen's monitor showed a topographic survey and current weather conditions.

An especially large mountain dominated the satellite image and Franks again supplied a name: Grande Mountain.

"Adjust camera. Zoom and enhance."

The satellite tightened in on a flattish area about a quarter of the way up Grande Mountain.

The new image resolved: trees, lots of green. Stark rattled off a set of coordinates from his printout of the low-resolution image and ordered, "Center there and zoom to maximum."

Paul typed the commands, "Maximum zoom reached."

Pixel by pixel—agonizingly slow to Rogue's frayed nerves—the zoomed image resolved across the wall screen. Her toes curled inside her combat boots and her hands were now a mass of cramps around the back of Paul's chair.

The smaller building she'd took for a shed resolved first followed by the house. It consisted of a single level with some sort of extension off the left side and was definitely cabin-like in appearance.

"Logan?"

Can't say I've ever seen it from this particular angle, but I know home when I see it, her inner-Logan confirmed.

Stark was watching her expectantly, as were the trio of Computer Techs. "What's the verdict?" Stark asked.

"That's it," Rogue breathed, too overwhelmed and too relieved to say more.

A satisfied smile broke across Stark's face. Paul grinned at Rogue over his shoulder and Franks reached over to pat her arm. Even Christensen looked a tad less sullen.

Rogue watched as Stark spoke the cabin's coordinates into a watch-like device on his wrist, which she knew linked directly to his Iron Man armor. When finished, he ordered the techs to delete everything and overwrite the drives, "Seven pass minimum and don't forget the tablet computers."

From the sidelong glances Paul, Franks, and Christensen shot each other, Rogue knew this wasn't Standard Operating Procedure. So, she shot Stark a questioning glance of her own.

Stark led her back to the pair of glass display cases—and out of earshot. "It's only a precaution," Stark explained. "No computer is unhackable and, if someone ever does crack my security, they'd certainly be looking for far more interesting things than the location of a cabin. That being said, I'd rather not be the reason a squad of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents come knocking on Logan's door."

* * *

Rogue returned to her suite in a stunned, but happy, daze to pack her things. She couldn't quite wrap her mind around the fact that, this time tomorrow, she'd be at Logan's cabin. And it had taken Stark's people less than a month to locate it. She had no clue where she'd be right now if she hadn't confided in Tony Stark. Certainly nowhere near Alberta.

The only fly in the ointment was Logan's missing arm. Franks had compressed his lips and shook his head sadly when she'd asked if there were any leads. The fact that it may never be found weighed heavily on Rogue's heart.

Don't even go there! We've been through this already! her inner-Logan scolded.

Even so, Rogue had little time to wallow in guilt and self-loathing as Paul and Franks arrived to take her out to dinner. Christensen, Franks later explained, didn't "do" meals with colleagues. The men insisted she choose what they ate so she decided on taco pizza as she doubted, even with Grande Cache so close, that neither pizza nor tacos would be on the menu at a mountain cabin. That was another thing Rogue couldn't wrap her mind around: Logan's cabin being so close to a decent sized town.

Her inner-Logan snorted, I was there first; the town came well after.

As they waited for their pizza, Rogue took the time to thank them for everything they'd done on her behalf and made both Paul and Franks promise to extend those thanks to Christensen as well. Franks seemed reluctant to accept her gratitude, "Seeing how our search was unsuccessful," he frowned down at his empty plate. "But we'll keep the search running until Mr. Stark orders us to stop."

After their meal, Rogue said a last goodbye to Franks as he was headed home and most likely wouldn't arrive at Stark Towers tomorrow morning before she left. Paul, however, had to check on the progress of the drive overwrites and return to his job as Stark's Personal Assistant, so he walked Rogue back to her suite. "I'm sure I'll see you for at least a few minutes in the morning before you take off," Paul said, "but, if for some reason I don't, I want you to know that I really enjoyed working with you and I hope you find everything you're looking for at that cabin."

Rogue did something then that surprised even herself: she wrapped her arms around Paul's middle in a tight hug. Paul returned her hug with a single tight squeeze. When Rogue released him and stepped back she found Paul Morrow blushing to the tips of his ears.

Paul ran a hand through his short hair, shuffled his feet a bit, and finally wished her a good night.

Rogue was still giggling over his discomfiture when she slipped into bed.

* * *

Stark's private jet set down at the small, yet functional, Grande Cache Airport just before ten A.M. A pair of white SUV's and a small moving truck were waiting for them just off the runway. Rogue paced impatiently as the half-dozen Stark Industries technicians Stark brought with them transferred box after box of supplies from the plane into the moving truck. Though, when it came time to load Logan's motorcycle onto the truck, she was right on point, insuring the techs treated it with the proper care and respect.

There was hardly room in the truck amongst all those boxes for the bike. Stark had gone completely overboard with the supplies and that wasn't the only thing he'd gone overboard with. After the jet had taken off in New York, Stark had handed Rogue an envelope containing the credit card she'd used during her shopping expedition and $30,000 in Canadian dollars. Rogue shoved the envelope firmly back into Stark's hands. "Nu-uh, not happening, Stark."

Stark frowned, but removed half the cash from the envelope. Still, Rogue refused to accept it. "Rogue, I cannot leave you at that cabin without knowing you have the means necessary to take care of yourself or return to New York should you choose to do so."

It was nearly the same speech Stark had given her before their departure from Stark Towers when Rogue refused his offer of a Stark Industries satellite phone. In that instance, it had been: "Rogue, I can't leave you at that cabin without knowing you have the means to contact the outside world." At Paul Morrow's suggestion, they'd settled on the compromise of a Stark Industries USB mobile broadband device for her laptop. In the end, they compromised once again regarding the cash with Rogue reluctantly accepting the credit card and $5,000 Canadian—the absolute lowest amount Stark would agree to.

As soon as the moving truck's doors were shut tight one of Stark's techs had the bright idea that they should all head into Grande Cache for a bite to eat before heading to the cabin. The other five technicians agreed whole-heartedly—until they got a load of the death glare Rogue was shooting their way. If they're so hungry, they can sample some of the Just Add Water goodies they just finished loading. While we're moving! was Rogue's opinion of the matter.

And Tony Stark, at least in part, seemed to agree. "After we reach the cabin and begin unloading the truck, I'll send one of you into town for take-out."

Rogue received some death glares of her own which she steadily ignored as she shoved her duffel into the back of one of the SUV's before climbing into the passenger seat beside Stark.

The ride from the airport to the gravel turn-off which lead to Logan's cabin took less than fifteen minutes. The drive up the side of the mountain, however, was bumpy and slow going. The road was overgrown with weeds and deeply rutted from rain and snow melt-off and well in need of a new layer of gravel. Rogue was leaning so far forward that her seatbelt was biting deeply into her shoulder and the side of her neck.

Finally, after what seemed to Rogue an endless, bumpy ride, Logan's cabin came into view. And brought with it an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Suddenly, Rogue was seeing the cabin not through her own eyes, but through Logan's. She could feel the shape of each and every stone as the foundation was stacked. She could recall every tree as it was hewn and left to dry. She felt the nearly overwhelming satisfaction of standing back and looking upon your own handiwork and a job well done.

Rogue blinked heavily several times and was back in the here and now. She had her seatbelt undone and door open before Stark brought the SUV to a complete stop.

Even with the flashes of Logan's memories and Stark's satellite images, the cabin was actually a bit bigger than she'd anticipated. For some odd reason, Rogue had pictured a single room, 'Little House on the Prairie', barely big enough for a bed and a chair, type of cabin. The foundation was of the aforementioned stacked stone. The roof was pitched and extended forward to cover the front porch. There was an open lean-to carport type structure attached to the left side of the cabin with a massive stack of firewood and a blue and white Ford pick-up parked underneath.

Rogue's heart momentarily kicked-up a notch at the sight of the pick-up, her mind naturally equating a parked vehicle with someone being at home. But, now that she was at the cabin, many of Logan's memories had shaken loose and Rogue knew that Logan had bought that truck five years ago after its predecessor ended its life in a ditch after an unfortunate encounter with a moose on an icy road.

Rogue crunched her way through gravel and dry, overgrown fall grass to the trio of porch steps that led to the front door. Thankfully, Stark and his technicians hung back by the parked vehicles, allowing her to have this moment to herself. Though she could tell by his stiff posture Stark that wasn't exactly pleased and would have preferred either himself or one of his techs take point just in case the Boogie Man had taken up residence in Logan's absence.

Rogue reached into the pocket of Logan's leather jacket and retrieved his bottle-opener keychain; two of the keys fit perfectly into the doorknob- and deadbolt locks. The door opened inward with only the slightest squeaking of hinges. That overwhelming feeling of déjà vu again returned as Rogue took in the cabin with wide, happy eyes.

There was an obvious layer of dust across the floor that crunched beneath the soles of her Doc Marten's and the air had that musty smell of long closed-up rooms everywhere. Otherwise, Rogue found the cabin a wonderfully cozy place.

The floors consisted of wide pine planks while pine tongue-and-groove covered the walls and ceiling. The cabin was longer than it was wide with two rooms in front and two rooms in back with a railed-in loft area above.

The kitchen/dining area was to the left as Rogue entered the cabin. There was a small, two-person pine table with matching chairs beneath the front window. The kitchen itself was small but functional with a sink, stove, and refrigerator. The countertops were the standard Formica in a mottled midnight blue color. Upper and lower pine cabinets framed the appliances. Rogue smiled at the above-stove microwave but crinkled her nose at the lack of a dishwasher—she'd had her fill of washing dishes at that diner in Tennessee.

To the right was the small living room. A beautiful stacked stone fireplace with a split log mantelpiece dominated the space. The standard bachelor suite of a brown leather armchair—this angled towards the fireplace—and leather sofa—this facing an older 26" television set on its stand—along with a coffee table and a pair of end tables with lamps made up the furnishings. Against the wall next to the short hallway leading to the back rooms stood a wooden ladder that led to the loft area.

Just inside the hallway was a narrow linen closet and a bi-fold door which hid a stacked washer and dryer. The bathroom was just big enough for the tub/shower combo, toilet, single sink, and the hot water tank behind its own slated door.

When it came to Logan's bedroom, Rogue was hesitant to cross the threshold. It was the same feeling she'd experienced when she'd gone into Logan's room back at Xavier's just before they'd buried their dead and Bobby destroyed the mansion. It felt wrong to invade such an intimate personal space without Logan there to give his go ahead. The Logan in her head snorted, Darlin', you're already in the cabin, what difference does the bedroom make?

With that dubious stamp of approval, Rogue swallowed her hesitation and entered Logan's bedroom. Again, the room was small; just big enough for the bed, a small nightstand, a tall, slim chest of drawers, and another stacked stone fireplace that shared a chimney with its twin in the living room. A door on the inside wall opened to a closet containing a few pairs of faded blue jeans and a half-dozen or so flannel shirts. Knowing that Stark was champing at the bit to get inside, Rogue didn't allow herself to linger. The last thing she wanted was for him to walk in and discover her rifling through Logan's drawers.

As it was, Rogue had just enough time to climb the ladder and poke her head into the loft—which housed only the furnace and a couple of dusty boxes—before Stark and his men stormed the cabin. Noticeably absent, however, was Mr. Mommy-Are-We-There-Yet-I'm Hungry. Stark must've made good on his promise and sent him into Grande Cache for food.

The remaining technician's split-up, each one taking a different area of the cabin. One shooed Rogue off the loft ladder and climbed it himself. He disappeared into the darkness and after a few bumps, cusses, and the obvious sound of a breaker switch being flipped, the hum of the refrigerator kicking on filled the air. Stark, standing next to the entry door, tried the nearest light switch and the living room hanging light—a foyer pendant that resembled an old lantern—illuminated. The cabin had electricity! Rogue was actually surprised; she'd assumed the power would have been supplied by a generator. And she wasn't entirely wrong in that assumption. There was a small generator behind the cabin, one of Stark's techs informed her, but it was a back-up unit only.

The techs continued to poke and prod everywhere they could poke and prod. The furnace was checked as was the hot water tank and all the kitchen appliances. Rogue saw one technician filling little vials with water from the tap to check its quality. Both fireplaces were checked for blockages and then deposit-removing logs were set to light in both. Though it was in the mid-40's outside and cold, Rogue went through the cabin opening all the windows to air the unlived-in smell out of the space.

Mr. Mommy-Are-We-There-Yet-I'm-Hungry returned and, after the techs ate their lunch, they began unloading the truck. Rogue watched like a hawk as Logan's motorcycle was wheeled off the back and a new home found for it under the lean-to next to the pick-up truck. After Rogue had directed the men to store all the supplies they possibly could in the loft area and the overflow in the living room, she went to find Stark who had slipped away while she'd supervised the off-loading of the bike.

She found him behind the cabin leaning against the shed door talking on his cell phone. She'd caught enough of his side of the conversation to know he'd worked his own brand of Tony Stark magic and had found out Logan's utilities were paid through automatic payments from a local bank account. Rogue had caught him setting up a transfer of twenty-five thousand Canadian dollars into Logan's account—his own sneaky way of giving Rogue the money she'd refused to take earlier.

Stark noticed her watching him with a deep frown and hurriedly finished his call. Rogue said nothing, just folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow. But Stark was unruffled. "I owe Logan quite a bit for the pain and suffering caused by Magneto's use of my weapons. This is just a small down payment towards that debt."

Pretty boy can keep his damn money! the Logan in her head spat.

Rogue heartily agreed.

Stark avoided any further discussion of the matter by insisting they give Logan's truck a thorough going-over to ensure it would start. Rogue rolled her eyes but retrieved the truck keys from a cup hook by the front door. The truck did start on the third attempt thanks to a little fresh gasoline from the red can Stark's techs had the foresight to pack.

Rogue was sure Stark would've insisted on taking a test drive had not his head technician tapped on the passenger side window. Rogue took the opportunity to cut the ignition and exit the vehicle. Stark followed suit and began quizzing the man, "So, what's the verdict?"

"If there was cable or satellite, I'd move in myself."

Rogue felt a puffed up sense of pride from her inner-Logan at this appraisal of the home he'd built with his own two hands.

Even with his technician's seal of approval, Stark seemed to be dragging his feet about leaving. He set his men to packing firewood from the stack in the carport to the holders beside both fireplaces and probably would've ordered a full round of lawn maintenance next if Rogue hadn't insisted the high grass was fine as it was.

When she turned down his dinner invitation Stark finally got the hint and sent his technicians to their vehicles. Rogue walked with Stark to the SUV they arrived in. "How long will you wait for Logan?" Stark asked, fumbling with a pair of sunglasses that weren't necessary on this fairly gray afternoon.

"As long as it takes," was her quick and honest reply.

Stark's jaw clenched at this, "Promise you'll contact me if you need anything. Anything at all. Or if you change your mind and decide to return to New York."

Rogue gave a terse nod. It was the closest thing to a promise she could offer on something she had no intention of doing. Stark had been kind to her and beyond helpful—to the point of excess. Someday she'd find a way to thank him properly but, come what may, it was time to stand on her own two feet again.

Just as with Paul Morrow, Rogue went against her norm, stood on her tiptoes and kissed Stark on the cheek. "Thank you. For everything."

"I see the ring is still working just fine," he smirked. "You're more than welcome. Stark Towers won't be the same without you there making sure I know when I'm being an ass."

Rogue laughed.

"Take care of yourself, Rogue, and tell Logan—," there Stark faltered.

Rogue squeezed his hand, "Someday the opportunity will present itself and Logan will kick your ass and call it even."

The smirk returned to Stark's face, "I'll look forward to it."

Chapter Nine

It was an odd thing, this sudden jolt of panic that dropped the bottom out of her stomach as Rogue watched the dust kicked-up by the departure of Tony Stark's vehicles dance and swirl and fall back to Earth.

Rogue was a loner by nature; it was something she and Logan had in common. And she'd been on her own more often than not during her nineteen-and-a-half years. So why was being alone in Logan's cabin sending her into full panic mode?

Obviously nearly a month at Stark Towers had spoiled her. That level of comfort and opulence was something Rogue had never expected to experience again after the loss of Charles Xavier. In a way, her stay with Tony Stark had reminded her of those early days after Xavier welcomed Rogue into his home. She'd craved those feelings of security that Xavier offered but, at the same time, didn't quite trust them or their source; always wondering what was expected of her in return. Always wondering when this wonderful sanctuary from her wildest dreams would turn into the terrible haunted tower of her nightmares.

Rogue would always remember the night realization struck her, as she lay sleepless in bed, that Charles Xavier wasn't her father who couldn't keep his hands to himself, wasn't the Weapon X program breaking her legs when she didn't complete a job to their satisfaction, wasn't Magneto with his hatred and expectations of blind obedience. Xavier hadn't drawn her into his fold to cause her harm, but to offer her what protection he could provide.

Things at Xavier's mansion could never be described as perfect, but it had been a home—the most stable one she'd ever known—and the X-Men her family. Rogue missed them both. She missed Logan.

That was another thing about that unexpected jolt of panic: it cleared a path for all those insidious doubts and insecurities Rogue had kept firmly shoved to the back of her mind to surface and wreak their own brand of havoc. She never in a million years would have admitted this to Tony Stark, but she'd expected Logan to already be here. Rogue had been positive that since Logan hadn't returned to the mansion he'd made his way here. This was his ground, his home turf, his sanctuary from the world—though she doubted a word like "sanctuary" would ever pass Logan's lips. If he hadn't returned to Xavier's and wasn't here then...

No! Rogue quashed that thought. If Logan wasn't here now it was because he'd been delayed. Nothing more.

And when he did arrive, it would be to a nice clean house.

Rogue cringed as her boots scuffed noisily through the thick layer of dirt and dust on the wood floor. That may be easier said than done, especially with all these boxes of supplies in the way.

Rogue drew in a deep breath. The best thing for all this nervous energy was to just get to work.

She dug the small jewelry box out of her duffel and put the mutation suppressing ring Tony Stark gave her away. No reason to be wearing it in a house by herself and cleaning to boot. She opened a half-dozen boxes before locating the cleaning supplies and, after a bit of deliberation, decided to begin in the bathroom.

Rogue dumped a liberal amount of cleaner into the toilet, sink, and bathtub and let it sit while she went in search of a broom; finally locating a sad, ancient-looking one tucked up beside the washer/dryer. She swept as much of the surface dirt she could out the front door and then returned to the bathroom where she scrubbed until the fixtures gleamed.

As she needed some place to sleep tonight Rogue moved on to the bedroom next. The comforter on the bed was dusty and smelled musty, as did the sheets below. She took the bed linens to the porch where she shook out the worst of the dust before stuffing them into the washer. Another rummage through Stark's boxes gave her a basic sheet set with a thread-count so high Rogue rolled her eyes in disgust and would have tossed them back into the box, except that all the sheets and towels in Logan's linen closet shared that musty smell and would need their own turn in the washer.

The sheet set was meant for a much larger bed and could almost be doubled over but Rogue, with a lot of tucking, made them work. She gave the bedroom furniture a quick dusting before moving on to the front rooms.

The living room—along with the loft—was so crowded with boxes that Rogue wasn't even going to attempt cleaning them tonight. Which left the kitchen. She returned to her duffel for her portable DVD player and let episodes of 'Designing Women' play in the background as she scrubbed the kitchen surfaces and washed all the dishes, utensils, and pots and pans in the cabinets.

The comforter wasn't dry enough to put back on the bed by the time Rogue was ready to call it a night which was all the excuse she needed to pull one of Logan's flannel shirts out of the closet. Even with the musty odor she could still pick-up a hint of Logan's scent on the fabric. She layered the shirt over her long-sleeved pajamas along with a thick pair of winter-weight socks.

She built up the fire in the grate to a nice roaring blaze—it was already colder for October than several years in New York had prepared her Southern blood for—and hoped the furnace would kick on later when the fire died down. Then, with her portable DVD player positioned on the nightstand, Rogue crawled into Logan's bed.

* * *

What was that?

Rogue's eyes snapped open to the amber haze of the dying fire. She lay still, breathing shallowly, listening for the sound that had jolted her from her sleep. The first season of 'Stargate Atlantis' was playing on her DVD player; it could have been an explosion or gunfire on the show which had awoken her. She stopped the player and listened again. Now the crackling of burning wood was the only sound in the room.

Though she was warm and comfortable and had no desire to get up, Rogue reluctantly slid out of bed to check the rest of the cabin. Her own bare skin was the only weapon she required, still, Rogue paused next to the pile of firewood and selected a piece around the length of her forearm and nearly twice as thick. If someone was inside the cabin with her, she wanted something with enough reach that she could hit them before they could hit her—she wasn't one of those Too Stupid To Live heroines that charged blindly into the clutches of the Big Bad Monster. Still, she rolled the sleeves of Logan's shirt up and pushed her pajama sleeves up above her elbows just in case.

As Rogue eased open the bedroom door on—thankfully—squeak-free hinges, she realized that some sort of animal could've caused the noise that woke her. And what she'd do about that she had no idea.

But Stark's techs had checked the place over thoroughly and found no sign of animal activity. There'd been fires in one or both of the fireplaces since her arrival, so nothing could've found its way inside that way. And the loft was so chock full of boxes that even a very small mouse would have difficulty finding a path let alone a squirrel or raccoon.

Rogue glided silently through the hall on thickly-socked feet. She peeked inside the bathroom but couldn't make out much in the darkened interior. Why hadn't she left the bathroom light on when she went to bed? Better still, why hadn't she thought to look for a flashlight or candle in the bedroom?

If she flicked on the lights so would go her element of surprise. But it would spoil the same for any potential intruder as well. The switch for the hallway light was just next to her left shoulder. She closed her eyes to avoid momentary blindness and hit the switch. She then listened, eyes still shut, for any sound of an intruder beating a hasty retreat. No sound followed.

Rogue repeated the process in the bathroom before cautiously sliding into the front rooms. The only switches for the living room and kitchen lights were located on the far side of the room next to the front door; a design flaw that Rogue planned on giving Logan an earful about once he got here. Thankfully, enough light was filtering into the dark space to save her from a bad fall over a box or piece of furniture and give her sufficient notice of any Boogiemen charging in for the attack.

Rogue looked and listened for any sign of movement before making a charge of her own across the open floor to the light switches. Cabin fully illuminated now and the few places a person could potentially hide checked, Rogue was certain the cabin was free of nocturnal visitors. The door was firmly locked as were the windows and nothing that she could see had been disturbed. Just to be on the safe side, she located a flashlight and checked the loft as best she could. The light played from cardboard box to cardboard box and it was clear that nothing—man or animal—was there.

As Rogue descended the loft ladder she chided herself for over-reacting to the normal creaks and groans of an unfamiliar house.

Even with that realization firmly in mind, Rogue slept fitfully the remainder of the night: tossing and turning and jolting at any sound. Finally, when the bedside clock said five, she said the Hell with it and just got up. She took a shower, fixed a pot of coffee and microwaved a bowl of oatmeal before starting the monumental task of cleaning the living room.

The remainder of Rogue's morning was spent opening boxes, finding homes for as many of the supplies as she could and consolidating the rest into as few boxes as possible. The boxes that contained the winter clothes she'd purchased on her shopping trip she dragged down the hall into Logan's bedroom. The boxes of consolidated supplies were shoved into the farthest corner of the living room out of the way.

Thoroughly fed-up with the sight of cardboard, Rogue decided to spend the afternoon exploring the area around the cabin. The key to the shed door's heavy lock was located on a cup hook next to the truck keys and Rogue made it her first objective.

The shed itself was roughly the size of the cabin's kitchen and held a push lawnmower and other basic yard tools—shovel, a garden hoe, and axe—along the right side of the room. A long, tall workbench ran the length of the left-hand wall with neat rows of assorted wrenches, screwdrivers, and other hand tools on hooks on the wall above. The back wall was dominated by a large fireplace similar to those inside the cabin, which shouldn't have shocked Rogue considering that the chimney was clearly visible from the outside, yet it did.

"What's the story with this?" she asked the Logan in her head. For all she knew, growing up in the South as she had, that fireplaces in sheds were as common as dirt in the Canadian Rockies.

It's the original cabin, he replied with a hint of a chuckle.

"Excuse me?"

More of that chuckle, This was the cabin that came with the land. This is where I lived until I heard a town was being established down the mountain. Figured I might as well build a new place while they were laying all those lines and pipes. It was as good as an excuse as any.

Rogue blinked several times before looking the shed/cabin over with different eyes. "But it's so small!"

Small's easier to heat, he replied with the mental equivalent of a shrug, And there was only me.

Rogue did her best to ignore the giddy thrill the words "only me" sent through her. The heart clenching suspicion that Logan had set his cabin up as some sort of 'Love Nest' with some woman (who always bore a striking resemblance to Jean Grey in her mind) had kept Rogue awake on more than one night.

"There's no bathroom!"

That earned her a bark of laughter, I can show you where the outhouse used to be. And the old well.

Rogue pulled a face "You can keep the outhouse to yourself, but I should definitely know where the well is. I have no desire to be the next Headline News story."

So the Logan in her head guided Rogue to the old sealed-off well on the far right of the property. He then led her into the tree line, guiding her down paths his flesh-and-blood counterpart frequented. A few hundred yards in, Rogue ran across a smattering of boots prints which set the Logan in her head snarling. Damn hikers! The 'No Trespassing' signs ain't there for the deer!

The tracks were shockingly fresh looking. Could that have been what woke her the night before: some campers venturing close to the cabin? If so, it wasn't a comforting thought. And having no desire to run into whoever made those tracks, Rogue returned to the cabin.

* * *

Rogue watched the play of firelight dance across the ceiling. It was nearly a quarter 'til two in the morning and, again, something had just woken her.

She clicked off her DVD player, pushed the covers down, and slowly rolled to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Once again, she'd indulged herself and wore Logan's flannel shirt to bed over her pajamas. The sleeves hung low over her hands and the hem hung nearly to her knees; both would be a hindrance in a fight, still, she left it on. The slight hint of Logan's scent brought her peace, leant her strength. She'd use that.

Again she exposed the skin of her forearms and grabbed the same piece of wood from the night before. She'd left the bathroom light on in anticipation of this eventuality, but she had no intention of turning on any of the other cabin lights as she had the night before. If it had been a camper or hiker last night, turning on the lights had probably scared them off. And she wanted to catch whoever or whatever in the act this time. Otherwise, she was never going to get a full night's sleep.

Rogue heard the sound—a sort of scuffing noise, like the sole of a shoe skidding across dry ground—again as she slid from the bedroom into the hallway. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and continued forward.

She padded past the bathroom, past the loft ladder where she pressed herself against the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen. She all but held her breath as she scanned for movement; strained her ears for any sound.

Thump. Thump.

No mistaking it this time. Measured. Even. Certainly footsteps.

Thump. Thump.

Up the steps. On the porch now.

Rogue rushed forward and pressed herself flat against the wall between the door and the living room window. The opening door would act as a shield between herself and the intruder and supply her with an excellent ambush point. The door knob rattled followed by a metallic scraping as the locks were worked. She resisted the urge to peek out the living room window; it was too dark outside to see anything beyond vague shapes and any movement on her part could take away her element of surprise. So she adjusted her grip on the log and awaited her moment.

She didn't have long to wait.

The lock gave way and the door swung inward. As the intruder crossed the threshold Rogue swung her makeshift cudgel...which the intruder caught in a vice-like grip. The intruder ripped the log from Rogue's hands. She cried out as the rough wood abraded her bare palms and the strength of the tug sent her sprawling on the living room floor.

She immediately regained her feet and launched herself at the intruder who caught her in the same grip as the log. The first thing that hit her was the smell. No, not smell. Smell wasn't a strong enough word for the stench rolling off this person. It was the odor of sickness; of things near death. That frightened her more than the death grip she was currently caught in.

Rogue kicked and flailed, desperately seeking a piece of bare skin to latch onto. Her attacker—obviously male by the thick, bushy beard that covered most of his face—cursed at a well-placed heel-kick to his kneecap and flung her away from him.

Rogue was poised for another assault when her attacker did the last thing she expected: he switched on the lights. Rogue gasped and flung a hand up to shield her eyes. As her vision readjusted, Rogue got her first good look at her intruder.

He was tall, over six feet, with a matted mass of dark hair to go with that full, thick, bushy beard: your stereotypical crazy Mountain Man. He wore black BDU's tucked into to standard issue combat boots with a black parka that had seen better days. Rogue's eyes were drawn to his right hand where the fingertips were barely visible beneath thick, dirty bandage wrappings that covered the entire hand and looked to continue up the arm.

"Logan?" she breathed. It was in his eyes, his stance, the snarling curve to the upper lip—and perhaps a piece of her that would know Logan even if his mind were transferred to another body—where recognition dawned. Otherwise, there was little of the mighty Wolverine in the man standing before her.

His eyes jumped from surface to surface, taking everything in, lingering especially on the boxes of supplies pushed into the corner of the living room. She watched the contraction and flare of his nostrils—another familiar gesture—as he scented the air. With a deep growl he kicked the door shut hard enough to shake the entire cabin and turned on her; his lips pulled away from his teeth and his left fist clenched in a way she was all too familiar with.

"The fuck are you doin' here?"

Chapter Ten

Rogue gaped at the livid man hovering above her. This wasn't how she'd pictured her reunion with Logan. She'd imagined relieved smiles, laughter, throwing her arms around his neck, and all the things which happen behind closed doors.

But anger—she'd never anticipated that.

"I was looking for you," she stammered in her uncertainty.

"Who the Hell asked you to?" Logan snarled back.

Again, Rogue gaped at him at a loss for words. He was pacing the living room now; sniffing, testing the air. He brushed past where she remained sprawled on the living room floor, stopping to sniff around the loft ladder before disappearing down the hallway. He returned to the living room a few moments later with a posture less wary but, all together, still angry.

"I'm so sorry I attacked you," Rogue began quietly, hoping an apology might clear some of the horrible, angry tension in the air. "I'd heard noises and thought you were an intruder."

Wrong thing to say. Logan whipped around to face her. "You let that bastard Tony Stark and his peons crawl all over my home—my home—but I'm the intruder?" He shook his head on a derisive snort.

Rogue sucked in a breath. Logan knew Stark and his men had been here. Had he discerned their scents just now or had he been here yesterday and seen for himself? Those strange noises that had woken her the night before and those boot prints in the woods, had it been Logan all along? "Stark had been beating himself up for months over the fact that Magneto used his weapons to incinerate you," Rogue knew it was, again, probably the wrong thing to say but felt the need to stand up at least a little for the man that had done so much for her the past month. "He was just helping me find you. Everyone else believes you died that day but I knew—I knew—you survived."

Suddenly Logan was pulling her from the floor by a fistful of her pajama top and his own flannel shirt. "Who else knows?" His voice low; dangerous.

"Only Stark and Kitty but she didn't believe me," Rogue gasped. It wasn't exactly the truth—Paul Morrow technically knew but she'd never referred to Logan as Wolverine in Paul's presence, so she doubted he'd make the connection.

He let her go with a little backward shove. "And who else did you and Stark lead to my door?"

Rogue shook her head, feeling her eyes burn with the beginning of tears. She wanted so badly to reassure him that no one could possibly know she'd come here, but it would be a lie. They hadn't been careful; they hadn't been discreet. Stark had brought her here in broad daylight in a Stark Industries jet. Anyone with the slightest interest in Stark's day-to-day movements could know about the cabin.

And what price would Logan now pay for their impatience?

She never should have dragged Tony Stark into this. She should have gone it alone. It may've taken months longer but her own instincts and the Logan in her head would've led her here eventually. If she had come alone instead of accompanied by a Stark Industries invasion force perhaps Logan's reaction would've been different—more like the reunion of her dreams.

Instead, the man she loved more than anything hated the very sight of her.

Logan had resumed pacing a line between the front door and the stack of supplies in the living room, his left hand opening and closing reflexively; the heavily bandaged right arm hanging limply at his side. The anger flowing from him was a near palpable thing and more than Rogue could stand.

"I'm so sorry!" she blurted out, "I just wanted to find you, make sure you were OK. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. I just needed to know you really were alive. I'm sorry. I'll go now."

Logan said nothing; hadn't even stopped his pacing as she spoke and Rogue rushed from the room before she broke down in front of him.

Even in her frantic state, Rogue took the time to pull on a pair of gloves and fold Logan's flannel shirt that she'd been wearing reverently across the foot of the bed before diving for her duffel. She shoved her DVD player into her pack along with an armful of her clothes—why had she even bothered to unpack?—from a drawer. As she was stuffing the clothing in, Rogue came across the envelope of money Stark had given her. She removed the credit card bearing her name and placed the envelope atop the chest of drawers. Logan was more likely to use it for kindling than to spend it, but that was Logan's decision to make and it felt right to leave it behind.

Rogue zipped her duffel and slung it over her shoulder. She had no coat; actually, she had two: a black wool pea coat and a parka that Han Solo could've worn quite comfortably on the ice planet of Hoth, both of which she'd purchased on her shopping trip after many disapproving looks from Alfred the chauffeur. But she didn't have time now to go digging through boxes and Logan's leather jacket was just that: Logan's. She'd just have to do without.

Logan did nothing to acknowledge her presence as she reentered the living room. Rogue stopped next to him, her hand resting on the doorknob, "You should know that not everyone is a screw-up like me. Kitty delivered your box."

Logan's eyes cut sharply to hers.

"Don't worry, she didn't tell me where she took it or who it was for. She did just as you asked."

Rogue waited for Logan to say something; to tell her to put down her bag and stay. But, with shoulders tense and his left hand clenching the back of a kitchen chair in a white-knuckled grip, he remained silent.

Rogue compressed her lips and shut her stinging eyes as she turned the doorknob. The cold October air ripped straight through the cotton of her shirt and the thicker flannel of her pajama pants. She hurriedly clomped down the stairs, stepping on the untied laces of her combat boots and nearly falling in the process.

Stop! her inner-Logan commanded. Turn around and go back inside.

Rogue shook her head and kept on walking. Logan hated her; didn't want her here. And no matter how much she wanted to be with him, she wouldn't force herself on him. Even if it broke her heart.

And there were so many questions she'd never know the answers to now. How had he survived? How had he gotten here from Magneto's crashed citadel? And why was he dressed like a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? Had he been a captive of S.H.I.E.L.D. this entire time? Had he escaped? Had they let him go? And his arm! That thickly bandaged right arm, had it regenerated itself or was it the same one they'd buried? If it was, how had he gotten it back? She'd agonized so much over that arm and now she'd never know.

Rogue, stop! inner-Logan cut in again, It's barely above freezing and you're not wearing a coat. Now, use the brains I know you have in that pretty little head of yours and GO. BACK.

"I'll dig a sweater out of my bag when I reach the main road."

She'd walk to Grande Cache, find a phone, and contact Tony Stark. He'd take her back to New York and—then what? Stark would certainly allow her to stay at Stark Towers; maybe even find her a job so she could earn her keep. Or she could just disappear somewhere and do her best to forget these past months ever happened.

That desperate to get back to the easy life with Tony Stark, are ya? her inner-Logan sneered. You must be cause the Rogue I know wouldn't be so quick to run off with her tail between her legs. Not without putting up one Hell of a fight first!

"He hates me!"

Wrong! He's pissed and weak and near feral at the moment. But, given time, he will calm down. And, when he does, he'll still be pissed that Stark was in his home, but he will be damn glad to see a friendly face.

Rogue sincerely doubted that! Again, she shook her head, "I'm paying the price for my own stupidity."

Or just lookin' for any excuse to run back to Stark.

Rogue growled in annoyance and doubled her pace; all the while doing her best to shove Logan's voice to the back of her mind. But she wasn't familiar enough with the gravel road to be trekking it at this pace in the pitch black. Either her feet had gotten tangled in her untied boot laces again or she'd set her foot wrong on a rock as, next thing she knew, Rogue was on her way to meeting the ground face first. She managed to catch herself with her gloved hands, the duffel falling heavily beside her on the ground.

Rogue pushed herself onto her knees; her face burning in frustration, embarrassed shame, and the cold mountain air surrounding her. Her wrists ached where she'd caught herself, as did her shoulder where her duffel had wrenched down. If the ground around her suddenly opened up and swallowed her whole, she'd be just as happy.

How she hadn't heard the footsteps behind her, she didn't know—probably too caught up in herself. As it was, Rogue nearly jumped out of her skin when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She gasped and whipped her head around.

"Would you get your ass back inside?"

* * *

"Now what, O Wise One?" Rogue groused at her inner-Logan as she plopped onto the couch. She tugged off her soiled gloves and sent them flying at her duffel before spearing frustrated fingers through her hair.

Logan hadn't spoken again since retrieving her from his driveway. That he was still angry was clear by the dour expression on his face, but that anger felt less directed at her now than at the world in general. But his continued silence left her wondering why he'd bothered to bring her back to the cabin; was it a change of heart or was he just taking pity on a young woman alone in the cold darkness and fully intended to show her the door come morning?

Logan soon disappeared down the hall into the bedroom; a few minutes later she heard the bathroom door latch and the sound of the shower running.

"Well?" Rogue again prodded her inner-Logan.

Food, he suggested, wouldn't be a bad idea.

Rogue looked to the kitchen and blew out a breath; cooking was preferable to sitting here brooding over the whys and wherefores of Logan's every action. A quick rummage through Stark's food supplies and she came away with a small canned ham and a box of pancake mix. The fear crossed her mind that Logan may refuse to eat what Tony Stark had provided, but she quickly batted that concern aside. For all his snarls and growls, Logan was a practical man; he wouldn't starve with food right under his nose simply because he didn't care for its source.

Rogue cut the ham into thick slices which she set to frying in a skillet before mixing up a large batch of pancake batter. The first two pancakes were inedible: burnt on the outside and gummy in the center. Cursing herself, Rogue tossed the ruined food into the trash. With her focus firmly now on the stove in front of her instead of on the muffled splash of water on tiles rooms away, the remainder of the batch came out decent, if not pretty.

She had just enough time to start a pot of coffee and dig a fresh pair of gloves—any thought of wearing her suppression ring was quickly discarded as a subject for another day—from her duffel before she heard the bathroom door open.

Rogue was setting the table when the slap of bare feet on the wood floor announced Logan's return. She looked up from placing maple syrup and strawberry jam on the table and froze. Logan had taken the time to shave and all that the bushy beard and loose clothing had concealed was now revealed to her. And Rogue wasn't prepared for what she was now seeing.

Logan's skin clung tightly to his skull with brow ridge and cheekbones jutting over sunken and hollow cheeks; the cadaverous effect exacerbated by his still thickly matted mass of hair. A pair of sweat pants cinched to their tightest configuration drooped low on his rail-thin frame. With every step the sharp bones of his feet appeared on the verge of slicing through the translucent paper-thin skin. He was wearing the flannel shirt she'd removed earlier and laid across the foot of his bed. The shirt was unbuttoned revealing the sharp contour of ribs and collarbone and thick bands of white bandages that continued down his right arm.

Where was his healing factor? Why hadn't it repaired all of this? She'd stood beside him in battle; seen him torn-up and mangled in ways that would have killed a lesser man a thousand times over and his healing mutation had always returned him to the same strong, healthy, well-muscled, prime example of manhood they all knew so well. Why not this time?

He stopped behind one of the kitchen chairs with shoulders tense, head defiantly thrown back, and a challenging gleam in his eye. And it didn't take the Logan in her head for Rogue to know that he was waiting for the inevitable gasp of horror; the "Dear God what happened?" and the like.

Instead, Rogue finished placing the bottles on the table and offered him a soft grin. "The you up here," she tapped lightly at her temple, "said you'd be hungry."

She hadn't expected her words to bring surprise and confusion to Logan's face. He was full aware of her mutation and all its effects.

"I'd forgotten," Logan murmured; brow creased. His eyes traveled a slow circuit around the room, "Explains a lot, though."

With a short, sharp shake of his head, Rogue watched as Logan's posture visibly relaxed.

That Logan could've been wracking his brains over how common knowledge of his cabin was to his former teammates had never even occurred to her. And, she felt, she could be forgiven for not thinking an explanation necessary in this case. A deep uneasiness, courtesy of her inner-Logan, had spread through her gut at Logan's lapse of memory. What Hell had he endured these past months that such everyday knowledge would be suppressed in his mind?

"Logan…," Rogue began; whether to offer another apology or to go against her inner-Logan's warnings and beg him to reveal all he'd gone through, she wasn't sure. Whatever she was going to say, the words died on her lips when Logan pulled out his chair and began piling his plate with pancakes and ham; effectively changing the subject.

"Smells good," Logan said while smothering his pancakes with syrup.

Rogue glanced down at the table and suppressed the urge to snort. It wasn't her most successful attempt at cooking and she knew it. She put very little on her own plate, not having much of an appetite. Her innate Southern manners, however, would not allow her to sit across the table while Logan ate without joining him. Her grandmother (if her grandmother should condescend to acknowledge her "vile mutie" granddaughter) would be proud.

Logan ate ravenously at first; overloaded forkfuls washed down with gulps of too hot coffee. All too soon, for Rogue's liking, however; his bites became much smaller with longer and longer pauses between each one. By halfway through his plate each forkful now brought to his lips was chewed and swallowed with an obvious effort.

"So, what happened?" Logan asked; setting down his fork and reaching for his coffee mug.

Rogue's head jerked up from the contemplation of her own pancakes, "Huh?"

"I've seen enough to know that Magneto got his ass handed to him," he took a drink of coffee, "But the home team wasn't looking so hot when I exited the field. What changed?"

Rogue gouged a pancake with her fork. "Oh. Nick Fury showed up and had Jean beam something directly into Magneto's brain."

"What exactly?" Logan asked.

Rogue shrugged, "Don't know. The ones who were there might, but I've only ever heard the short version. Whatever it was, Magneto righted the magnetic poles and got all contrite; insisting that Xavier would've understood why he'd done what he'd done and forgiven him for it. Cyclops wasn't buyin' it and took Magneto's head off with an optic blast."

Logan's eyebrows leapt skyward, "Scotty-boy? Huh. Wouldn't've thought he'd have it in 'im."

Rogue shrugged and took another small bite of pancake. She understood how Logan's and Scott's personalities had grated on one another—not to mention their former rivalry over Jean, but Scott was a good man and a good leader. If he had survived perhaps the X-Men would have, too.

Logan set his coffee mug back on the table. "What I don't get is," he began with a short shake of his head, "if the Good Guys won, why's the mansion busted all to Hell?"

The mansion? Rogue's forehead scrunched; she hadn't mentioned Xavier's mansion, had she? How could Logan know it was in ruins, unless…

Rogue's fork hit her plate with a clang.

Logan was concentrating on the table where his left hand was absently turning his empty coffee mug in circles. "I saw you, you know," he said quietly, his hooded gaze touching her briefly before sweeping down his bandaged right arm, "the night I took back what was mine."

Rogue's stomach clenched and rebelled against the syrupy pancakes she'd just swallowed. She rushed for the kitchen and a glass of water before she made a mess on the floor she so painstakingly cleaned the day before. For several minutes she stood clenching the countertop in front of the sink, taking shuddering gulps of air. "You were there?" she croaked, her back still to Logan. "You saw me?" She finally turned around. "I'd spent months at Xavier's waiting for you to show up; it was the only reason I'd even gone back there!" she scrubbed angrily at the tears—when had she started crying?—falling down her face. If she hadn't gone into the city to pester Kitty about a box then she would have been right there when Logan arrived; and things would be a lot different right now, she imagined. Again, her own impatience had turned around and bit her on the ass. "Why didn't you say something?"

Logan slouched back in his chair, "I wasn't exactly fit for company."

"Please!" she cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "When are you ever?"

Logan lifted a single brow in response, but there was also the slightest ghost of a grin on his lips. A grin which promptly disappeared as his eyes swept again down the length of his bandaged arm, "And reattaching an arm ain't exactly pretty."

Rogue strode back to the table and slid into her abandoned seat, "But that wouldn't have bothered me, you know that!"

Logan looked away; a muscle in his tightly clamped jaw contracting semi-rhythmically.

It would have bothered me, her inner-Logan supplied what his counterpart wouldn't say.

Rogue blew out a breath and slumped back in her seat.

"I did think about it," Logan admitted, eyeing her sidelong. "Saw how upset you were and was debatin' whether to show myself when I heard a car comin' up the drive. You left with Stark not long after," he shrugged.

Rogue looked down at her gloved hands tangled in her lap. "What did you do then?"

Another shrug, "I remembered about the hidden entrance in the boathouse as soon as I saw you and Stark head that way. After you'd left, I went down there myself. Figured it was a good place to hole up and do what I needed to do with this arm."

His arm. How much sleep had she lost beating herself up over not being at Xavier's that night to protect it? And poor Franks back at Stark Industries, who had been so depressed that he hadn't recovered it before she'd left for the cabin; he was probably still at his desk running searches.

"How long were you down there?" Rogue asked, thinking about the day she'd spent an afternoon outside Xavier's boathouse going through photos on one of Stark's tablet computers. Had Logan been right under her nose even then?

"A day and half. Two, tops."

No, then. He would've been long gone before she'd returned to Xavier's. Somehow, it didn't make her feel any better.

"Who destroyed the place?" Logan asked.

"We did."

"What the Hell?" Logan shifted forward in his chair; his brow scrunched.

Rogue folded her arms across her chest, bitterly pleased at having shocked him for a change. "Magneto was gone but the damage had already been done: mutants were public enemy number one. Having a bunch of mutants living together in one place was nothing but a convenient target. We went back long enough to bury our dead and demolish the mansion. With Xavier gone and no one left to lead us, the X-Men were through, anyway. No reason to be sticking around there."

Logan shook his head, "Whaddya mean no one was left to lead you? Summers wasn't up to the job?"

Rogue looked down into her lap, "Logan, Scott's dead." This time she felt no pleasure at the shock which crossed his face.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Rogue drew a deep breath through her nose. "He was doing what Xavier would've wanted him to do. Congress was about to vote on a bill calling for mandatory mutant registration and Scott stood in front of a group of anti-mutant protestors, urging peace and co-existence. He got a bullet to the head for his trouble."

Logan was silent for several minutes. "Where are the others?"

Rogue licked her lips and began ticking the names off on her fingers, "Kitty, last I saw her, was still in New York with her mom. Believe it or not, Bobby is living with Spider-Man and his aunt. Piotr, I'm assuming, is wherever his boyfriend is. Jean and Storm…," she trailed off with a shrug.

"That's all?" he asked, incredulous.

"That's all." Rogue quietly confirmed.

Logan looked away from her again. A mournful silence stretched between them for several long minutes. Finally, Logan scrubbed a hand across his face. "I'm beat," he announced, standing from the table. "Thanks for breakfast," he mumbled and disappeared again into his bedroom. He reappeared a minute or two later with a pillow and blanket which he placed on the couch for her use.

"Thanks, Logan."

Logan gave a short nod in response. He took the time, however, to build up the living room fire, before returning to his own room.

Rogue pushed away from the table with a sigh and began the thankless task of clearing the table and washing up. When she did finally slide onto the cool leather of the couch it wasn't to sleep. She lay there for untold hours replaying the night she'd discovered Logan's arm missing; reanalyzing it from every angle, looking for any evidence of Logan that she'd missed at the time and coming up empty. When sleep did finally overtake her, it came with little hope that she would still be welcome here when she awoke.