Three and a half years earlier
When Jean noticed that Logan twitched more than she remembered, she supposed it would have to be attributed to his experiences away from home. Lounging at the conference room table, tapping an idle rhythm on the polished wood, he looked bored as all hell.
Of course, he could afford to look that way. He didn't have to live with Rogue.
Thinner too, and Jean was worried that she noticed the difference in bulk, the sharper lines of his face, excess weight melted away. She shouldn't know him that well, shouldn't be so certain that he'd changed so much and yet changed not at all. She remembered the feel of his skin on his knuckles, when she'd first studied where the metal emerged, fascinated by the perfection of his skin. Not a blemish or a scar to be seen--so many adolescent girls would kill to get his gift, if only to save them the horrors of puberty.
"...and so, at this time, we know she is in the general Phoenix area with a group of juvenile mutants. One of whom has successfully blocked all attempts by Cerebro to pinpoint her exact location."
"But she's still there?" Logan dropped the casual pose as if it'd never been there, now a mass of intense interest and raw nerves. "All right--give me one good reason why Scooter hasn't fired up the jet and dragged her ass home."
Jean saw the Professor's sigh--quick, soft, utterly invisible unless you knew him well. Of course, Logan could smell fear at fifty paces, so visible reactions weren't always required. And they were afraid, more afraid than Jean was accustomed to. It was one thing to fear for life in a fight--a completely different fear was the one that drowned them with Rogue there and incommunicado, wondering if she'd been hurt, caught by one of the many anti-mutant groups--wondering if she'd hurt someone else, absorbed someone she couldn't handle.
"We've had--problems--persuading her, Logan." Impatient tap on the wood, grating Jean's nerves. Scott wasn't here--teaching Jean's class while she imparted the necessary relevant information about Rogue's condition to the man that never bothered to stay long but made it clear he took personal interest in everything that happened to her. "Considering your past success record with her--"
"I'm the only one who isn't scared to touch her."
A patient pause.
"You do tend to use more physical means to achieve your goals, Logan. In this case, it may need to be utilized. She is--very difficult."
"She's a kid. How fucking difficult is it to ground her or whatever the hell you do with her?"
Jean straightened.
"She's eighteen, Logan. Legally able to go anywhere she wants--and since her birthday, she's taken advantage of the lift in restrictions. But this is the first time she's gone so far and refused contact."
She wondered, very distantly, if Logan was stripping her naked when he looked at her. Sometimes, standing in the lab, she felt his gaze before she saw it, intense and dark and dangerously exciting, she whose life had never included the kind of risk Logan represented. Scott looked at her as if she was something precious and wonderful, someone to be worshipped and adored. Logan observed her the way he watched prey. Along with it came all that sudden awareness she was a woman--the shift of her skirt over her thighs, the lace of her bra against the silky skin of her chest, the heels she wore that had always kept her posture so straight. To a telepath, a thought could be as powerful as touch--with someone who never bothered to keep his emotions in check, they could be ten feet apart and she could feel his fingers against her bare back, sliding over her hip.
But the gaze was almost reflexive today, because his mind was already in mapping a trail into Arizona. Another deliberate look that dropped to her chest, flushing her skin, then back to the Professor.
"All right. She's been gone three weeks. Up with some kids--not kids from the school?"
"No." Xavier's jaw tightened. "Some were associated with us at one time, but for their own reasons decided to leave." Jean knew how much he hated to admit failure. "Rogue came in contact with them during her stay in New York."
"When you bailed her out for shoplifting?"
Another tightening of his jaw.
"Fortunately, the store owners were familiar with my name and allowed me to take her without pressing charges." Unspoken--before they found out what she was, who she was, the danger she put them all in. "I assume should circumstances warrant it, Rogue would have me contacted if she has another--unfortunate incident. But with her behavior as it has been--I cannot trust she will use any sort of reasonable judgement."
"Cost you, I'll bet." Narrowed gaze on the table. "Okay. So get her back. What aren't you telling me?"
Jean closed her eyes briefly, rubbing her temples. So her gift wasn't strong--in an enclosed room with Logan, it didn't matter. He gave off emotion with the obviousness of a tornado and unlike most people who lived at the mansion, never bothered to learn to control how much the resident telepaths picked up. Suspicion and anger right now--and God knew, he had more variations on anger than anyone she'd ever met. That just below the surface an edge of violence that utterly fascinated her. That worried her too.
"It came to our attention before she left--that she could be indulging in recreational drug use," Jean said slowly, and instantly, the room became hazy red, fading even the Professor's calm aura into black rage, undampened, because Logan was Logan and when he hated, everyone knew it.
"What the fuck do you mean, it came to your attention?"
"There were suspicious amounts of money missing from Rogue's accounts--with no purchases made. Since she clears all non-essential purchases with me..." Jean trailed off, rubbing her temples again, taking a breath against the swirl of powerful feeling around, slowly tuning it out and drawing herself back in her mind. Peripherally, she was aware of the Professor's sharp gaze on her, but did not return it until her shields were secure. "When confronted, she reacted badly."
"She ran."
"In short, yes." The Professor folded both hands on the table.
Logan shifted again--he wanted to be gone now, it was written on every line of his body. She and the Professor were probably the only ones that knew how trapped he felt here, even if he stayed only for a few days, and no one was likely to forget the last summer, when he'd grudgingly accepted a position teaching one of the advanced combat courses for three months. By the time the course was over, the kids had been damned well-trained--and their teacher scared them to death.
Except for Rogue, who grinned happily and was looked upon with some awe by the other students when she sat on the lawn with him and drank beer, a cigarette in one delicate hand. Logan had given it and her a look and she'd just stared up at him with all that adolescent worship and liquid trust that only a southern girl can really manage and said she liked his company. To which he'd grunted, though Jean would swear he was trying not to smile.
In any case, they knew Logan's effective limit now for stability. And kept carefully to it.
"What kind of drugs are we talking about here?"
"I don't know--she left before I could get a urine sample. We checked her room, but there was no paraphernalia of any kind and Jubilee and Kitty both claim they never saw her with anything other than cigarettes and alcohol." A reluctant pause. "But both Kitty and Jubilee admit they have been spending a great deal less time with her recently, especially during her more erratic moods."
Logan nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the table. Then flickered up, meeting Xavier's briefly. "All right. I'll contact you when I get into Arizona. You have a car I can borrow?"
Jean felt her lips twitch.
"Not fly?"
She got a smile--and God knew, Logan didn't smile often, he threw them out so randomly that when one happened to appear, it always seemed so strange. So alien. Forcing her to smile back all against her will. Or maybe just mostly against her will.
"Not a chance, Red."
"We have a car ready," Jean assured him, rising with a glance at the Professor. His gaze on her was steady--maybe suspicious? She wasn't sure, shook her head briefly, then removed the keys from her lab coat and walked to the door. "You should find it an improvement on Scott's bike."
He nodded at the Professor but she could feel his gaze on her as they walked out.
"Where is Scooter, speaking of the devil?" Logan asked, perfectly casual as the walked to the elevator.
"In class for awhile yet." She pushed the buttons, waited the brief second it took the unoccupied elevator to come to their level. Felt his eyes on her when she stepped inside before he followed her, and punched the codes with a flush on her face he had to see--God knew what he was picking up otherwise. He ran on instinct more than anyone she'd ever met.
"So what have you been up to these last few months?" she asked quickly, keeping her gaze steadily on the door as they rose up the levels. Too fast and too slow, and she half-wished they'd taken the stairs over on the far side of this level.
"Nothing much." Logan's usual answer, delivered with the usual dismissive quality that she associated with him not wanting to discuss it. She knew he sometimes told Rogue, though how the girl got him to open up was a mystery. "Just moving."
"Go anywhere interesting?" Shit, that's something one of the kids would ask. She twisted her hands in front of her, felt him take a step closer, the warmth of his skin inches away and God, she couldn't make herself look at him.
"Not really." Just behind her and to her right, close enough for his breath to sway her hair. "Never thought you people were interested in what I did."
She shrugged, studied casual.
"You never talk about it." She wanted to try a laugh and knew it'd fail before she even formed the thought, and why the hell was the elevator going so damned slow? Gently, almost as if she would break, she felt him brush her hair from her shoulder. A quick intake of breath and she turned her head, meeting the dark eyes that yes, they were stripping her and wondering how long the elevator took and how she'd feel pressed between him and the wall, and she didn't need to be a telepath to figure that out. She wouldn't need to do anything but nod and they'd both find out.
The possibilities opened before her eyes with all the brilliance of intense color after a black and white world and she caught her breath.
The elevator rang, door opening, and Jean jerked around so fast her neck cracked. Before another word or thought, she was out in the hall and he followed her, more casually than she could manage at the moment, when she hadn't done anything but stand still while he touched her hair.
"Miss Grey?"
The sound of footsteps behind them and she heard Logan growl something--he didn't like kids, not even the almost grown-up type, and she laid a hand on his arm briefly before turning. Felt the muscles beneath her fingers tense hard, felt the rush off him briefly that was all thick desire and so many other things that she almost couldn't breathe.
"Yes?" And her voice was calm, though it took a physical effort to drop her hand. The girl's dark eyes went to Logan and there it was, a flash of pure relief. Then back to Jean, licking her lips lightly.
"I just wanted--wanted to know if you found Rogue yet." An uncomfortable shift from foot to foot, yellow jacket swaying with the rhythm of her body. Jean nodded and Jubilee's eyes flashed to Logan again.
"You gonna go get her?"
And Jean almost grinned when he sighed, as if he didn't know in the girl's dorms he was the subject of so many adolescent fantasies. Hell, he might not know, though Rogue had a wicked sense of humor and might very well have told him. Jean observed him briefly under Jubilee's intense gaze and decided that, no, he didn't know, and speculated on his reaction should he ever find out.
"Yeah, kid." Of course, he was searching his memory for her name, with a scowl that wasn't threatening, but then, Jubilee didn't know the sheer variety of them Logan had. Then Jean got a glare and grinned to herself.
"She'll be home soon, Jubes. Go on to class."
A quick nod and the girl was gone as quickly as she had appeared, little sparks dancing behind her. A quick glance at Logan. "One of Rogue's friends. Jubilee."
"So I figured." An impatient movement, a man who didn't like to stand still when he didn't have to, and Jean turned back to the hall to the front door. The tension at least was broken--his attention was back on Rogue, to the exclusion of her, and for some sick reason, she didn't like it. Then they were outdoors under the bright sun of winter Westchester and she punched her codes to get into the garage, leading him in, pointing out the car.
When he took the keys from her hand, his thumb brushed into her palm and she felt her body tense.
"Be careful." And it was stupid and adolescent, but there was nothing in his return gaze but that same sudden heat and she felt herself flush again. Then he turned away and she walked outside, the light burning into her eyes momentarily after the dark of the garage, and when she watched him drive away, little sparks still dancing in her vision, she rubbed her fingers over her palm absently, feeling the heat of his skin still against hers.
Phoenix sucked in winter, no question. No question at all. Shit, Phoenix sucked, period.
Logan hated the city. Hated the smell of it, the feel of it, hated worst of all the memories associated with it. None of which contributed to a reasonable state of mind. At very least, he had three things going for him that Jean, the Professor, and oh-so-crappy Cerebro didn't--he knew exactly how much information Marie had on the city, knew why she was here, and knew the kinds of places Marie would go. Because while he might not like the place, he knew it in ways that probably no other X-Man did.
After all, he and Marie had more than memories in common.
He was vaguely amused that he wasn't thinking of Jean--usually, one look was enough to put together a fairly interesting set of scenarios that he used to entertain himself, though not since their first meeting had he seriously sat down and contemplated the numerous ways he could get her in bed. Though his first hour in the car had been spent doing the rewind/fast forward of this latest meeting, long black skirt and dark red shirt that didn't quite button all the way up--and the sudden sharp awareness that she was not nearly as uninterested as she was trying to be. That in itself was so highly dangerous it was actually tempting. And he was, all for intents and purposes, a hunter, and when prey showed weakness, it was his duty to take it down.
Fuck. Shouldn't even think about it.
Thirteen hours later, he'd long dismissed the entire situation because right now, he had to figure out what the hell he was going to do with little Marie, who apparently considered her eighteenth birthday some sort of fucking emancipation from good behavior.
Check out her memories, though, and he could guess where some of this was coming from. No question.
"I'm going to tie her the fuck up in the trunk and run her across the damned mountains for this," he muttered to himself, rather repetitively, chewing on the fifteenth of his cigars, leaving ten to get him into the city where he'd restock at the first place he saw. Chain smoking with near-perfect regeneration had its perks--its drawbacks were that the mild high didn't last long enough to snap his fingers at anymore, and that just pissed him off.
Fuck. This was how he wanted to spend his off-time. Fucking perfect. He had better things to do than chasing rebellious mutant girls across the country and dragging their asses home, though at that moment he really couldn't think of a single thing. Fight bars in this part of the country didn't pay well but he rarely worried about money, never had. And hadn't he been seriously considering going home anyway--oh fuck, he was even calling it home.
"Shit. Phoenix. Fucking hell, couldn't be Chicago or Atlanta or even Memphis. Phoenix."
Phoenix meant too much worry about exposure--though really, it'd been seven years and surely by now that little incident downtown had been forgotten or at least relegated to urban legend. With a growl, he crushed the end of the cigar into the ashtray, switching stations again to news--simple precaution, if Marie got caught doing something, it'd show up here very likely and Logan liked to be relatively prepared for what he was going to face.
Drugs. Shit, should have seen that coming a mile away. Idiotic--he'd drag her ass into a clinic and get that sample personally, after finding the son of a bitch who sold them to her and showing him a whole new definition of dissection.
{--"I wanna see the world, Logan." Twisting white hair between black gloves, staring into the distance as if by will alone she could remake the world the way she wanted it, that she could be gone with a thought or a breath.--}
{--"Then get learnin' some control. The day you control your powers, darlin', I'll take you wherever you want to go.--}
{--Liquid dark eyes, a glowing smile that lit her up from within that sometimes just stopped his heart, because no one in his remembered life ever looked at him like that. Shit, no one deserved that look, like he'd just answered every prayer she ever had and ever would have.--}
{--"You promise?"--}
{--And he, who didn't like promises, caught in that smile, all that sheer unquenchable hope, had heard himself agree that yeah, the day she figured it out, they'd be on the road. She recited the list of cities up to Anchorage, down to Mexico, laughing into her gloved hands when he told her Phoenix wasn't the place he'd recommend first. Marina del Ray, isn't that a song Logan, you've been there, and he nodded and said he'd been everywhere and she sat down at his feet, drawing her knees to her chest and asking him to tell her everything.--}
"She knows better than this." Hitting the wheel because it was there and convenient and was pleased to see that whatever else this car had, it also had good protection from a temperamental mutant.
"Why the hell did it get to this point? What the fuck was everyone doing, not seein' somethin' was wrong?"
And shit, she was in a school with telepaths, who shoulda figured out something was wrong a hell of a lot longer back, though Logan, in retrospect, rather thought that they had. No other reason for putting her in his class for the summer if not to keep her under supervision without it looking like supervision. God knew she shouldn't have been in that advanced a class yet.
He remembered teaching her, instinctively observing the changes that less than a year would bring to a girl's body, stopping himself short before he started on a road that led all kinds of uncomfortably incestuous places that even he, even at his most jaded, didn't pursue. Rogue was little Marie, the one he had shared a few quite frightening bonding moments with in his camper (regretfully gone, fuck you Sabretooth, if you're still alive your ass is dead the second you show your ugly face), who'd he'd come close to killing, but in karma, if he believed in that crap, he'd saved her life twice, so it evened out. She was a kid, the wide dark eyes staring at him between a bartender with a gun and an idiot who really shoulda known better than to pull a knife on a guy who was jittery at the best of times and descended straight into paranoia given the least opportunity.
He hadn't killed them though God knew everything in him wanted it and bad, and he sometimes thought it was because of that stare, that looked straight into him and quite clearly stated, without words, that whatever else he was and had been and would be, he'd never been a killer. How she got that he never knew, but there it was. That kind of faith didn't come along often, and if he had to do one thing decent in his life, it was making sure it didn't disappear.
He also remembered watching her eyes stare at the road that he itched to be on already and the reflection of his own need in there. The perfect understanding that he didn't think anyone else ever quite achieved. In a way, a way that in his current mood he just didn't want to admit (no use screwing up his anger with sympathy), he understood the need to run. Whether she was using drugs or no, Jean had given her the perfect excuse to break for it.
But she had to choose fucking Phoenix, and if he didn't know better, he'd think there was a message to him in that.
"Jean."
She jerked from the microscope, almost knocking over the test-tubes carefully arranged at her elbow. He couldn't do it often--surprise her like that. Damn, she was concentrating harder than she thought.
"Scott." He smiled when she looked up--a particular smile, meant only for her, and she grinned quickly. With all that confidence that even his youth couldn't diminish, he crossed the lab, a gentle hand sliding around her waist.
"You done?" A breath in her ear, a different question in the two words she wanted to answer a different way.
"Not quite." With a regretful tilt of the head, she brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Another hour. I want to finish updating the med records."
He didn't complain--if there was anything grafted into Scott Summers' soul without appeal, it was his sense of duty. Even at ten o'clock at night. So he nodded, stepping back with another smile, occupying himself with her computer while she watched him. The brush of neatly trimmed hair on his collar, the sharp lines of his clothes. So very Scott, with perfect posture and quiet movements, knowing she would need the silence to concentrate.
Microscope. Right. Back to work.
"We got a call from Logan," Scott tossed over his shoulder. Jean blinked, a little startled by the change in topic, turning around to view her fiancée's broad back.
"He found her?"
Scott half-turned, nodding.
"Traced her through two motels. He thinks it'll be another day before he catches up. But he did ask that you be ready to test her the second she's in the school." A pause, and Scott's voice dropped. "I guess we've got confirmation now."
It would be interesting to speculate how Logan had determined for certain Rogue was toying with narcotics when he hadn't even seen her yet--in fact, Jean had been itching for almost a year to sit him down and run him through the whole battery of sensory tests and try to get a pinpoint of his limits.
"Yeah. How was he?"
A low laugh.
"Not very happy." Then silence, and Jean opened her mind, letting herself catch the feeling of him--anger, yes, frustration, definitely, and running under it all, that curious Scott-specific sense of personal failure, that one of their own had somehow gotten this far without being nudged back properly, and it hurt her.
"Scott, no one knew."
It was hours of trying to get through to Rogue in their weekly therapy sessions, how fast she was learning what disturbed them, how quickly she adapted to telepathic and empathic nudges. When she deliberately summoned all of Eric left in her to throw the Professor off, when she murmured with a gentle grin the images Logan had of Jean in his head.
{--"Wanna know, Jean? Wanna know what he wants to do? How he wants to do it? All the ways he can see you? Look, Jean."--}
{--"I don't think so."--}
{--A cocked head, familiar dark eyes narrowing.--}
{--"Afraid you might like it?"--}
She wasn't sure. God, she couldn't be sure at all, even clamping her shields down, a flush burning into her cheeks, the Professors' gaze on her. After time, you would think that attack would fade. Rogue used it when she was cornered, the one way she knew could bring Jean down, assaulting her with images that forced her to throw her shields up so hard she couldn't feel anything but the hammer of her heart and the unnatural arousal stealing up her body.
{--"That's how he sees you. Like it, Jeannie? Wanna know how it feels? I can show you, just ask nice. I know everything."--}
"We should have."
Jean was in the present with a jerk and blinked at Scott, who was watching her with a tight mouth. Still thinking about Rogue. {Rogue. Right.}
"Even the Professor didn't guess until her accounts were drained." Jean turned to her microscope, knowing she wouldn't get anything else done tonight. A pause. "When she gets back, we'll start all over again. Try to find out what went wrong. Help her."
{--"You're working on something and he comes up behind you, you can feel it under your skin, an itch you can't scratch, the only way you know he's watching you, thinking about you."--}
"Yeah." Soft. Before she could drag up any more uncomfortable memories, Jean began to reorganize her space. "You want to help me clean up?" A pulse of heat low in her stomach, and Scott turned around, as aware as she was of what was moving in her, even if he didn't know why. Crossing the two steps between them, lifting her onto the wide, low table, while she pushed the files carefully out of the way, scope out of range, lifting her head to gaze in his eyes.
{--"In the lab, Jean, over that table, Scooter ever do that with you? Keep your eyes closed and maybe it'll come true--"--}
She closed her eyes at the first brush of his fingers against her skin.
{--"Sex is all in the mind, Jeannie. Let it happen that way."--}
"At your service, Jean."
The air was painfully dry--Phoenix was a true city of the desert, not so much born as created in a sheer act of will, but lovely for all that, if you had any aesthetic taste. And if you didn't absolutely hate the sight of it.
After two days, Logan learned whole new dimensions to the word hate.
"I'm going to fucking lock her in her room." He had a litany he used driving between spots. It helped. "I'm going to tie her to her bed for the fucking next year. And I'm going to rip out the throats of every fucking person who dragged her along on this little road trip." In the back of his mind, though, he knew that little Marie was not exactly a follower. This little exercise had been all her idea--the trails of motels and frightened managers proved that. Hell, the city proved that, and yes, after two days, one police raid, and an extremely unhelpful interrogation of a motel manager, he knew this was a Marie-type message to him. Fuck if he knew what it was, though.
Fuck if he could figure out why, either.
Logan groped in the passenger seat for his box of cigars, recently bought--so that'd been worth it, his contacts here had gotten him Cubans--and considered the variety of punishments he had in store for the little brat, not the least of which was treating her to a lecture unlike anything she'd hear at the Mansion.
"Fuck." Biting off the tip, he groped for his lighter, wishing for the tenth time that the car had a built-in lighter, because damn if he wasn't losing his every second of every day. Stared out the windshield, pulling up the crumpled piece of paper with a watery address scrawled across it, close to the airport. The idiot hadn't taken as much persuasion as Logan had really wanted to utilize, and that just made his mood worse.
Abandoned warehouses. Perfect.
Three blocks away, Logan parked the car, knowing for a fact that any thief who tried to lift that baby had quite a shock coming to him, and tucked the keys in his boot before pulling out another cigar. He was way too fucking old (memory problem aside) to be wandering around this sort of place. Even from here, he could pick up the beat of the music, the scent of sweat and youth, alcohol and God knew things he didn't even want to identify carrying on dry air, just above the rot of abandoned buildings and the smell he'd long associated with decay, carried on cold, dry air.
It was an easy walk--they weren't hiding themselves too well, which meant he really didn't have all that much time. God, in a crowd, though, finding her would take awhile. And screw trying to ask around--if these kids weren't too high or drunk, Logan was willing to bet that saying a young girl with white streaks was gonna be a description of half the girls here. Broken pavement under his boots, the air that odd dry cold that just felt unnatural to a man who'd lived most of his winters surrounded by snow and ice. Made him edgy. Probably not the best thing to be in a group of barely-teenagers. Damn.
Because he was Logan and he liked reconnaissance, he took the back way, coming inside a darkened area full of remarkably vocal people--oh fuck, the scent was enough. With care--and not a little amusement, though shit, he shouldn't be amused--he picked his way to the wall, following it to the main room, coming out in brilliant illumination from what very well could have been dozens of revolving lights along the high ceiling Giving them a look once his eyes adjusted, he recognized the meld of technology and someone's very convenient mutation in the rippling colors.
And they called this music? He could feel the steady, addictive beat in the balls of his feet, working its way through his body effortlessly.
Logan stood perfectly still, letting himself adjust to the incredible sound, the smell--God, it was strong, how the fuck was he supposed to pick her out of this mess? But really, it wasn't an option not to--and the very fact he'd found this little party this easily, that these kids were advertising big time--well, that meant he had to get Marie and get her out in under an hour. Police intervention he did not need, thank you.
Slowly, he opened his senses, using them as he rarely did, trying to focus on scent after scent, searching for familiarity in the scramble of light and color and sound. Damn. He was picking up everything in here, everything in the room he'd just abandoned, and he couldn't pretend it wasn't having an unhealthy affect on him. Probably not a good idea to stay long.
With an act of will, he assessed the masses of twisting bodies of kids that by rights should have been at home in their pajamas, playing with their fucking dolls or whatever kids played with now. A girl who barely looked old enough to have reached puberty, dressed in little but stretch silver net, sliding up against him, and Logan didn't like himself any better for his instinctive reaction to the smell and feel of female flesh. Or for the fact he willingly slid one hand down her back, the feel of silky-soft skin padding her small bones, full red lips parting invitingly, pupils so dilated that she probably didn't have a fucking clue what the hell she was doing.
Fuck you, Logan, you've got to get going. This ain't what you wanna be thinking about. But he'd never stopped to control himself in his life, never needed to. That kind of self-discipline was utterly foreign. And shit, did he need it now.
God, she did smell good.
"Hey, baby, wanna dance?" Throaty, Midwestern twang. Not quite a native, completely not the girl he was looking for, and for all that, it took him a moment to register that he did not want to stare at her much longer. Blonde hair, lined blue eyes, and--
Get off it, Logan. You do not want to dance. Pushing her away, forcing his hand not to linger on that wonderfully silky skin--shit, the second he got Rogue home, he was going into New York and picking up the first willing woman he saw. He ducked through another knot of writhing--dancing?--teenagers, the heat beginning to get to him, sweat beading on the back of his neck. Finding a corner, he dropped his jacket--nothing important in it anyway--and went back in, mentally arming himself for being surrounded by young, high, extremely attractive and oh-so-willing girls. This had to be some sort of torture.
And he snapped his head around at a cool breeze in the overheated room, carrying a familiar scent. Snagging a chair, Logan pushed a stumbling boy out of his way, climbing up--
--and fuck, he shoulda known. In the center, surrounded by a mass of mutant teenagers--he knew the difference between human and mutant scent--moving faster than the others. Flashes of silver white on dark brown, he'd know her anywhere. Sliding with utter and uncharacteristic abandon against another body--or three others, it was hard to separate the rest of the mass when he had his focus, leather-clad arms above her head, moving in rhythm to the heavy beat.
A drop into another group that--what the hell was with these girls anyway?--moved too fucking close and he ducked through, keeping a trace on that scent, growing steadily stronger, toward the center group, mixing scents. And Rogue, hair twisting around her, head thrown back, eyes closed against porcelain perfect cheeks.
She was well-surrounded--he outweighed and overmatched any of the idiots near her. Pick up one, toss, really didn't care where he landed--God, the kids probably thought they was flying--and suddenly he had a delicate, leather-coated elbow and turned her around, jerking her away from the guy who was nearly at her feet, meeting dilated brown eyes lined thickly with liquid black and not a kid at all.
And his reaction was just as instinctive, just as damning, and that was it--Logan was done feeling like a fucking pedophile.
"Marie."
"Logan." Thickly drawled, richly Mississippi, completely unsurprised. She freed her elbow, a grin turning up reddened lips and her eyebrows arched. "Took ya long enough."
All in black--something small and opaque beneath clinging black gauze that covered her from neck to an inch above her waist, black gloves licking her upper arms, inches of dangerous bare skin exposed. Tiny black skirt riding low on her hips, long black stockings, black heeled shoes--raised her almost to his height. If she was leaving anything to the imagination, it was only the way she'd feel under your fingers. Sweat was beading on her forehead and made the gauze cling to her chest and back--he could smell the sweat on her, the perfume, beer, smoke, tobacco, whiskey, too many scents thickening around them and something in Logan's head began to pulse lightly at the trace of arousal. Hers.
"Out, Marie." The crowd surrounding her, perhaps picking up the impression that he was not one of them, was backing away, but Marie was moving to the music still, all liquid dark and boneless as a cat. Still staring at him with every twist of her hips that drew the eyes, and when the hell had she started looking like this, anyway?
"Dance with me, Logan." A brilliant smile, echoes of the girl in a hot Westchester summer on a thinner face. But only echoes, ones he could almost ignore.
"What the fuck are you on, Marie?" He got her wrist in one hand, twisting around to look at the others, wondering what they'd given her--and yeah, no fear, nothing but utter fascination for the stranger in their midst. Questioning them would be pointless. Forgetting them almost immediately when the music jumped a notch and the pulsing beat took them over again. Marie had stepped closer and a slow rub against him, and maybe it was in the air, it had to be, because he moved into it without thinking about it, forcing himself still at her slow smile, the light in her eyes.
"Nothin' hard, sugar. A little of this, l'il of that--" A low laugh, a slow sensuous writhing of her body with the heavy beat of the music. "Dance with me."
"We're going home."
"One dance." She slid back to the length his reach, turning in a slow circle, backing up against him, twisting his arm around her waist. His fingers brushed one leather-covered hip. "I'll go nice and quiet. Play with me, Logan. Just once. Then I'll be good--I'll be sooo good you'll be proud." Another twist against him, and he was looking down into her face. "C'mon, sugar, one dance never hurt anyone."
There were these things called right and fucking wrong. Very, very fucking wrong. So wrong that they hit all new depths even for him, and this was one of them. One of those moments that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was going to wake him up at night no matter what he did, because Marie wasn't a kid at all and maybe he could get back that illusion in Westchester, but he knew he couldn't here, no fucking way.
They weren't in New York and she wasn't in jeans and a t-shirt with her knees drawn up to her chest, scrubbed face smiling up at him.
She took the decision out of his hands, twisting her wrist around her own back so his arm circled her, sliding her other lightly around his waist, fingers crawling slowly up his back. Through three layers of material, he could feel the draw of her nails.
"One dance, sugar. I'll be good. I promise."
It was such a little thing. He moved without meaning to, when she slid a leg between his, head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat. She brought her captured wrist back around, then a slow and utterly fascinating slide down his body until she rested on the balls of her feet, less than an inch from the ground, staring up at him all the time and he switched his grip to her fingers, pulling her back up slowly, feeling the drag of her body over his thighs, his groin, his chest and finally he was staring into her eyes and it was hard to remember she was walking death with a touch to that white skin.
It was hard to remember to breathe.
"Yes, baby," she whispered, grinding down against his leg, and a breath when he pulled her flat against him, sliding an arm around her waist. A breathless moment where she met his eyes, and that scent again, pure arousal now, gloved fingers digging into the back of his neck. "Play with me."
He moved with her because there wasn't anything else to do--everything was the press of her breasts against his chest, the slow draw of her fingers over his shoulders, the hips he found himself holding, glad he'd worn gloves, wondering suddenly when he'd put them on--then it was all gone in a slow hot haze when she rocked against him, slowly bending herself backward, like a fucking offering, and images of what he wanted to do with her--what he could do with her, burning to inevitable life a little subsection of his mind, everything that could be accomplished while she wore just gauze and her gloves and those heels.
"Marie."
"Rogue," she whispered, a slow sensuous straightening of her body, another rock against him and he pushed her into a wall, startled by how sudden it was and not even caring. "Just Rogue now." Staring down at him and he pushed her up higher, one heeled foot scraping against the concrete before he felt the sharp bite of it in the back of his thigh and he caught the soft gauze-covered flesh of her shoulder between his teeth, feeling the jerk of her body, the tightening of her hands. God, she tasted as good as she looked, even through thin cloth. Something forbidden, which made it better, much better than anyone else he'd had in a long time. The bite of her nails through thin leather and his shirt, a slow line down his back, the bruising skin he was enjoying beneath his lips "Yes, Logan--yes, sugar."
He rocked between her legs, the smell of arousal stronger, the leather of her hands sliding over his throat, finding the buttons of his shirt, ripping one off and dropping it to the floor. Her other leg came up, circling his waist and he pressed against her, lifting his head to stare at her lips, into her eyes--
--dilated eyes. Fuck, she was drugged and he'd just lost his mind.
Before anything else could happen--before he remembered he carried condoms and why the hell had he brought them?--he dropped her, taking hold of her wrist, looking for the exit. Feeling the sweat drying on the back of his neck, ignoring the pulse over his entire body, the heat that wanted release and wanted it now, with her, right in this godforsaken former warehouse with dirt ground into the concrete floor under his feet.
Marie. Little Marie, and this was a new low even for him.
She didn't fight it, didn't say anything at all when he knocked people out of his way, half-wishing one of them would try to fight him, wishing one would show even the most passive of resistance, but he couldn't tune out the music that matched the hard beat of his blood, the violent need to just stop and forget why he was here and who she was and just call her Rogue when he pushed inside her the first time.
The dry cold seemed to freeze the sweat on the back of his neck and she shivered suddenly, reminding him he'd left his jacket somewhere in there. Everything told him not to go back in there with her--that if he did, he wouldn't leave again. Not when she stared up at him, licking her lips, and--God--
"You move, I find you. And I won't be nearly as fucking understanding. Stay right here." He sounded hoarse even to himself. God, don't follow him in. Don't do it. The double risk--he'd let her run before he walked back in there with her.
But she merely nodded, leaning back against the building, bracing a foot on the stone behind her, that tiny scrap of leather riding almost to her hips and the cold was doing something at least, it was giving him some semblance of sanity. He bit his lip, turning away, knocking aside anyone in the straight line he stalked to find his jacket, ignoring the scantily-dressed girls who pressed too close because in his mind there was only one scantily-dressed girl waiting outside for him--
No, God, she was not waiting for him, she was waiting to be hauled home and he'd be going as far away as possible.
Grabbing his jacket from a corner, he was back out in record time, almost expecting her to be gone, but she was still standing there, and he threw it at her without a word. Quietly--almost submissive if he hadn't just seen what she could do when she chose with just a movement of her body--she wrapped it around herself, smiling a little before he took hold of her wrist and led her to the car.
{"So what have you been up to these last few months?" she asked quickly, keeping her gaze steadily on the door as they rose up the levels. Too fast and too slow, and she half-wished they'd taken the stairs over on the far side of this level.}
{"Nothing much." Logan's usual answer, delivered with the usual dismissive quality that she associated with him not wanting to discuss it. She knew he sometimes told Rogue, though how the girl got him to open up was a mystery. "Just moving."}
{"Go anywhere interesting?" Shit, that's something one of the kids would ask. She twisted her hands in front of her, felt him take a step closer, the warmth of his skin inches away and God, she couldn't make herself look at him.}
{"Not really." Just behind her and to her right, close enough for his breath to sway her hair. "Never thought you people were interested in what I did."}
{She shrugged, studied casual.}
{"You never talk about it." She wanted to try a laugh and knew it'd fail before she even formed the thought, and why the hell was the elevator going so damned slow? Gently, almost as if she would break, she felt him brush her hair from her shoulder. A quick intake of breath and she turned her head, meeting the dark eyes that yes, they were stripping her and wondering how long the elevator took and how she'd feel pressed between him and the wall, and she didn't need to be a telepath to figure that out. She wouldn't need to do anything but nod and they'd both find out.}
{The possibilities opened before her eyes with all the brilliance of intense color after a black and white world and she caught her breath.}
{--"That's how he wants you, Jean. You like it?" As if Rogue was everywhere, telling her things she'd never wanted to know. Or maybe she had, but she shouldn't know, shouldn't care to know. "Nod, Jeannie. Just once."--}
{She took the bare step that separated them, that was all, but it was enough--she was pressed up against the wall of the elevator, mouth open when he kissed her, taking it hard, cutting her lip on his teeth, just like she'd always imagined--always imagined?--hands beneath her thighs lifting her up, sliding her legs apart. She braced an arm around his shoulder, fingers digging into his back, reaching down to pull her skirt up, ripping away her own underwear when he unbuttoned his jeans.
{"God, Red baby," he whispered and her legs clutched his hips with the first thrust that knocked her head back against the wall--and somewhere she heard Rogue laugh--}
"Jean? JEAN!"
Jean opened anticlimactically cool eyes on the ceiling, with the pulse still throbbing in her head. "Yeah, Scott?" And her voice was normal, and that couldn't be right. He was braced on an elbow beside her, all neat white cotton shirt and concerned gaze behind red glasses. Her fiancée, her lover, Scott.
"You okay? Sounded like a bad dream." He gently stroked her hair back and Jean breathed out slowly, drawing her mind back into the present, into the soft sheets she'd purchased when they moved in together, the warm comforter spread over her--it was too hot. Impatiently, she pushed it down and off, and even her nightgown seemed too warm for her heated flesh, even in a Westchester winter.
"Jean?"
{--"Isn't that how you always wanted it, Jean? Hard and fast and brutal and he feels it in you. I feel it in you, Jeannie. Go with it. Close your eyes, make it real."--}
A slow nod, staring up at him numbly, almost unbelievingly, feeling the fingers still digging into her hips. Smiled, letting her eyes darken, watching for his unmistakable reaction, sick exultation spiraling through her when he leaned down to kiss her, covering her with his body, a body too light, a kiss too soft, but close enough. Close enough when she bit his lip and tasted tangy iron and felt his jerk, his surprise. Slid her fingers under his shirt, drawing her nails down hard enough to make him hiss, his grip on her hair tightening suddenly, making her gasp and arch her throat for him.
{--"Close your eyes, Jeannie. Maybe it'll come true."--}
Eyes closed, rolling Scott on his back, staring down at him beneath her, shedding her nightgown and closing her teeth over the pulse of his throat, feeling the sick twist inside again.
All her mental shields clamped down. She didn't want to hear Rogue laugh.
The car was low on gas and good luck finding a decent gas station this late, and yet another conundrum, that'd he'd remembered gloves and (God alone knew why) condoms, but forgotten to gas up. Seeing the fuel level, Logan groaned to himself, glancing in the rearview mirror to see Marie half-asleep in the back seat where he'd tossed her the second they'd got to the car.
"You okay?"
A slow smile, half-closed eyes. "Dandy, sugar."
"When you feel better, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way back to New York."
Her eyes closed but the smile stayed.
"Whatever turns you on, sugar, just feel free."
That was not Marie talking. That was God-knew how much alcohol and drugs and whatever else she'd been doing for the last few days. Staring straight ahead, Logan wished that the space wasn't so small--shit, her scent was still having a highly uncomfortable effect on him still. Staring around, he saw what could be his only real option--to wit, one rather seedy-looking motel. The kind that wouldn't ask why he was carrying around a drugged girl who seemed to have all the inhibitions of a two dollar prostitute and dressed like something from a porn movie.
God, that was imagery he didn't need.
With a spin of the wheel, he pulled in, glancing back at Marie, now seemingly fully asleep. With a breath, he knew it was actual sleep, but he just couldn't bring himself to leave her alone out here--yet taking her in while he paid was just a bad idea all around. Looking over the line of rooms, he had an idea.
"Marie. Get the hell up."
One dark eye opened, regarding him curiously, before she sat up, grabbing his seat for support. Lipstick and mascara smeared on the seat and across one cheek. Absently, she rubbed her face.
"We home?"
She had to be kidding.
"Not even close, kid. Get up." Grabbing his cigars, he opened the door, dropping them on top of the car, then opened her door. Unsteadily, she climbed out, but once on her feet she swayed, leaning back against the roof briefly.
"I don't feel so good. Itchy." Her hands ran absently down her sides, catching his unwavering attention instantly, and it was disconcerting, to smell himself on her.
"What'd you take?" His voice was rougher and there it was--he was going into a motel with her, alone--fuck, this wasn't good, this couldn't be considered good by a long fucking stretch of the imagination.
She shrugged, a little jerky, scratching at her leather gloves uncomfortably. "Whatever they had. It was a looong time ago, Logan. I don't remember."
"Bright girl. Fucking brilliant, Marie." And taking her to a hospital was so many kinds of out of the question he didn't even bother to try and assign a motive. The closest help he had was a good thousand miles away and why the fuck didn't he ask Jeannie or someone to come along?
Like Scooter woulda let her go. Looking at Marie, though--with a shake of his head, he slid an arm around her, gritting his teeth at his new awareness of her as very female and apparently very willing. Too damned willing. Very high. Very high, very drunk. And he'd keep that burned firmly in mind, damn it. Without another thought, he led her to the motel room door and caught his glove between his teeth, pulling it off--no use ruining good gloves. Then a practiced flex of muscles and he cut into the lock.
Good thing Xavier gave him access to the Phoenix accounts. Damned good thing.
Kicking the door open, he led Marie in, groping for the light switch. Marie groaned at the illumination and he got her to the bed and dropped her. No, she didn't look like she was gonna try to run anytime soon. Still wrapped in his jacket, she rolled onto her side.
"I itch," she whimpered. "Even my blood itches."
"What did you take?" Though to be honest, he just didn't know enough about recreational drugs to know what to do about whatever she took, even if she figured it out.
She mumbled something that he couldn't hear, then the change in scent and breathing told him she was asleep. With a sigh, he left her as she was, shutting the light off at the last moment, snagging his wallet from his back pocket. Let her sleep it off. He could yell at her when she was able to fully appreciate just how pissed he really was. When he wasn't staring at the line of her skirt, rucked all the way to her fucking hips--God, she wasn't even wearing underwear.
He'd be sleeping in the fucking car, no question.
Ten minutes later, he walked back in the room and stared at his jacket laying in a trail of blood, leading to the bathroom.
The phone had been ringing for hours--Jean was sure of it. Sure because it had been in her dreams, that ceaseless ringing, and her exhausted body had no interest in finding out what kind of idiot called at three in the morning. None at all.
"Get it, Scott," she mumbled into her pillow. Felt him sit up behind her, his arm brush her shoulder, pulling the receiver from its cradle.
"What?" Sleepy voice, unhappy at being awakened. "Yeah, I'll accept the charges." Vague surprise in his mind and Jean roused herself a little more to take that in, then a sudden and violent descent of mood that brought Jean fully awake and sitting up before she was even aware that Scott had dropped the receiver, was out of bed.
"Logan," he said shortly before he disappeared inside the closet. Slowly, she picked it up, trying to divine from Scott's mind exactly what she was going to be dealing with.
"Jean." And she'd never heard Logan sound like that, not even those desperate hours when his anger had raged against them all, those hours Rogue was missing and they had no idea where she was, what Magneto wanted with her. "Fuck, Jeannie, I need--" A pause, and in the background, Jean heard Rogue's soft crying. "Shh, baby, it'll be okay. I got Jeannie on the phone." The sound of the receiver moving, the crying becoming more distinct, another shift, and then Logan again. "I need somewhere to take her--now. She's hurt--damn it, she's--"
A thousand possibilities flashed through her mind--hospitals were out of the question, not for a mutant like Rogue, and Jean saw Scott begin to walk to the door.
"Scott." A swift turn, grudging. "Get to my lab, find my contact directory. See if there are any doctors in that area." He paused, then nodded shortly. "Hurry, Scott." Then she was back on the phone, hearing Logan whispering to Rogue. "Logan, look, I know it's dangerous, but if--"
"Her skin won't. Whatever the fuck she took, it's screwed that up. I tried. I've been fucking trying for fifteen minutes. I'm trying right this fucking minute, and there's nothing." Edges of fear, edges of anger, too much for her to process from him, even over the phone. :::Professor? Please, sir, wake up. Professor, you're needed.:::
"Describe the wounds and where." Did you wake up badly, Logan? Shit, they should have sent someone with him, they should have done something, but no, he had to go off half-cocked on his own.
"She slashed her wrists. Said her blood itched." Jeannie drew in a breath, let it out slowly. Then again, forcing the haze back, refocusing on the here and now, on the description. She was a doctor, damn it.
"What's the pattern?"
A lengthy pause.
"Some sort of fucking criss-cross--looking like fucking lattice or something." Then the soft sound of someone whimpering. "Shh, Marie. Just--just stay calm. Don't scratch, don't fucking move, baby." Then, "Jean--"
"Did you stop the bleeding?"
Jean gripped the phone, wishing she was in Cerebro right this second--burning out would be worth finding out what the hell had happened, get straight into Rogue's or Logan's head, see it all in technicolor right this minute.
"I think so. Nothing new seeping through." Another pause, longer. She realized Rogue must be practically in his lap, she could hear the girl's crying so clearly. "Both arms to up to her elbow. Missed the major arteries, I--fuck, lay still, damn it, Marie!" More crying. "I'm sorry, baby, hush. Sorry. Lay still. Good, kid, hush. Everything'll be okay. No arteries--she was working on her elbow when I got in--fuck, she was trying to get in a hot bathtub, what the fuck does that tell you?"
She didn't say what they were both thinking.
"You said she took drugs?" Professional--she dealt with stuff like this. This was her job.
"Yeah. And no, no fucking clue what she took--hell, she doesn't even know."
"Any hypodermic trails on her arms--sorry, you wouldn't see that now." Jean was thinking fast, trying to put together something. "She's not--Logan, I don't think she was trying--" She paused, taking a breath, feeling a stress headache begin. :::Professor, wake up, damn it!::: "She said she itched, right--she just wanted to get in the water. It wasn't--she wasn't trying to hurt herself like that." She wasn't. They'd never caught a hint of suicidal tendencies, never. This was all the drugs--Rogue wasn't trying--:::Professor!:::
"She could fucking die!" Naked fear.
"Not if you got the bleeding under control and she missed the arteries." Jean let out a breath. "You need to get her some antibiotics, though--I can prescribe from here and you can pick them up in the morning, just let me find a pharmacy. You need to get her home, Logan. Now."
Silence--even Rogue was quiet now, and Jean got the feeling something was up on the other end of the line.
"She doesn't want to come back, Jean."
"Logan--"
"Look, she's--" Silence again, and in the background, she heard Rogue babbling something, heard the shift of bodies, Logan trying to calm her down as the hysteria raised her voice, enough for Jean to hear it.
"I won't go back! No, Logan--don't make me, I'll do anything--don't make me go back there--please, please, Logan, please--" The receiver was pressed to the mattress apparently, because everything was muffled and Jean held her breath. She heard the door open, Scott in the room, then the second extension picked up by the Professor, and they both waited patiently while the muffled sounds continued. Finally, clarity again, and Jean heard the silence on the other end.
"Logan," she said desperately. "Talk to the Professor, okay? I'll get those prescriptions out--they'll be ready. Where are you? Give the Professor the address--I'll send it to the closest pharmacy. Okay? Okay?"
The quiet was ominous.
"All right."
"Okay, Logan. Everything will be fine. I'll see you when you get home." Before he could say anything else, she hung up the phone, so glad the Professor had come on, so glad she didn't have to handle this, taking the pad from Scott's hand and staring down at it, at Scott's neat handwriting.
She couldn't make sense of a single word.
It was the longest night of his life.
Iodine--the idiot manager had had it, by some miracle, and he took her to the bathroom, twisting her long hair back while she vomited into the toilet, her body shaking so badly he had to support her enough to sit upright. Removing the shreds of the first sheet, he soaked the corner of one of the blankets in the thick brown liquid, smearing it up her arms, shredding another sheet, a little more neatly this time, and binding up the brown and angry-red slashes--where the fuck had she gotten a razor?--some unremembered memory guiding him in simple first aid. She leaned against him, whimpering with cramps that shook her body, while he got her relatively clean, going through the clothes he brought, stripping her to the skin (safe skin, at least temporarily) and redressing her, carrying her back to the bed while she cried softly. Her voice had given out an hour before, with the first violent rush of nausea.
"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly.
"S'okay, Marie." Stroking her hair back before he got up, feeling the dark eyes follow him around the room while he cleaned up the blood that was already soaking into the floor. "Don't worry about it, kid. Go to sleep."
Bring her home. Fuck, he couldn't handle this, sure, but--he stopped for a minute, taking a long breath before he let his temper get away again, remembering the feel of her fingers when he yelled at the Professor, the reasoned replies. Bring her home, we'll fix everything together. Family. She'll get through this, Logan, she just needs help. Normal adolescent rebellion, this sort of thing happens to normal teenagers every day. She's so young, bring her home. Bring her home.
Bring her home. They dealt with crap like this. They understood it. He didn't. Looking at her though--huge dark eyes and her hair a mess, make-up washed from her blanched face--God, he wasn't sure.
When he'd told her they were going back, he'd read nothing in her face at all. Maybe she knew neither of them had a real choice.
She shook her head sharply, whimpering at the pain when she moved.
"No. I'll hear it again--" A choked sob and she lifted a hand. "Please? Logan, I don't--I can't--"
He threw the remains of the blood-soaked blanket in a corner, sitting beside her on the bed while she gathered herself around him, head buried in his lap, sobbing like a small child, bare fingers gripping the edge of his shirt.
"What do you hear?" He pressed her hair back, gently, and finally, she was a kid again, it was okay for him to comfort a kid. Young enough to be his daughter if he'd ever had one. Safe. Running a thumb over her forehead, coming away cool, her body temperature too low. He reached for the blanket, wrapping it around her, feeling her tremble when he smoothed it over her back.
"All of them--all of you." Another soft gasp. "He's always waiting--he always talks about hate and he won't fade, he won't go away, like David. He won't--" She breathed out sharply. "God, he hates so much. So much." Wide eyes stared into his. "He's quiet when--he's quiet now."
"When you're drunk?"
"When I'm anything, when I'm--I'm not myself." A cough. "I just want him to be quiet."
"Magneto." Another reason to hate--Logan knew all about hate. Knew its many guises, knew it intimately--he'd hated the world for most of his memory. But Eric Lensherr had a special place, all his own, all hedged in a black rage that Logan couldn't permit himself to indulge right now, even as it flared to life inside him. A perfect hate, the kind that lasted forever and fuck, Logan could say that and mean it. Then he thought of the others in her head--him, the most recent, the one she'd taken the most from. "Me too?"
She laughed low in her throat.
"No. You--I can handle that. You don't--not always--" A soft sigh and she burrowed deeper into his leg, sliding an arm around him. "You're here. When you're here, you're always quiet." And her voice drifted off--she was going to sleep. "Don't leave, Logan. Don't leave me, please."
He stroked her hair back from her face, felt her arch a little into the touch before she collapsed into boneless slumber, one hand around his waist, twisted tightly into his shirt, the other resting under her cheek.
"I'm not going anywhere, baby."
"They'll heal fine. When did she turn back on?" asked Jean as she observed the monitors. Logan, collapsed in a chair, was staring with frightening blankness at the far wall. With her question, he roused himself a little, giving her an equally blank look.
"Early yesterday, in the car," Logan answered. Slowly, he got up, walking to the bed, staring down at the delicate body lying unconscious from the sedatives Jean had prescribed. "Damn it."
"You okay?"
A glance upward, the very slightest twist of a smile.
"Great, thank ya, darlin'." With a gloved hand, he stroked Rogue's hair back again, looking down at her with a peculiar intensity that was somehow familiar, though she couldn't quite put her finger on the reason why. With another stroke, he stepped back, shaking his head. "She'll be okay?"
"Yes. She'll be fine. I'm running a spectrum of her blood--but whatever she took has worked its way out of her system--it's going to be awhile before we'll know what flipped her mutation off." A nod. "You need to get some rest. When's the last time you slept?"
His startled glance was enough for her and she nodded quickly, putting down her clipboard, going to look at Rogue's serene face.
Rogue's mind was a mass of images--blending slightly in some ways, utterly vivid in others, all in brilliant emotional color. The Professor had frowned when he brushed against it, and for seconds, Jean was sure she'd heard music--a heavy beat, something she could feel throb in the balls of her feet, working itself up her body, until the Professor snapped the connection closed almost audibly, shaking his head and asking to be told when she woke up.
"I have a wire to my room--someone will be here with her at all times, they'll wake me up when she's conscious. Go to bed, Logan. Now." A quirk of her lips. "Doctor's orders-- darlin'." And that brought a smile--unwilling, a little frustrated, but it was there, and he nodded. Carefully, she put down her clipboard, walking to check on Rogue one more time, looking again at the darkening bruise on one of Rogue's shoulders, the imprint of teeth. Remembered Logan's rather unusual reaction to her question as to whether he knew if Rogue had indulged in any sexual activity. "Come on. I'll walk you out."
One of the students was already taking up a position near the call button--Jean gave Jubilee a grin and, taking Logan's arm, pulled him out the door, hearing the seal go into place behind them. "She'll be fine. Don't worry."
Logan nodded, though she could tell he really wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. The arm under her hand was tense--without meaning to, she stroked him gently, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound frighteningly inane, because he just wasn't the type to take platitudes with even a modicum of civility.
And for some reason, she kept hearing it in the back of her head--that heavy beat, softly throbbing in her eardrums.
"You feel like telling me what else happened in Phoenix?" she asked, and jerked suddenly, and the beat in her head jumped a notch.
"Nothing," he answered shortly, and they were at the elevator. With a frown, Jean pressed the button. "She was--different."
"She's growing up, Logan."
She felt rather than saw the jerk of his gaze back to her. Startlement, edges of sick guilt, more that she wasn't capable of sorting out into any coherent form.
"She's a kid. She doesn't need to be mixed up with that crap." As the doors opened, Jean stepped inside, feeling him follow her. With numb fingers, she tapped a button, and the doors closed slowly. For once, she didn't feel his gaze on her, feel that strangely heating regard.
In her mind, though, the hard beat continued, and she felt herself sway to it.
"Jean?"
{--"Close your eyes, Jeannie."--}
She reached out, hitting stop, feeling the elevator shift under her feet. Turned to stare at Logan, and the confusion cleared. For a second, she saw resistance, something hard that she couldn't identify.
{--"Maybe it'll come true."--}
Her hands came up, pushing him against the elevator wall, feeling his hands come up to her shoulders--too gentle, not quite right--and she was assaulted with the images picked from Rogue's mind, against a concrete wall, the smell of sweat and lust and self-disgust thick in her nostrils. Licking her lips, she pressed against him, reaching out with all her telepathic skills, needing him to feel it like she did.
"Jean--"
Lifting herself on her toes, she kissed him. Hard, biting his lip when he didn't respond fast enough, dropping her hands to the button of his jeans, trying to temper whatever was rising in her until he could match her--and finally, he did, hands hard on her waist, turning them around until her back slammed hard into the wall, taking her breath, and he was pressing into her mouth while she pulled her skirt up, pushing her underwear down until he ripped it off. She sucked in a shuddering breath when she felt him hard between her legs, his mouth buried in her throat.
"God, yes, Logan. Do it." Tilted her head back with shock at the first hard thrust, while he left bruises on her hips with his grip, and she locked one leg around his waist, pushing up against him with her toes on the floor. Breathed out sharply with the next, as he matched the beat in her head, steadily throbbing, shutting her eyes tight when his teeth grazed her collar over her shirt.
{--"Play with me."--}
It was so fast--her body arched sharply and she felt him growl against her neck, jerking against her, breathing something into her neck before the sparks exploded into something painfully hot, running through her like quicksilver. There was a slow slump to the floor and she stared over his shoulder with the beat fading in the background, trembling with shock, then met eyes that looked at her in sick disgust. For her, for himself. Pulling away from her, turning away before she could see more, feel more, but she had enough and her shields wouldn't come down fast enough to block it out.
It was several seconds before she realized he hadn't whispered her name when he came--he'd said Rogue.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm serious about the warnings--violence, not very nice sex, and drug use and what goes with that. Any of it makes you uncomfortable, don't flame me when you read it. Thank you, Ann, for the beta. Magdeleine for the read-through and encouragement. {--}are flashbacks. :::is all that telepathic stuff. You'll figure it out. I have faith.