Finally angels turn to my fire to dust
And my soul’s no longer mine to keep…
I wanna lay down on your shoulder
Surrender to the peace
And just go to sleep…
What was the point of that exercise in futility, finding out how broken we could be? she wondered, crawling over to where he lay on the ground, expending all his effort in breathing. He was shattered and she was bleeding, and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it. He tried to staunch her blood flow and it only got all over him; she tried to put him back together but the pieces wouldn’t stick. And above it all was the knowledge that if they quit now, their enemies would win and the whole world would eventually lose.
She wondered if it was selfish that the loss she most regretted was the one of the man who lay gasping for life beneath her.
“Think we’re gonna make it?” he rasped hoarsely and she shook her head, feeling dizzy from the loss of blood.
“I think we’re done for,” she answered softly as she rested her head on his chest and her cheek slipped against his slick, wet skin. “It was nice knowin’ ya.”
Thirty-Eight Days Earlier: New Year’s Eve
“They’re gonna to find you this time.”
“They’re not gonna find me, sugar,” she insisted. They were sitting close together in a tightly confined space in the men’s quarters that Wolverine had managed to sneak them into. As best as Rogue could tell, it had once served as a dry storage pantry back when the building was a mess hall. When she’d mentioned it, Logan had sniffed once and confirmed her suspicions: “Still smell the flour.”
Now, though he was bothered by the thought of her being discovered, he didn’t argue with her any more. She was a big girl, she knew the risks she was taking. He took just as many, and to be honest, he would have been disappointed if she had let fear of the dangers keep her from sneaking over to see him.
It was just six days after she’d slipped over to spend Christmas Eve trying to save his life, and while they both knew it increased their risk to try it twice in such a short span of time, Wolverine was getting sicker every day and Rogue worried about him... worried that their time was running out.
Now they sat, legs stretched out and twisted together, Rogue’s fingers playing over the palm of Logan’s hand. “They’ve stopped bringin’ you food,” she frowned. “I noticed that the other day. I'll start tryin’ to save some for you.”
“No, you need yours. It’s all right. I’ll live.”
Her eyes focused intently on their hands and she rebuked him quietly, “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
He shrugged, curling his fingers around hers and cradling her hands in his. “They probably figure I’ll die sooner or later anyway, why waste the rations?”
“That’s not the point,” she said harshly, her eyes burning with tears at the casual tone of his voice.
“I know, darlin’,” he soothed, caressing the skin on the back of her hand with his fingertips. “I know.”
After a few moments of silence during which Rogue linked her fingers with his and laid her head on his chest, listening to the wheezing rasp of his breath, she asked, “What do you think about?”
“When?” he wanted to know.
“Whenever. When you have nothing to do but think. What do you think about?”
He thought about that for a moment, sliding one arm around her body to gather her into his side, his hand pressing into her waist possessively.
“A lot of things,” he answered after a long silence. “Rememberin’, sometimes, to get my mind off bein’ here. Try to plot out ways of escape. Imagine what’d it be like to be able to kill those guards that... hurt you.”
She swallowed. Wolverine had his suspicions of just how much the guards had ‘hurt’ her and continued to do so, but neither of them had ever confirmed it aloud.
“Sometimes, I just think about you. Tryin’ to remember the way you smelled, back when I could distinguish your scent.”
“Back when I actually got to bathe, you mean?” she joked, and he chuckled.
“That, too. Wonder how you’re doin’ when I can’t see ya. If I’m ever gonna get ya outta here.” He tilted his chin down to look at her and she raised her head, meeting his eyes. “Wonder what you’re thinkin’, ‘specially after Christmas.” He held back the cough that wracked his frame after that long speech, and she waited until his breath returned to a shuddering almost-normal.
A smile flitted across her mouth and she cuddled into him further. “Well, I can help ya with that one, at least,” she murmured. “Most o’ the time, I’m thinkin’ about you. Worryin’, ya know, ‘cause I really don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost ya. You’re... you’re kinda my rock, y’know? You’ve always been there, an’ I guess I kinda took it for granted that you always would be.”
“Understandable, mutation an’ all.”
“Right, but now...” She stopped and shook her head. “Anyway. An’ after Christmas, at first, I was just so... surprised, I couldn’t really think.” A shy light entered her expression and he watched carefully, intrigued. “Then I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about seein’ ya again, hopin’... maybe...”
He untangled his left hand from her grasp and lifted it to her face, tilting her chin up towards his. “Hopin’?” he pressed, leaning down until she felt the word against her lips.
“Yeah,” she answered breathlessly, her heartbeat accelerating rapidly and her lungs drawing in quick, shallow gulps of air.
“Hopin’ I’d kiss ya again?” he continued, and she nodded.
“Uh-huh.”
“Hopin’ --”
She closed the minimal distance between them before he could say any more, her mouth landing firmly on his as her eyes fluttered closed with a sigh of pleasure. The hand on her chin slid into her hair, tilting her head at the perfect angle to allow him to kiss her more thoroughly.
When they broke apart to breathe, their lips still touching and their eyes still half-closed, she confessed, “Thinkin’ of you is what keeps me goin’.”
He nodded slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her chin, just below her lower lip. “I know what ya mean, darlin’,” he rasped. Then her arms wound around him and her mouth found his again and speech became unnecessary between them.
Present Day: Ash Wednesday
“Rogue,” he choked, and she did her best to focus, to pay attention to him. He was dying and she wanted to hear what he had to say above the patter of the rain. Of course, she was dying too, but she hadn’t really comprehended that yet. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” she asked softly, her energy almost nonexistent, as she had to remind herself to open her eyes every time she blinked. The precipice was looming close and all she wanted to do was sleep… except she wouldn’t ever wake up.
“That we never got out of here.” He coughed and the wheeze in his breath was echoed by the dying rattle in hers. “I wanted to…” The way his voice trailed off, leaving his desires unspoken, made her strangely sad, as if it was just highlighting the fact that he’d never get to do what he’d wanted to. What they’d both wanted.
“So did I,” she assured him, worried that the blood she was beginning to taste in her mouth was fresher than the dried, bitter copper she had been living with. She licked some of the rainwater off her lips and swallowed, wishing it would wash the tang of blood from her throat.
“We could have…” His hand rested clumsily on the back of her head, caressing her roughly as the pain in his body stole the grace from his movements. Another cough and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “It would’ve been…”
“Ssh, sugar,” she slurred, finally giving in to her exhaustion and letting her eyes slide closed, shivering as the warm rain soaked her skin. “At least we’re together now.”
“What —” he coughed, choking a little as blood started trickling into his own lungs. “What kind of a stupid line is that?” he teased, and she wanted to laugh but was too tired.
“Go easy on me, huh?” she murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’m dyin’ here.”
“Shit, Rogue, don’t say that.” His voice carried pain beyond the physical and sharp regret stole over her.
“Sorry,” she whispered into his collarbone, one hand petting softly over his bare, scarred chest. “G’night, Logan,” she sighed, unable to keep herself conscious for a moment longer.
“Rogue – no,” he protested, trying to sit up and failing as the weakness of his muscles and the dead weight of the woman on his chest pinned him down to the ground. “Stay with me…”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated sincerely as one warm breath escaped from her lips and skittered across his skin in farewell.
Fourteen Days Earlier: Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Birthday
“You can’t come see me again.”
She blinked, taken aback at the words he struggled to get out. He had been waiting for her in their closet, as they’d arranged by a signal that she’d meet him here tonight, and that ultimatum had been the first sound that had greeted her when she’d opened the door.
“Why not?”
“They know,” he answered. “They’ll be lookin’ for ya. An’ I won’t --” he paused to cough before continuing, “I won’t risk your life for this.”
“What else would you risk it for?” she snapped. “Dammit, Logan, we may never get outta here. You may die here, and I’ll be damned if I let you slip away without me because of some fuckin’ Neo-Nazis tryin’ ta play God.”
He glared fiercely at her, a spark of the old Wolverine igniting behind the haze of fever in his eyes, and she thrilled to see it.
“I won’t have you dyin’ because of me.”
“I’m gonna die anyway, sooner or later,” she growled. “Let me choose what I die for.” She crawled closer to him, pulling him to her and cradling his shivering body against her chest. He allowed the embrace, going willingly into her arms and relaxing into her. “I’d rather die for you than jus’ because I got born with an extra gene.”
He nodded against her throat, weakness evident in the movement, and she frowned, struggling to keep her breath from hitching with sadness. He didn’t have much time left.
“Logan,” she whispered into his hair, and he shook his head, shushing her.
“Don’ say it, Rogue,” he rasped. “It’s a cheap good-bye.”
“What if it’s the truth?” she responded.
“Then tell me when we’re outta here -- one way or another, we’re gettin’ out. Tell me then.”
Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of the way they’d most likely escape their prison -- their ashes rising in the smoke from the landfill where the useless ones were burned -- and she nodded against his head, her hands trying desperately to rub warmth into his withering body. “Okay,” she promised, pressing a kiss above his ear. “Okay.”
Present Day: Ash Wednesday
Logan lay back amidst the rubbish and the other broken bodies in the landfill, his eyes catching on a shock of red hair among the grey canvas of rough clothing, charred wood, and dirtied limbs. He thought of Jean Grey and sighed, wishing that their teammates had found him and Rogue earlier, before blood poisoning had set in from the metal on his bones, complicating his pneumonia and making every muscle ache and tremble… before a guard had gotten it into his head to pick on Mila, setting in motion a chain of events that led to Rogue’s current state – dead.
No, asleep, he insisted, knowing that he was only deceiving himself. Just asleep. His hand tightened convulsively in her hair and he shuddered. Today had been cleaning day at the compound – the guards had gone through and picked the ones who were no longer useful or were becoming trouble, executed them efficiently, and tossed them into the landfill to be burned and then buried.
A summer thunderstorm – and it was just so wrong to have summer a week before Valentine’s Day – had broken open the skies in a downpour, however, so the burning had been delayed. Most of the inhabitants of the landfill were already dead anyway and the ones who weren’t would be soon.
Seven Days Earlier: Groundhog Day
His eyes were duller than she’d seen them yet, as if a thick fog had wandered over the irises and Logan was lost in the mist. She couldn’t see any trace of him in his glassy, slack expression, and it troubled her deeply as her fingers skimmed over the rough, bearded skin of his face.
“Logan,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes when he blinked at the sound of her voice and struggled to focus, to resurface. “Logan, it’s me.”
“Rogue...” he croaked, and she nodded, trying her hardest not to cry.
“It’s me, sugar,” she repeated, leaning down next to his hunched-over form so she could whisper into his ear. “They’re gonna start spring cleanin’ next week.”
She’d overheard the conversation as she was hauling two large pitchers of water up from the well to the fields. The irrigation system was broken -- the victim of a careless digger or a clever rebel -- and the path from the old well to the fields where the men were working led straight past the general’s office. His windows were open to let in the pleasant breeze, and the voices of the officers had carried easily.
“There are too many of them; we cannot feed the workers if we continue to feed the leeches.”
“What do you suggest, Gray? Starve ‘em all?”
“An’ hafta listen to ‘em whine an’ bitch an’ moan? Hell, no. Load a bloody rifle an’ give the cadets target practice, tha’s what.”
“Not a bad idea, Sergeant. Done. Tell the guards they have six days to weed out their barracks... we’ll exterminate the useless on Wednesday.”
“Appropriate,” a third voice had commented, his American accent a sharp contrast to the others. “It’s Ash Wednesday next week.”
“Y’ don’t say? Well, ain’t that somethin’.”
Their hearty laughter had sent chills up her spine and she’d doubled her speed up the path, though her spine and shoulders ached from the pole that was laid across them, a huge jug of water hanging from each end.
Now, as Logan drank from the metal cup he held, her hands around his to steady them so the violent tremors that ran through him wouldn’t spill the precious water before it got to his mouth, she whispered the information to him.
He drank carefully for a moment before answering roughly, “Can’t be; it’s summer.”
“What?”
“Can’t be ‘spring cleanin’,” he repeated. “It’s summer here.”
She huffed in frustration. “You know what the hell I meant,” she snapped, and he grinned weakly at her. With a shake of her head, she tilted the cup up to his lips one last time and helped him drain the contents. When he was done, she wiped away the remaining droplets from his lips, caressing his skin as she went.
“Time’s up, I guess,” he shrugged. “They won’t keep me; I can’t even drink a goddamn cup o’ water by myself.”
“Logan,” she protested, but he shook his head.
“You know it, Rogue.”
A whip cracked in the sweltering late-summer heat, and Rogue jerked upright, one hand remaining on Logan’s bent shoulder.
“I’d better go,” she said, her voice filled with regret. Her fingers brushed across his ear and she leaned down, planting a quick kiss on his lips. “You know what I’m not tellin’ you,” she confirmed, her eyes finding his, and he nodded.
He knew. “You, too, Rogue.”
She turned and shouldered her load again before staggering down the row of thirsty men, stopping to allow them to dip their tin cups into the water before she continued. He watched her for long minutes until the field boss rode by, his whip singing loudly above Logan’s head.
She never looked back.
Present Day: Ash Wednesday
He’d been categorized as useless, as the foreign metal that coated his bones had begun to seep into his bloodstream, rendering his body uncooperative on his best days, unusable most of the time. Rogue would have been kept, he’d been certain, except that one of the guards pulled eight-year-old Mila out of the line-up and shoved her to her knees, pointing a high-powered rifle at the back of her head. Rogue hadn’t even hesitated before she’d leaped between the girl and the soldier, covering Mila’s body with her own. He frowned, remembering how they’d knocked Rogue out of the way, turned the gun on her and taken five well-aimed shots before swinging the barrel around to execute Mila as casually as if there’d been no interruption at all.
With great concentration and effort, he slid his hand from the back of her head to her shoulder, feeling the gory mess from the exit wound of a point-blank shot. That one had gone clean through, somehow missing all her vital organs, but her shoulder hung limply out of joint. The guard had been careful and sadistic, Logan thought with a frown. All the wounds on her body avoided hitting anything that could have killed her quickly. They’d wanted her to bleed to death slowly, and she had.
His mind howled with the outrage that his body was too weak to express and he clutched her limp figure to himself as best as he could. It ain’t fair, he railed at the universe as his own consciousness began to fade. She deserved better than dyin’ in a mass grave outside a labor camp in the middle of nowhere.
His breath rushed out of lungs that were incapable of holding onto it and his fingers loosened their grip on the woman in his arms. He fought to hold on to her but failed as the blackness that had been haunting the edges of his mind for weeks crept over him and finally possessed him completely.
Ninety Minutes Later
He awoke to excruciating, burning pain throughout his entire body and his spine arched involuntarily with the torment of it. “Oh, God,” he snarled, feeling his claws burst through the skin between his knuckles with a sharp tearing sensation. God it hurts…
“Hank! He’s –” Even through his agony, he knew that voice and one hand convulsively reached for the source. Jeannie.
“It is perfectly normal, though it appears gruesome,” Hank’s calm, cultured tones filtered through his brain. “It is simply the healing process in effect, although I confess it is unusual for him to be conscious.”
One word lodged in his mind like a secret code he’d known once and forgotten how to decipher. Healing. Why was that so important?
“But it’s so… violent. I’ve never seen him react like this before.” ~Logan, I’m here,~ her mind whispered in his mind, so soothing as the coolness of her psi-touch stole across his burning body.
“It is only an educated guess at this juncture… however, I do believe he was suffering the adverse affects of a metal skeleton. While normally abated by the power of his mutation, it would stand to reason that it would be a source of blood poisoning. I believe the infection was extensive, likely even fatal.”
Hank’s words were distorted, as if heard through running water, and he couldn’t assign a meaning to many of them. Other noises passed through his consciousness faster than he could comprehend them and he struggled for recognition against the pain that was dulling his judgment. A silk rustling of fur – Hank moving. A soft, satin rasp – Jean’s red hair falling against the smooth skin of her cheek. A quiet, steady creaking noise – Jeannie’s leather gloves against the steering column of the jet. He could just pick out their breathing and pulses, the steady thrum of the Blackbird’s engines and the sound of many machines beeping in the background.
His mind was beginning to come under his control and he took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to sort out the smells that would tell him more about his surroundings. He could smell Jean’s scent, that light mixture of the lotion she used and her own personal signature mingled with Scott’s, as it always was. He smelled Hank, whose odd scent was a boggling paradox of animal and human, along with all the medical odors he associated with the blue doctor. And he smelled… Rogue.
Her scent snapped into his brain and he immediately centered his focus on finding her. He could barely believe it, but he was certain he heard her shallow breathing and a fluttering, off-tempo heartbeat.
“Rogue,” he half-whispered, trying to open his eyes to get a visual on her.
“Sssh,” Jean’s voice came from the pilot’s seat at the front of the plane as her psi-touch smoothed over his forehead soothingly. ~She’s all right, Logan. You rest.~
~I’m healing,~ he thought back at her stubbornly and it suddenly clicked into place why that word had been so important when Hank said it. ~My ‘gift’ is workin’ again. I could touch her…~
Her censure was sharp and immediate, a wordless mental rebuke felt in the frontal lobes of his brain. He flinched, and she sent an apologetic ripple through his mind. ~You’re not strong enough,~ Jean argued. ~Just rest for now. Rogue will be fine. Hank’s taking care of her.~
~She was dead, Jeannie. She died in my arms.~
~She’s all right,~ Jean insisted, reinforcing her words with a firm pressure in his cerebellum. ~We resuscitated her and Hank stitched her up and has been giving her blood transfusions. She’s alive. You need to rest. Your collar hasn’t been off that long.~
He felt her moving in his mind, lulling him to sleep, and he knew she was right. He should sleep; it would help him heal quicker. He carefully hid from her the fleeting thought that the sooner he healed the sooner he’d be able to touch Rogue and be sure she was really all right. He could heal her... and he would.
Three Days Later: Lincoln’s Birthday
“I want to see her.”
“You can’t.”
The conversation was getting stale; those two lines had been repeated more times than anyone in their right mind would try to count. Wolverine, however, knew the count to be seventeen. Seventeen times in two days he had tried to get into the med lab to see Rogue and seventeen times he’d been turned away without so much as an explanation.
“Why the hell not?” he snarled dangerously. The claws were already out but Jean didn’t seem intimidated by them at all. She wouldn’t be; not only could her telekinesis knock him on his ass without half-trying, but the walls and doors of the med lab were adamantium. He found it ironic that the blame for the use of those building materials rested squarely on his shoulders – they had to have something his claws couldn’t get through in case they had to keep him confined... or lock him out, as the case might be.
“She isn’t strong enough for visitors yet,” Jean insisted and he felt a small twinge of triumph at this break in routine. Maybe he was wearing her down.
“Yeah, but I ain’t a visitor, Jeannie,” he pushed. “For one, you could just let me touch her –”
“Actually, I can’t,” she said smugly. “I’m not a doctor, Logan, much less her treating physician. Hank is making all the medical decisions where Rogue is concerned and the only reason I’m standing here talking to you is because he doesn’t have time to waste on trying to get you to see reason.”
“Jeannie, I like you,” Logan growled quietly. “You know I do. I respect ya, and I know you could hurt me bad if you had to. But,” he paused as he took a step towards her, closing the distance between them with a menacing air, “I’ll make you use every dirty trick you ever learned to keep me down if you don’t let me in to see her.”
“Logan,” Jean sighed, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. It wasn’t the intimidated stance he’d been trying for, but then, he hadn’t really expected her to back down. Neither of them knew how to give ground to the other – it made for interesting flirtations but an occasionally strained friendship.
“Look, it’s not my decision to keep you out of the lab. I’m doing this because Hank asked me to, because he thinks it’s the best thing for Rogue right now. I understand that the two of you just went through a really rough time together and you feel responsible for her well-being, but I can’t go against her doctor’s orders. Please try to understand this.”
“I understand, Jeannie,” he said easily, and Jean tensed, sensing more to come. Logan was a little amused that she hadn’t really thought he was conceding. “So tell Hank to let me in now and I won’t put Nair in his shampoo.”
Her eyes widened comically and he scowled, hiding the smug feeling in his chest. She knew it wasn’t an idle threat, coming from him. He didn’t make those. He felt an odd rippling, a shifting in the air pressure in the hallway, and knew she was contacting Hank telepathically. Her eyes went a little distant, but after a moment she blinked, focusing on him again.
“He says to come in,” she said quietly, stepping aside as the doors slid open.
Logan pushed past her and into the lab, drawing up short at the sight of the woman on the exam table. She was draped from her chest to her ankles in a white sheet and her hair was pulled back severely, leaving her face looking gaunt and strangely naked. There were garish bruises visible on her shoulders and the part of her chest that wasn’t covered by the sheet, and dark shadows under her eyes stood out in stark contrast to the lifelessly pale skin of her cheeks. The black metal collar was still around her neck and the sight of it infuriated him.
“Hank,” Logan said without taking his eyes from her, his voice trembling with a barely-contained quiet menace, “Take that fuckin’ thing off and let me touch her. Now.”
A soft whimper answered him from the table before Hank had a chance, and Logan was by her side in two long strides, leaning over her.
“No,” she whispered, and he frowned. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to open, and he rested a soothing hand on her arm.
“Ssh, darlin’, don’t talk,” he said in a rough whisper. “You need ta rest now.”
“No,” she repeated. “Don’t... touch.”
He took his hand away uncertainly, and she huffed in frustration. “I mean... not... to heal.”
“Rogue,” he growled, leaning in closer to her again, his hand going back to her arm. “I’m fine. I’m healed. Let me touch you.”
“No,” she said yet again and the thought flashed through his mind that he was getting really damn tired of that word. “Not... yet.”
He was baffled as to her hesitation, but didn’t want her straining herself to talk, so he settled in by her bedside to keep watch. “Jus’ sleep, darlin’,” he finally mumured. “I’m here.”
Ten Days Later: Washington’s Birthday
Rogue’s eyes fluttered open silently, not a sound escaping her parched lips, but Logan heard the gentle whisper of the air through her eyelashes and sat up, alert.
He remained silent until her eyes slid over to his and she turned her head slightly on the stark white pillow. Hank still hadn’t released her from the med lab, although he’d promised that if she continued her rapid recovery, she might be in her own room by the second week in March.
“Hey, sugar,” she offered weakly, and he smiled, his hand coming to rest on her sheet-covered wrist.
“How ya feelin’?” he asked, and she pursed her lips.
“Fine,” she answered decisively. “Just a coupla damn bullet-holes. Wish they’d let me go to my own damn room. It ain’t nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before.”
His eyes fell to the IV tube that ran into her arm, refusing to state the obvious. She’d never been starved, overworked and shot before. There was more to recover from than just a couple of “damn bullet holes.” The collar was still around her neck, but he’d swallowed his protests about it after Hank had told him that, if they allowed her mutation to return, he wouldn’t be able to penetrate her skin with needles or sutures or anything else that needed doing.
He’d snapped back that if they’d let him touch her, they wouldn’t need the damn needles, but Hank had shut him up with the simple reminder that Rogue didn’t want him to touch her.
That disturbed him, but he held his tongue and instead kept himself content with the fact that he was at least being allowed to stay with her in the med lab now. The Professor, Cyclops, and Storm were working on a battle plan to raid the labor camp, but Logan refused to leave Rogue’s side.
When he’d asked Hank how they’d even found the camp, the doctor had gone strangely silent for a moment before responding. “Several teams were sent out searchng for the two of you. Jean and I were in the Southern hemisphere, following rumors of mutant persecution in Tasmania and New Zealand, when Jean received what she referred to as ‘a mental distress signal’ from you that gave away your location. That is all I know.”
Now, as Logan looked into Rogue’s eyes, clear and cognizant even through the haze of pain, he couldn’t help but think that something larger than fate must have been at work in saving her life... and his.
Twenty-Two Days Later: St. Patrick’s Day
Logan settled himself into the swing beside Rogue, pushing lightly as he fell onto the seat and rocking them backwards. “Evenin’, darlin’,” he greeted her, and she smiled back.
“Hey, sugar,” she returned, her hand finding his and twining easily with it. She still wore the collar, as Hank called her down to the lab every few days to do check-ups and draw blood samples, and he savored the touch of her bare skin against his. In just two more days, if she passed her next physical, Hank would remove the collar.
She’d been quiet lately, moreso each day, and Logan didn’t know if it was her appointment with Hank that was on her mind or something else. He’d been watching her closely for the past week, and he’d come to the conclusion that he knew what was bothering her about the possibility of letting him touch her without the collar and had decided to finally stop tip-toeing around today.
“Think if I’m good, I can have a green beer?” she asked suddenly, and Logan blinked, jerked out of his thoughts.
“Huh?”
“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day,” she grinned. “I think I deserve a green beer.”
“Not unless your doctor says it’s okay,” he said firmly, and she rolled her eyes at him, her fingers twitching lightly around his.
“Yes, Momma,” she teased, and he arched an eyebrow at her.
“Next time you call me ‘momma,’ you better have a ragin’ fever or be sufferin’ from a life-threatenin’ loss of blood,” he growled, ignoring the brief contraction of his stomach at the mention of fatal injuries. He’d seen her bleed out once, and that was enough.
She went still and silent, too, and he frowned. It was too close to the ordeal to be joking about it yet.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” she blurted, and he tilted his head, encouraging her to continue. “There was somethin’ I said I wouldn’t say to you unless we got out.”
He nodded carefully, still watching her as she swallowed and looked at him, her gaze bouncing away to the porch, the tree in the front yard, and then the horizon when she found him staring back at her.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about why you didn’t want me to say it then, an’ it makes sense. It woulda been a cheap goodbye; too easy to say in the moment. Takes more courage to say it now.” She looked down at her lap, picking at her sweatpants with her free hand.
Through long moments of stiff silence, he resisted the urge to speak, to break the awkwardness. Finally, she looked him in the eye, took a deep breath, and said slowly, “Logan -- I love you.”
He stared back at her long and hard before he finally nodded. He knew he should say it back to her -- it was the truth, he did love her -- but that was too automatic, too cliche, and he didn’t want to relinquish himself to the mediocre.
So he said nothing, instead leaning in to brush his lips gingerly against hers, pulling back when she tried to deepen the kiss.
“Rogue,” he said firmly, arresting her attention. “What we started in the camp... what I feel for you now... that’s not gonna change.” His fingertips brushed over the black collar around her neck and he looked her in the eye. “Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she responded with hesitation.
He kissed her briefly again before explaining, “If I say I love you now, it won’t change in three days when you’re not wearing this anymore. I don’t want you to think it will.”
Doubt clouded her eyes for a moment but her faith in him won out and she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I believe you.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth and he leaned slowly toward her again. Just as their lips brushed, he murmured, “I love you, Rogue,” swallowing her happy laughter as her hand tightened around his.
They’d made it out... in more ways than one. They'd won after all.
The End
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
You don’t want to know what brought this on. The term “zero sum” refers to a win-all, lose-all type game where it is impossible to have more than one winner. Also, some minor character death. Quote from Melissa Etheridge, “Sleep.”