As Sweet As Damask Roses by Artemis2050
It wasn't any day in particular. Rogue had gotten into the habit, lately, of thinking of every day as two days before the weekend, three days after Jubilee's birthday, a week from the next time she had an assignment due. Anything to keep them all from being the same.
She supposed she could think of this as two weeks after Valentine's Day, but that was a little depressing even for her. The Day You Throw The Flowers Out? Although that hadn't exactly been a problem for her, this year. Every other wastebasket in the Mansion seemed to be stuffed with brown leaves and withered petals, though.
Anyway, there was nothing else she could think of to make this day different from any other, and the thought of flowers was something cheerful, so she made her way towards Storm's conservatory-cum-greenhouse, where she knew there would be a riot of color and scent and it would be warm.
She stuck her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she went, and shivered a little. It was cold out, but the real problem was that she still, after nearly a year, hadn't quite gotten used to being without her gloves. Which was strange, of course-she'd spent most of her life walking around with bare hands without a second thought. It was funny how wearing them had become second nature so quickly.
Rogue pushed open the door to the conservatory and leaned in. “Storm?” There was no answer. Hesitantly she entered the huge room, feeling the humid air close around her as the door shut silently behind her. She wandered a little further, hoping she wouldn't be interrupting the X-Men's leader in an increasingly rare hour of leisure. She relaxed a little as she got past the first few large plants and she could see Storm's usual area for her meditations, deserted.
Rogue walked slowly along the small pathways Storm had so carefully created, stopping here and there to smell a flower or to run her fingertips over a particularly soft-looking petal. She had loved coming here, just for that, even before she'd taken the Cure, because flowers and trees weren't bothered by her then-poisonous skin and this had been one of the only places she felt safe without her gloves, in the stillness of one of the only places in the Mansion where she could count on being alone. Storm didn't forbid others to come here, and she had never made Rogue feel unwelcome, but it was generally acknowledged to be a place of privacy. There were amazing, exotic blooms mixed with more mundane flowers Rogue had known and grown up with in her own grandmother's garden; she loved them all.
Eventually she reached her favorite spot, near the tall windows at the far end of the room, where there was a small stone bench set under a palm tree with spreading leaves. Today the incongruity of the snowy outdoors juxtaposed against the lush green interior was especially pleasant, and she sank down on the bench and drew her feet up, wrapping her arms around her knees. It was windy but sunny outside, and she could see the crystals of snow being swept up in brilliant patterns on the wind.
If Storm were here, she would sense the rhythm of the breezes and savor them as other people enjoyed music, Rogue knew. She gazed out at the visual melody she knew she couldn't completely comprehend, and lost herself for a while in trying to follow its complexities.
“Hey, kid.”
Rogue raised her head, startled out of her reverie, and managed a smile. “Hey, yourself,” she answered.
“Sorry. Thought you'd hear me coming.” Logan stood just behind her, hands resting easily on his hips. “Didn't expect to see anyone here,” he added, and moved past her to stand by the window. “Usually quiet here, except for Her Majesty.”
Rogue's smile widened a little at Logan's habit of conferring his own brand of nicknames on the Mansion inhabitants. She wondered if he ever used that one to Storm's face. “I come here sometimes. She doesn't mind.”
Logan just nodded, and Rogue watched as he absently rubbed at a dark stain on the back of one hand. Working in the garage, she realized. Motor oil. She rested her chin on her knees again as she considered what that might mean.
“Haven't seen you around much lately,” Logan said, and she looked up to find him studying her as he fished in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He came up with a lighter and she saw he had a cigar in one hand. “You mind?”
“Storm lets you smoke in here?” Rogue asked incredulously.
Logan quirked an eyebrow at her. “She hasn't said anything. Let you in on a little secret--I crack a window.”
“She'll know. It's freezing out,” Rogue pointed out. Logan glanced out the window again and seemed to weigh her words. “I mean, go ahead if you want. But if her ferns die, I'm tellin',” she added teasingly, and then was slightly aghast when Logan slid the lighter back into his pocket. “I won't really.”
“Nah. You're right.” Logan rolled the cigar between his fingers for a few seconds, and Rogue watched until he put it away as well. The stain on his knuckles was still there.
“Can't you smoke in the garage?” she asked curiously. It was huge--surely he wasn't worried about starting a fire.
“Could've, but there's a pack of kids tearing apart an engine down there. The racket was gettin' to me.”
“You could go outside,” she offered, and Logan turned and leaned back against the window, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I could,” he agreed. “Except, as someone recently pointed out, it's cold out there. And contrary to popular belief, I don't actually like freezin' my ass off.” Rogue wrinkled her nose at him. “Why? You trying to get rid of me?”
She sobered immediately. “No,” she answered simply, and Logan nodded once.
“Okay.” He turned his head again to look out the window, and they were both silent for a few minutes.
Rogue's interest in the swirls of ice crystals was gone, and she took advantage of Logan's distraction to study his hands some more. She didn't often get the chance.
“So where've you been?” Logan asked, and she jerked her attention upwards, but he was still looking outside. “You hang out here all the time?”
Belatedly she remembered his previous remark. “No. Just sometimes,” she sidestepped. “There were too many dead flowers all over the place downstairs. I wanted to look at some live ones.”
Logan snorted. “Thought I was the only one it bothered. The whole place smells like a rotting compost heap.” He glanced back at her. “Except yours, I mean.”
“Don't worry. I'm not contributing to the general decay this year.” She meant it to sound arch, but even to her own ears her voice sounded wistful.
“How come? Ice Pop too cheap to spring for flowers?” This time the nickname didn't inspire any amusement.
“We're not…he's dating Kitty,” Rogue said briefly, and was relieved when it came out without a quaver. She didn't have to look up to know that Logan had turned again to face her, but she kept her own gaze away from him. “And you don't have to apologize, 'cause I know you didn't know, so don't worry about it.”
Logan was silent for longer than was comfortable, and Rogue shifted a little in her seat. If he asked any questions…but he didn't, and when he finally moved it wasn't towards her, so she risked a glance up and saw that he was crouched down next to a rosebush that was climbing up a pillar a few feet away. As she watched, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a jackknife. When he turned back, he was holding a single white rose. He came back to where she was sitting and held it out. “Here. Don't tell Storm.”
Rogue reached out to take the flower, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. “I won't.” Her fingers brushed Logan's as she accepted the offering and she shivered with the contact; she tried to cover her nervousness by bringing the rose to her face and inhaling. “It's beautiful. Thank you,” she added.
Logan didn't answer, but he didn't move away either, and she was aware of his presence even though she didn't look up again. She could see his hands out of the corner of her eye, resting on his hips again, and she wondered what he was waiting for.
“I don't know if this matters any more, but I've been wanting to talk to you,” Logan said at last. “About that whole thing, with the Cure.”
“It wasn't because of that,” Rogue assured him hastily, but he cut her off.
“Not what I mean. If Drake couldn't deal with that, he's a bigger idiot than I thought, but that's not the point.” Rogue could hear the anger behind the even tone, but he didn't wait for any response from her. “What I mean is, I shouldn't've let you go off like that, by yourself. It was dangerous. I meant what I said about it bein' your decision, but someone should've gone with you. I should've gone with you. And I shouldn't've let Ororo spout all that idealistic crap at you about not needing to be fixed. Damn it--” Rogue looked up in surprise at the outburst, but he made an abrupt gesture for silence and she obeyed it. “I don't mean you needed fixing. Just--it's different for people like you and me, and she doesn't get that. Never will.” Logan flexed one hand, and Rogue inhaled sharply as she imagined the blades springing free from his knuckles. “It was different for you. You shouldn't have to live like that if you don't want to, and you shouldn't have had to listen to her bullshit. So I'm sorry.”
Rogue couldn't imagine what she could say to that. “It's okay,” she managed at last. “I was glad you didn't try to stop me, that's all.”
“Yeah, well.” Logan lowered his hand self-consciously, and took a step back. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that. Still friends, right?”
“Right,” she echoed. She felt a little stunned; Logan had never said so many words together in all the time she'd known him. He seemed to have finished with what he'd wanted to say, and she was more than content to just sit quietly, breathing in the scent of her rose and letting her gaze wander idly from him to the scenery outside. And then back to him.
“Should've washed up first, huh?” Logan had caught her looking, and she felt herself blushing. He glanced slightly ruefully at the grease stain across his knuckles, and turned over one hand to examine his nails.
“What're you working on?”
“Old pickup they used to use for grounds work,” he replied. “They were just gonna junk it.”
Rogue twirled the rose stem between her fingers. “You plannin' a trip?” She didn't even know why she was asking, really. He wouldn't answer.
“Maybe. Not really planning, but...” Logan shrugged. “Don't you ever want to get out of here for a while?”
Every day. But she kept that thought to herself. “I guess. Classes keep me pretty busy, though.”
“Thought you graduated or something.”
She was puzzled for a minute, then realized. “From high school, yeah. This is college.”
“Oh. Right.” He sounded a little surprised. “Smart people stuff.”
“Yeah, right.” Rogue rolled her eyes. “It's no big deal. Just a local school. You know, after everything that was happening, I didn't want to deal with moving and all.” She hadn't been sure she wanted to leave, because she'd had the feeling that once she was gone, coming back wouldn't be all that simple. Not for her. “Do you think…” She trailed off.
“What?”
Rogue changed gears. She didn't need to know what he thought about her moving somewhere else. Instead, she tore her gaze away from his hands and forced herself to meet his eyes. “You must have studied some things, right?”
His expression changed, ever so subtly. “I don't know. I guess. Not sure it was ever in school, though.”
“Like what?” She'd never really thought about it. Logan knew about motors and fighting and pool, she knew that much. It seemed strange after all this time, but she didn't know if he was any good at math or whether he could use a computer. Even what books he liked, if he liked any at all.
And as if he was sensing her thoughts, he answered, “I can read, if that's what you mean.” There was a hard edge to his voice, and she knew she'd ventured into dangerous territory.
“I know that. I didn't mean--you know what, forget I asked. Stupid question.” She stared resolutely at her rose, waiting for him to go back to whatever he'd been working on, or to go ahead and light up his cigar. Clearly the conversation was over.
“Japanese.” She didn't understand what he meant at first, and her expression must have told him as much. “I speak Japanese,” he clarified. “Not too great with writing, but I can read it, so I must've learned somewhere.”
Rogue couldn't restrain her delight, or the smile that broke over her face. “You're kidding. That is so cool!” To her vast relief, he was grinning back at her. “Say something in Japanese,” she demanded.
“Like what?” Logan hedged.
“I don't know.” She tried to think of something interesting.
“Shirimasen.” It took her a minute, and then she laughed.
“Say 'hello',” she requested.
Logan considered. “That's a little harder. It depends.”
“On what?”
“Practically everything. The Japanese have about six ways to say any given thing. Depends on who you're talking to, what the situation is, all kinds of stuff. For 'hello' it depends on what time of day it is, too. Konichi wa is probably close to what you mean,” he explained.
Rogue shook her head in amazement. “I can't believe I didn't know that about you,” she marvelled. She held up her rose. “Are there six words for this?”
“Not really. It'd change depending on what color it is. That's bara, white rose. Any old flower is hana. They name girls after flowers a lot over there. They just add an ending, like Hanako.”
“So I'd be Marie-ko?” she suggested, and instantly she knew she'd said something wrong. Logan stood up straight and his hands fell to his sides.
“Yeah. Maybe. That's a real name over there,” he told her, and somehow Rogue knew it wasn't just a real name, it was a real name that belonged to somebody. “It means…it's hard to translate.”
“It's okay,” she said, and suddenly she was really sick of all this, always pretending and being careful and then saying or doing the wrong thing anyway. Story of her life. She returned her gaze to his hands, watching the way they moved uneasily at his sides, as though he were as frustrated as she was. More probably he was just bored.
“What're you staring at?” Logan asked abruptly, and she was past the point of caring what she revealed.
“Your hands. They were the first thing I noticed about you,” she said, and Logan shifted his stance uncomfortably, finally putting his hands behind him, shoving them into his back pockets.
“I bet,” he returned.
Rogue just shook her head. “That's not what I meant. I mean, before that, when you came and sat down at the bar. I was watching you, the way you picked up your glass, and the way you were holding your cigar…” She dropped her eyes away from him entirely; if he didn't want her to look at him, she just wouldn't. “And later, when you gave me a ride. I remember looking at your hands on the steering wheel.”
“I remember,” Logan said, and his voice sounded strained. “I remember what you asked me.”
“But I wasn't thinking about the claws when I asked,” she said tiredly. “I was thinking about your hands.” She moved herself, swinging her feet down from the bench. “It doesn't matter. I just like to look at them, sometimes.”
“Okay.” Logan brought the hands in question around in front of him, opening and closing them a little self-consciously. “Other than…doesn't seem like they're anything special.”
But they are. And without meaning to, Rogue was looking at them again, and all the things she always remembered when she did flitted through her mind. The way he'd taken her hand to put it over the heater when she was cold in the camper. The way his hand had felt on her head, soothing her, as he offered her his protection on the train. The moment when he'd held up the dog tag she'd given him back before he'd returned his hands to the steering wheel, and she'd watched his knuckles whiten with his grip. His catching her arm as she started to walk out the door on her way to the hospital to take the Cure.
And the one memory she'd always wished she had of them. “Logan, can I ask you something?” He didn't reply, so she took his silence for assent. “What happened, up on the Statue? I mean, what did you do?”
“You know what happened,” he said quietly.
She shook her head. “No. Not really. I mean, yes, I know what happened, I just want to know how it happened.” And there was no one else who could tell her any more, if they ever had known anything about it, and she doubted that either Jean or Scott had known a thing about what she really wanted to hear.
“Christ…I don't know.” Logan folded his arms again, then awkwardly let them fall back to his sides. “You were chained into that machine. I cut you loose, and you weren't breathing, so I pulled off a glove and touched you. I didn't think it was working at first, and then it did. After that, well, you tell me.”
Rogue felt as though all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. There it was, the answer she'd wanted, in brusque brief syllables, and that was that. Except--“How did you touch me?” she asked, and she didn't know where she got the courage to make that demand. “Where? I want to know.”
She really didn't think he was going to respond. There was a long silence again, and then he moved, and for one heart-stopping second she thought he was leaving. But instead, he came back to stand in front of her.
“You gonna answer a question for me if I do this?”
“Yes,” Rogue responded without a moment of hesitation.
“Close your eyes.”
Logan wasn't going to tell her, he was going to show her, and her heart sped up at the realization. She didn't want to close her eyes, she wanted to watch. She wanted to see his hand coming towards her, to see the expression on his face, to have an idea of what would be going through his mind as he did what he was going to do. But she wanted the answer to her question more, and she obeyed his command.
And then Rogue felt one of his arms slide around her waist, and his hand was warm and strong at the small of her back as he lifted her to her feet. She hadn't expected that, and her head fell back with a startled gasp, but she kept her eyes shut. Then she felt the lightest of touches against her hair, and she remembered that that was when she had acquired the white streaks that framed her face, and that he must be recreating the first moment he'd seen them.
She felt his fingers against her face then, resting against her temple and cheek, and Logan was remembering for her, not just acting it out, because she could feel the way his touch went from hesitant to more insistent. I didn't think it was working at first. Then his hand moved up to bring her head closer, and she felt his lips barely brush against her forehead before he rested his cheek against her, his fingers cupping the back of her head tenderly.
Logan held her that way for several long seconds. Then he spoke, and she could feel the words rumbling up from his chest. “I don't remember much after that,” he told her, and it was probably that unfamiliar proximity that made his voice sound strange to her.
Rogue raised her head reluctantly, and finally dared to open her eyes again as Logan let his hand fall away from her head. “Thanks,” she offered, inadequate as that was. He didn't let her go, though; in fact, his other hand moved at her back to hold her even more firmly against him, and she didn't quite know what to do next. She still held the flower he'd given her in one hand, and her other was caught between them. “Is that your question? What happened next?”
Logan shook his head, and she was almost certain that he started to say something else before he asked, “How come you still wear scarves all the time?”
“Oh--” Unconsciously she reached up towards her neck, but the rose was in the way and she let her hand drop. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I'm just used to them. I don't quite feel dressed without one.”
Logan reached down and took one trailing end between his fingers, then let it fall and slid one finger between the scarf and her neck. It wasn't tied, just draped over her shoulder, and the silk slid free with a gentle tug. Rogue let her head fall back again as he ran that finger up the length of her neck. This is different. This isn't a memory. Then she gasped out loud as he bent his own head and she felt his mouth against her neck, a gentle kiss pressed to the sensitive hollow just over her collarbone.
Reflexively her hand closed over the stem of the rose she still held, and she couldn't help a short cry of pain and surprise when a thorn ran into her finger. Logan raised his head, but he still didn't let her go or move away; he just looked puzzled for a moment before he realized what had happened. Then he took the flower from her and let it fall onto the bench behind her, and raised her injured finger to his mouth and kissed that as well.
“You want me to stop?” The question in his eyes changed to something else when she shook her head, and he held her hand against his face for just a moment before he bent his head again and this time claimed her mouth with his own.
Rogue knew she wasn't dreaming simply because she didn't have that kind of luck, or that kind of imagination, even subconsciously. Logan's mouth on hers was softer and warmer than she'd ever thought it could be, the rough prickle of his beard providing contrast, and when she felt his tongue glide along her lower lip she let her lips part, eagerly darting her own tongue out to taste him in return. She didn't know what else to do, and he still had her free hand in his, so she just held on until he raised his head.
“Hey.” She opened her eyes again--she hadn't really realized she'd closed them--as Logan finally moved his hand from her back and stepped back just a bit. But he didn't let go of her hand, and when he brought his up and placed it against her cheek she couldn't help turning her face into his touch. “You all right?”
“Uh-huh.” Rogue ran her tongue over her lower lip. “Is that what you wanted to ask me?”
“Not exactly.” Logan looked intently at her for a second. “I was going to ask…look, I never asked you anything about what happened to you, running away, before you met me. I figured it wasn't any of my business, but it probably wasn't all that great.”
“No,” she agreed. Does he want to know now? “It kinda sucked, actually.”
“Yeah.” A flicker of discomfort crossed his expression. “So I never wanted you to think I was gonna be like that. You understand?” He frowned, obviously searching for words. “I wanted you to feel safe around me,” he said at last. “I don't want to fuck that up now.”
Rogue reached up impulsively and ran her hand down his neck, feeling the corded muscle there, and then brushed the back of her fingers over his beard. “You couldn't,” she stated with assurance. “Don't you know that?”
“No.” Logan had never looked at her like that, ever. “Why the hell is that?” He seemed almost angry. “You should've been scared of me.”
“I won't be.” She really just wanted to kiss him again, and she really, really hoped that was the real question at last, because then she could get back to that. “Goddamnit, Logan, you saved my life, you took care of me, I'm never gonna be scared of you, so get over it. And if you try to go back on this now, you should be scared of me, 'cause I'll kill you.”
Logan made a strange sound, and it wasn't until he caught her around the waist and lifted her off the ground that she was sure it was laughter. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on until he let her back down, slowly, and his mouth found hers once more, this time more demandingly, as he set her back on her feet. Rogue was breathless when the kiss ended. She knew she must look ridiculous, with the grin she couldn't keep off her face, but she didn't care. “We should come here more often,” she teased.
“Don't get too many bright ideas,” Logan warned her, only half-jokingly. “I'm not the kind of guy who goes in for romance.”
“No,” she disagreed, a little maliciously. “You're the kind of guy who gives a girl roses for no reason at all.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, but he didn't contradict her. Instead, he laced his fingers through hers, and he leaned down to retrieve the blossom in question before he nodded towards the door. “Come on,” he suggested, and Rogue took the rose from him as she followed him, but she did glance back and saw her scarf lying beside the bench, fallen unnoticed at some point.
She didn't bother going back for it. Today could be identified forever after as the day she lost her burgundy Italian silk scarf.
Or something like that. Somehow, she doubted she'd have trouble remembering this one.
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Story Notes:
Dedicated to the lovely Lady T 220, whose inspiring work Pink Carnations and Red Geraniums is to be found elsewhere on this site. Many thanks for allowing me to play with her toys.
Chapter End Notes:
Title of story taken from The Winter's Tale, Act IV, Scene IV. Yes, I'm a Shakespeare addict. Go ahead, please, look it up.
Note: in hanakatoba, the Japanese language of flowers, the meaning of a white rose is innocence, silence, devotion-and in some translations, eternal love.
Note: in hanakatoba, the Japanese language of flowers, the meaning of a white rose is innocence, silence, devotion-and in some translations, eternal love.