Author's Chapter Notes:
Sorry for the delay!

Chapter Seven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go home to your family, Chuck."

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

Stark then turned on his Personal Assistant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Rogue made sure that disgust showed on her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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