Chapter Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

What was that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

"There's no bathroom!"

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

Thump. Thump.

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

Thump. Thump.

Up the steps. On the porch now.

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

She didn't have long to wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The fuck are you doin' here?"