Before: Three Months Ago

"I'm fine."

"Logan, you are not fine. You nearly died!" She whirls on him, one finger tapping away at his chest, both feet planted firmly to the ground so that she can avoid stomping like a child. Like she wants to. "Jean says-"

He snorts, his typical 'you're an idiot' snort, and it pisses her off. She can feel heat rushing to her cheeks, staining them with her indignation. "Jeannie exaggerates."

"You were out for three weeks, Logan. Three. Weeks. That is not an exaggeration, Sugah. That is a coma."

He growls, low and deep. The sound reverberating off the walls and into her bones in a tingly vibration that makes her shiver. His shoulders are tense, rigid. The veins running down his arms popping out as he flexes them. Looking like he might reach for her, and thinking better of it.

He looks so healthy. So damned healthy, and it scares her. Scares her that he can seem so fine. Seem so put-together, scowling at her in the middle of the library, when he was barely sitting up a day ago. When he had more tubes and wires and liquid drugs running into his veins then he had muscle to cover them, just two weeks ago. When he was rolled in, no breath in his lungs and no beat in his heart, less than a month ago. It scares the hell out of her.

And it pisses her off that he is being so damn casual about it. If she wasn't so unfathomably happy that he's actually alive and arguing with her, she'd beat him senseless.

There's a tell-tale twitching of a hairy eyebrow, and she responds by balling her hands in fists. Whether to keep herself from throttling him, or in preparation for a punch, depends on his next statement. He heaves a sigh, before running a hand down his face, from brown to chin, taking a moment to scratch at the unkempt hair along his cheeks. "Look, Rogue, I know you were worried-"

"Don't you 'Rogue' me, Wolverine." She hisses the words at him, and she thinks she can truly understand the phrase 'spitting mad' right at that moment. She's inhaling large gulps of air just trying to keep herself from screaming. "You're not invincible, no matter how much you like to pretend you are." She lifts a hand into his face and wiggles her fingers at him. "I've proved that before, haven't I? And if you saw...if you saw..." Her voice cracks, and she hates herself a little for that, but sucks it up. Sucks up the anger and channels it outward, towards the idiot in front of her that doesn't seem to get how close he came to leaving her alone. "If you saw how messed up you were, after what that...that-"

"Carbantium?" He offers the name up to her with a tease in his voice. Arms crossing loosely in front of his chest, puffing it out like an over-sized peacock on the prowl. A playful glint in his eyes. Like it's all a big joke. It makes her want to slap him.

"...that poison did to you. How bad it screwed you up? You wouldn't be cracking jokes, and waltzing around here like it was no big deal."

"Because it's not."

"It is!"

"I heal, Darlin'. Always have done, always will. Sometimes just takes a little longer than others. "

She huffs out a breath, ready to lay into him again. Ready to beat some God-damn sense into his metal-coated skull. Make him understand that this wasn't like before. That this was like nothin' else she'd ever seen. Was like nothin' she ever wanted to see again. It makes her head and her heart and her soul throb to think about.

She wants to describe to him, in as much nauseating detail as she can handle, how his flesh was a checkerboard of wounds. How the blood meant to be pumping in his veins was dripping in slow, sickly rivers out of them instead. Did he have any idea how many packets of blood Jean went through, just for transfusions those first days? Trying to pour back into him all that he had lost.

But she can see that it doesn't matter. That none of that will take. His patience with her arguments has come to an end, she can tell. His mouth pulled into a too-thin line, and jaw ticking every few seconds. His fingers twitching around a cigar that isn't there. She sees his eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. His gaze scanning her quickly, before it flickers towards the exit, like he's got somewhere else he'd rather be. Like he's just waiting for her to give, for her will to bend to his, so that he can get a move on. And she finds that she doesn't have the energy anymore.

"You know what? Forget it. If you aren't going to give a damn about yourself, then I'm not gonna waste my breath. I got better things to do." She can hear her words slurring into that deeper drawl that always takes over when she's feeling emotional, and she hates herself for that too. Because he can read her like a damn book even when she doesn't give him a how-to manual.

"Kid-"

She waves him off. "No, Logan. You wanna play at being an indestructible asshole, then be my guest. I'm not gonna watch." And then she's turning. Turning away from the argument, turning away from him. She can feel tears of frustration threatening at the corners of her eyes, and she'll be damned if he seems them fall, not when he doesn't seem to give two shits about-

Her thoughts are cut off mid-stream when a warm, heavy hand wraps around her wrist and tugs her back. Back around, and into him. She has no time, no time at all, to process the fact that Logan is stopping her oh-so-dramatic exit, before his lips are on hers. Pressing down, down. Lips too soft to belong to a man as gruff as Logan, melding with hers. The surprise of it - the unexpected act of kissing Logan, actually honest-to-God kissing Logan - makes her gasp. A desperate search for much needed air. But it's useless. He doesn't give her the moment she needs to breathe. No. Instead, instead his tongue finds its way to hers. Touching, tasting, wrapping around hers in a dueling dance.

There is heat and warmth and wet and want all wrapped up in him, in her, and she feels herself falling. Falling closer to him, falling into him. And she has a moment, a space as wide as two heartbeats, to give herself over to it. Give herself over to the thing she wants, but never dares to take. Only a moment, before a tingle, the tiniest of sparks that is not at all related to the searing need burning up between them, brings her back to the present, and she yanks herself away. As far away as she can, which isn't much, given how tight Logan's one hand is wrapped around her lower back, pressing her into him.

Her one hand is trapped in the vice-grip of his, the other is stuck between them, fingers curled against the cloth covering his chest. She has no idea how it even got there. But she uses it now to push against him, to try and pull away, and get some distance. Her voice, breathless though it may be, hitting the pitch of a dog whistle as she yells at him. "Logan! What the hell ya thinkin'? I'll hurt you!"

His words are a rough baritone, deep and thick. Entrancing her nerves, and pulling her in. "You won't." And then his lips are back on hers. Sliding, and nipping, and tugging. The hand at the small of her back moves upwards, tangling in her hair. Holding her head to his.

And she wants - oh dear God in heaven - she wants it. Wants him, every last breath and inch of him, to be hers. Wants to wrap herself around him now, and have him still be there tomorrow.

One second ticks on into the next, and she thinks maybe she can have it. Thinks she can sip on the whole of him, take her fill, and leave him still standing. But nothing has ever been that easy for her. Never will be, she thinks, as she feels all of him pouring into her. Thoughts and memories and feelings. A scream she can't voice echoing in her head.

~~~+~~~

If asked, Logan couldn't explain what possessed him to kiss her. Couldn't put words to the way that her anger, her frustration, her concern - for him - got his blood racing, and his hormones battling themselves beneath his skin. The entire time she was yelling at him - wispy white hairs stuck to her face by the little bits of spittle that came flying from her mouth, pupils dilated with anger - he warred with his instincts. Instincts screaming for him to grab her and show her just alive he really was. Just how little she needed to worry.

He tried to couch it in a tease, blow it off, dispel all that fear that was brewing beneath her surface. But that only made her angry, which in turn made his internal struggle worse.

All of which was amplified by his own mounting frustration and agitation. Because the truth of it was, that as flattered as a part of him was over her worry, it also ticked him off. Ticked him off to be reminded that he'd been down for the count. Taken out by a bunch of bastards too well prepared and too well funded, to be anything other than government pricks.

He thought he had it under control. Thought he'd be able to push her buttons just enough to be able to get the hell away from her. Far, far away. Where the chances of him doing anything stupid would be kept at a minimum. He'd be doing a damn decent job of just that recently, or so he'd thought. But then she'd turned away. Turned away, and the crisp, over-ripe scent of sadness, of resignation, of disappointment flooded off of her. And he wanted it gone. Wanted it gone, and replaced with anything else.

And so he'd kissed her. He'd kissed her, and with barely the first brush of his mouth against hers, he'd forgotten every reason why he never had before.

He wouldn't be able to explain any of that, if asked. It would just come out in a grumbled: "Mind your own damn business."

He hasn't had enough time to register what any of it means before she pulls away. She pulls away, and he can't let that happen. Doesn't want her to go. So he draws her back in.

He growls - a low, pleased sound - when her body melts into his. When she gives in and kisses him back. He really doesn't give a damn when the pull starts. There is pain, like a slow siphoning that starts at the soles of his feet, and racing up through his mouth and into her, but it's negligible compared to what he has recently recovered from. And so he keeps right on kissing her. Or, at least he would, if she'd let him. But of course she doesn't.

She pulls away, again, and this time he doesn't have the energy to drag her back in. This time his forehead falls to hers as he sucks in a sharp breath of air. He can feel his legs trembling and his hands shaking where they clutch at her. A moment of weakness he'd never be comfortable sharing with anyone else.

Her breath is heated and sweet where it ghosts against his face. The mint of her toothpaste mingled with his own leftover scent. A new flavor he won't ever get enough of. "You shouldn'ta done that, Logan."

"'M not sorry." It's all he can manage, the only words he can form. When he can peel his eyes open to lock onto her own, he expects a few things. Hopes for a few things.

He knows what he felt when they kissed, knows what he wants. Knows what he thinks she wants too. And it's on the tip of his tongue to offer it to her. To throw it out there, and see if they can make it stick. Make it work.

But there is a hooded, closed off look in her eyes. And the intoxicating scent of lust, want, need that had been permeating the air before, is now doused in icy shards of sadness.

She loosens the grip of her hand from his own, and lets it drop slowly from her; uses her other to push him back, and get him steady on his feet. The sense of loss he feels when he is no longer in contact with her, shocks him.

"But I am, Logan." And she means it. If her scent didn't give her away, then her eyes plainly would. She means it. She's sorry.

And then she is gone. Out the door, shoes slapping on hardwood in a smacking sound that gets further away, faster and faster every second, until it's gone. Out of range.

Logan is still standing in the library, hands clenched, and knuckles itching - trying to catch his breath, and figure out what the hell just happened - when a shuffling sound at his back reminds him that living in a mansion with telepaths means you're never really alone.

"In or out, Jeannie. Pick one."

"Wasn't sure if I'd be welcome, thought you might want some privacy."

He snorts. Privacy. "That whatcha callin' it these days?"

He waits for her to come into view, but she doesn't, instead she stays where she is, half-in, half-out of the room. Waiting on him. And despite his best efforts, his head turns in her direction, followed by the rest of his body. Finds her lounging in the doorway that Marie didn't run through.

"You had everyone worried, Logan. All of us." There is nothing but sincerity in her voice, in her scent. And he is reminded that he considers this woman a friend - even with the awful habit of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"But Rogue barely left your side." He knew that. He did. She was the first person he saw when he woke up, and damn it all if it looked like she hadn't slept the whole time he'd been out. "Is it really any surprise that she doesn't want to see you hurt again anytime soon?"

Friends or not, if she's implying what he thinks she is, he isn't gonna let that slide; so the growl he gives her is about as far from friendly as it gets. "Careful, Jean."

Arms that were laced loosely in front of her drop to her sides, and sway with her body as she makes her way towards him, stopping half-way. "All I'm saying, Logan, is to give her time. Maybe a little space. Let her have that."

He takes a step in her direction, hairs on the back of his neck rising with his anger. "What the hell for?"

One long-fingered hand reaches out to him. circling partway around his forearm. The sensation of skin-on-skin contact off-putting, and not at all what he wants right then. "Nearly losing someone you love can be hard on a person, Logan."

"It ain't like that." Of course, he thinks, that's exactly what it's like. He just doesn't see where it's any of Jeannie's business. He shucks off her hand from his arm, and brushes past her, determination leaking into his bones. Him and Marie are gonna have a talk. Now.

"She's not here, you know. The Professor gave her an assignment earlier. Said she was gonna stop on her way out, let you know where she was going. Didn't want you to worry."

"What?"

"Recon mission with Kitty." At his growl, she raises both hands in a defensive gesture. "Nothing rough. Guess she didn't mention it? Must of gotten distracted before she could. I wonder by what?"

Her playful tone would piss him off, but he's already past caring. Instead, his thoughts are back on Marie. Pissed at himself for picking a fight before she left, and for maybe making a mess of things. Pissed that he didn't follow after her when she walked out. She's been gone ten minutes, and he's already missing her. Can't help but wonder how long she'll be gone.

"She should be back in a couple of days."

The tone of Jean's voice is soft, placating. He starts for the door again anyway. "Stay outta my head, Jeannie."

"I don't have to go in your head to read you, Logan. Not when it involves Rogue."

That may be true, but the muffled gasp she lets off when he tosses a few choice phrases her way - without opening his mouth - proves that she still isn't above digging.

~~~+~~~

After: Day 10

Her head is swimming. Sloshing back and forth. To and fro. Like waves pounding at rocks. Like too many fists knock, knock, knocking away at her walls. Beggars trying to gain entry. She doesn't want to let them in.

"Bullshit."

"Now, Logan, I'm sure that Jean-"

"Shove it, Chuck. It's been five days, and you're all still giving me excuses."

"Logan-"

A growling; tense, on edge. Familiar. "No! I wanna know what the hell is wrong with her. Something. Anything. You gotta have a theory by now."

"I find it is be best to save speculations until such a time as they have been given some basis in fact."

"You wanna try that again in English, Furball?"

"What Hank is saying, Logan, what we have all been saying, is that we don't know what's wrong with Rogue. We aren't keeping you in the dark; you know as much as we do. You want us to guess, and we aren't in the habit of doing that."

"Try."

A scuffling. Yells. Shouting that reverberates off the inside of her mind. Inside her skull. Makes her ears ring. She wants to open her eyes, but she can't. She can't. And with that realization comes panic. A searing, suffocating, panic. Why can't she open her eyes? Why? Why why whywhywhy?

A calming thought rushes past all her gates and guards and wards. Shh, Darlin', it'll be all right. And she believes it, she folds herself into its warmth, and let's herself relax. Tries again.

"Keep your hands off my wife, Wolverine!"

"Tell your wife to keep her fingers outta my brain then, One-Eye."

"Gentleman, please. Calm down. Now, if we can just behave like the rational adults I know we all are..."

She tries again. Tries to open her eyes. And when that doesn't work, she tries to remember why she can't. Slowly, oh-so-very, very slowly, memories begin to shuffle their way back into place.

A little girl, no more than four, a skinned knee and an overturned big-wheel by her side. Fat droplets of tears spilling down her cheeks, as her father rushes to her aide. Scooping her up into his arms, and cradling her to his chest. "Shh, sweetheart. It's fine, Marie. Daddy's here. Daddy's here."

One at a time, they fall.

She is a boy named Max. The rain that falls freezes her skin, but there is nothing that she can do about that. Her clothes are threadbare, soaked straight through; the yellow star stitched to the shirt is nearly black with mud. Her mother, curled up by her side, is as cold as she is. As scared. But she doesn't cry out, so neither does Max. Max will sit, and wait, and try not to worry about what will happen to them next.

Slip, stumble, back into place.

"Yo! Carol! You're up." Fresh out of OCS, she is at a bar with the rest of her class. One last night of drunken debauchery, before they go their separate ways. It's late and she'll likely regret it in the morning. But she's young, and can bounce back quick. She turns her head from the open sky outside, to the row of shots lined up with her friends, waiting for her return. She grins. Whatever happens, the headache'll be worth it.

"-Our best...guess...is that whatever they did to turn her powers off, it's backfiring."

"No shit. You pay ninety thousand for that degree, Doc?"

"Actually, it was closer to-"

"I know it's backfiring, damn it!" A sound of metal splitting flesh, accompanied by that same familiar, angry growl. "I was there when she started speaking in tongues, and flipping through skin colors like a damn crayola box. I've read the file. I know how many people they forced her to absorb. What I don't know is how they shut if off in the first place, or why the hell it's coming back. And what I don't get is why the hell haven't any of you? It's been nearly two weeks since we found her, you tellin' me there hasn't been enough time to-"

"She wasn't the only one locked in that facility, you know that, Logan. We have had other concerns..."

Her body is submerged, held down beneath the surface in a glass tub. She can hear laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. She doesn't know why she is here. Doesn't know what it is they want. But she knows fear. Knows fear so thick that she chokes on it. Chokes on it, until she bursts forth from the constraints holding her down only to find that she is laying on a bed, in a room that reeks of day-old sex and nicotine. She takes quick, steady breaths to ease her racing heart, and relax her muscles. Feels her claws slide back into place. She lays back, wrapping a fist around the tags at her throat. She might not have any memory to go off of, but at least she has them.

She cries out, but no one can hear her. She tries again.

Her skin - her horrid, green skin - is being pelted by stones, and her cries of 'no! please! stop!' fall on deaf ears, like always. So she curls up tighter in a ball. Hoping that eventually they will get bored. That their taunts of 'Mort-a-smear' will grow old, and they will wonder off to find more exciting game. Experience has taught her that it takes roughly fifteen minutes before that ever happens. She's got twelve to go.

"So, what? You telling me we just gotta wait?"

"I know that it's not an easy concept, Logan. But at this point, I'm not sure there's any other choice."

"Bullshit. I thought you said you could help her. Thought you said you would."

"I said we could try."

She didn't want to leave home, she didn't want to leave, but after exploding the television for the third time (could she help it if she got excited whenever the Devils won?) her parents seemed to think it was a good idea, so she packed her things, and she went. She went. Course, she never expected the school she was being shipped off to would turn out to be in a mansion of all things. "Welcome to Xavier's, Timothy. We hope you'll like it here." Looking at the white-haired goddess in front of her, Timmy thinks maybe she will.

"-Lost in her own head-"

"So bring her back!"

"Don't you think we would have already, if we could-"

She's twenty, and the mission is supposed to be easy. Recon, mostly. Plus a small amount of hacking. Between the two of them, there shouldn't be any problems. Get in, get out, get back. Nothing to it. Except there's someone waiting for her. Not for Kitty. Not for the two of them. Not for any other X-Man, save possibly one. But for her. Though they'd gladly take any they could get their hands on..

"-It's not that easy."

"Why the hell not?"

The darts they shoot at them, go straight through Kitty, phasing out as her companion initiates emergency protocols and tries to get clear, like they were trained. But they hit Rogue in the chest, and neck. Her back hits the ground with a thud, her head follows a millisecond later with a thwack.

She gasps, trying to suck in air through a mouth that won't cooperate. Won't open. Can feel the muscles that control her eyelids struggling against the weight pinning them down. All around her, arguing.

"Hello, Ms. D'Ancanto. It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard good things. Very, very good things." She doesn't recognize the man hovering over her, but she recognizes the emblem on his coat. Recognizes it from the pages of images and text that Logan uncovered the last time he went out in search of his past, and came back empty-handed, or so he'd said (he'd blown that line all to hell the minute he'd kissed her).

"What the hell's happening? What's wrong with her! ?"

"She's seizing."

"Logan - give them some room. They need to work."

She's being tossed, carried, pushed, and pulled. Her head fuzzy with drugs, disoriented. She tries to struggle, to get loose. Free. But her limbs are bound too tight to allow any movement, and her muscles are still too lethargic from the shit they pumped into her. Wherever they are taking her, whatever happens there, it won't be good.

"Her heart rate's dropping, Hank give me-"

The cell is small. Eight foot wide, by ten foot long. A tiny shelf in the back with a pad on it that she guesses must be a cot. A plastic latrine near the front. There are no doors. No windows. Just a camera in the upper right-hand corner, with a tiny speaker.

"No! Marie!"

"Welcome to Weapon Plus, Ms. D'Ancanto. We hope you enjoy your stay."

She gasps. Her lungs swell. She blinks. The light is too bright, it burns.

She opens her eyes.

She wakes up.

~TBC