II: WAKING UP
Her control only lasted until she collapsed. She normally couldn't control it at all after she touched, not for several hours-to-days. Touching drained her of the power, but she guessed that the adrenalin, the fear, the flight, had allowed her a temporary period of reprieve. But when she woke from the med lab, vision still slightly Grey, mouth completely dry, she could feel her skin humming, hypersensitive, as if over-used, and she knew it was on.
And, like always, her control was too fragile. She could feel her mind fumbling to turn it off, felt it flicker a time or two, but…she couldn't sustain it. Exhausted, she dropped all pretense, and turned her eyes around her.
She could feel the quiet beeps of the med lab, the overly bright walls. She would have groaned, but she wasn't sure of vocalizations yet, but she did try to sit up, felt the insistent pain in her thigh this time, and knew Logan hadn't healed her. She was relieved – the last thing she needed right now was Logan, with all his opinions and feelings about them, about Jean, about the battle, in her head right now. Fucking dragon was more than enough.
Her rustling alerted Hank. He stood and offered her a drink. 'Feeling better?' he queried. She shook her head, and gratefully reached for the water, careful to avoid brushing his fingers. She would have gulped it down, but stopped abruptly, a quizzical eyebrow raised at Hank before she could open her mouth.
'You should find you'll be able to drink,' he answered. 'You can speak and that, too,' he gestured. 'Just not when you're enraged or…,' he quirked a smile to the pitcher of water, 'dehydrated.'
She gulped it down, and cautiously smiled. 'Weird gift,' she whispered, pleased when she didn't spray fire across the med lab. 'Glad it's not mine.'
'I'm sure,' grinned the doctor. He turned away to turn to the phone system. 'I'm to call Logan now. He wanted to know when you awoke, so he could heal you. I wouldn't allow it when you were unconscious, but he wanted to know the moment you awoke.'
'No,' she struggled to sit up and assert herself. 'No. Don't call him.' But Hank smiled in a perfunctory way, 'I'm leaving this completely between the two of you. I make it my business not to interfere in the idiocy of two patients.' He grinned wryly, turning to the house phone and speaking quietly and concisely in hushed tones over the end.
Rogue gave him a grim smile, decided to prepare for the worst. Logan would probably be down soon. She should get dressed, brush her hair, try to protect herself from as much as possible. Speaking of… 'How's Jean?' and she was proud that her concern, and not her anxiety, came out prominently in her inflection.
Hank turned round. 'She's…' he paused. 'She's conscious. She's eaten…breakfast this morning. Physically, she's in better shape than you.' He paused, and she looked at him expectantly. 'Mentally, well, we don't know what happened to her. We don't know her history. We do know that she's holding up rather well…she's rather….docile right now. Scott's caring for her, and we're all just trying to give her some space.'
Rogue nodded. It was better than she'd hoped. And she was glad. She was. But she realized with a frown, that the repercussions of Jean's discovery might not be felt for months…until she was able to function, until she was able to choose. And Logan and Scott, they'd all have to. Because—despite the mission and her uncertainty and how much she was trying to avoid thinking about it right now—she didn't think Logan would…he was honorable. And maybe confused. No, she didn't think any of this would be settled soon.
So not merely days, but weeks, months of not knowing The knowledge wasn't so disconcerting; it was the best possible scenario, all things considered. But that not-knowing left Rogue unable to decide how she was going to handle herself in the meantime. Was she supposed to let it slide, let it happen how it happened? How was she supposed to act towards Jean, towards Scott, towards Logan?
Well, you couldn't hold on to the Wolverine. Actually, she'd like to see someone try, and chuckled darkly at the image. A sense of humor would be crucial, she felt. Pity she no longer had one. Fuck it. In the absence of humor, cursing might help.
She could still feel the Dragon in her head, but his powers were fading… fast, now. She figured she wouldn't be able to access them later tonight, but she was far from feeling up-to-par, and her crankiness meter went up a notch.
Really, this was all Logan's fault. He let her absorb that Dragon-guy. He was all ambivalent about his feelings. He wanted to heal her. He wasn't here to argue with…
Until he was, striding into the room, just as she was gingerly rising from the bed.
He was also all business. 'Okay, darlin', come here,' and he was busy repositioning himself and her so that he could fall into bed after their brief touch, without pinning her in the process.
'No!' she pulled back quickly, disliking his heavy-handedness at this moment, and also, tangentially grateful that she was so well-covered in the med lab. Though, upon further consideration, just good practical sense on the part of Dr. Hank.
'Marie?' he paused, genuinely confused. 'Come on, c'mere. It'll just take a second, heal that leg right up.' His hands gentled, but were just as authoritarian.
She was more firm this time, less childish. 'No, Logan.'
His eyes narrowed. 'Marie,' her name was a warning. 'Stop now. I'm not gonna hurt you, and I'm not gonna die. It'll just take a little bit, and you're fine. Now come here.' He pressed her closer, his eyes determined.
'Logan,' and she looked him straight in the eye. 'Stop.' And thank heavens he did, staring her eye-to-eye and keeping his grip on her tight, and she worried about the tension in him, if he would just touch her anyway, her shields too weak to stop him.
He glared at her, sizing her up, and she waited to see what he would do.
'Why?' he asked, and she was a little surprised he was letting her get this far without railroading her. Or giving up in exasperation.
She took a bracing breath. 'It's not life-threatening. It's not necessary—'
'We've done this before,' he asserted, and his eyes now were searching.
'We agreed,' she began shakily.
'No, you agreed,' he corrected, giving her a bit of a shake. 'I told ya, I'd heal you from every nick and bruise if you wanted, but this…' he gestured to her heavily bandaged leg, 'doesn't fall into the minor category. This is major. This is a week of bed rest and weeks of rehabilitation.'
'Logan,' she pleaded.
'So, why?' he asked, voice higher now.
'I can't. I just…' her throat clogged, and she swallowed it back. 'I'm struggling with…with up here right now,' she gestured to her head, 'and…well, I just can't handle any more in my head just yet.' She felt him slump a little beside her and felt immediately guilty that she'd reminded him. She knew how touchy he was on the topic of the nightmares he'd given her. And it wasn't even the nightmares she feared from him.
But she'd underestimated him again. He pulled her in closer to his body, tucking her head firmly beneath his chin, and just rocked her. She let out a breath and accepted the comfort. She had him for now. She had him for now. And maybe, when the dust settled, and everyone figured out how everyone else felt about Jean's return, then maybe she'd have him then, too. As a friend, at least. God, this could get so ugly. She was weary just thinking about it.
The circles he was drawing on her back felt very good. She hummed a little under his touch, and she stroked his forearm through his shirt. 'I need to get my gloves,' she murmured. 'And a shower,' she added, her nose twitching.
Logan barked out a laugh, as she'd intended, and she turned to give him a thank-you smile. 'You smell good to me, baby,' he smirked. Sweet but impossible.
'You have lines for everything, Logan,' she teased tiredly. She got up from his lap, more awkwardly than she would have liked with the leg, and Logan was sweetly supportive about being her crutch out of the med lab and to their room. But he did ask, when she collapsed rather gratefully onto the bed, whether she'd let him heal her in a few days or a week's time.
She looked up, and his eyes were so worried and caring that she almost couldn't speak, but she answered, 'We'll see. Okay, Logan? We'll see.' And he nodded and didn't blame her or wash his hands of her or berate her for being a damn-fool or anything else. She knew she should feel guilty about that, but right then, she just couldn't feel anything but acute relief.
She couldn't sleep. She couldn't sleep with Logan right there, with her skin on.
She'd start to relax, reach that stage where she thought to herself 'I'm asleep,' then the tacked-on 'be careful!' woke her, every time. Or she'd doze off—jerk awake, find herself flicking compulsively, anxiously, trying to switch it off in sleep. Or, she'd have nightmares, almost out of some B Hollywood movie, that someone was skulking in the shadows (the whole hat and trench coat thing), stalking her, reaching out to touch her slowly, inevitably. She only wished it was as corny as it sounded.
And her leg ached and her skin hummed, and Logan wouldn't let her go during the night.
He was trying to be supportive. He surfaced from sleep when she jerked, squeezed tighter, soothed groggily, 'It's alright, darlin'. It's safe. I gotcha. It's safe.' Then he'd fall back asleep effortlessly, without knowing that it wasn't alright, that his having her did not make things better, safer. And she resented him, more than a little for that, much more than he deserved.
She was able to sleep better during the day, when Logan wasn't next to her, and she could almost go back in her mind to a time when she slept alone, had skin she couldn't normally control. She had strange dreams then, but she slept.
But Logan didn't like that, got his concerned, chastising expression on. He informed her that she needed to think of her leg, get used to it, get back on a 'schedule'. 'You sleep at night with me, like normal, darlin',' he decreed, straightening her clothes, brushing back her hair, and she repressed a desire to toss her head, reject his touch. 'The rest will be alright.'
So she was bored and sleep-deprived and trying desperately not to be cranky, not to be tetchy, not to be emotional. And she was trying not to think about turning it off. All the time. Especially since it normally would've. But, gradually, it was sorta working.
The first few days Logan had to teach, had duties, and it was a relief when he was out of their room. She nursed her leg, and he nursed her, and they had no conversation, too little to do. She was bored. He hovered. They were both trying very hard to be nice; neither was nice, so the effort cracked through.
But the weekend came, and it was clear that couldn't work. Logan was itching to go somewhere (Rogue suspected anywhere); but he wanted her to go, too. And though she tried to reassure him, tried to send him away, he was firm, and he was adamant, and he was carrying her because at the very least they were leaving this fucking room, getting some goddamn lunch, and did she have a problem with that?
And it was hard to accept his help, washing her hair and easing on shoes, after that.
Her leg wasn't really that bad. She was a little ashamed of how much she was letting herself take advantage of it. Because she could walk kind of, and she could sit, definitely; she didn't need the bed.
But she really didn't want to venture out into the school, find out what the mission had wrought. She didn't want to put her gloves on and cover up and worry again. And she didn't want to face whatever-was-happening with Jean.
Well, acknowledging you have a problem—the first step.
And so she clasped her arms around Logan's neck in what she hoped was grace but was probably resignation, and she allowed herself to be carried to the cafeteria without further argument. Because hey, acknowledgment to one's self was one thing, but she couldn't very well admit to Logan that she could probably lurch to the cafeteria herself, not when she'd been using it as an excuse all week. Besides, this was faster.
Logan deposited her in a fairly obscure corner of the cafeteria, for which she was grateful, and, in front of these others, was solicitous and inquiring and wondering what she wanted to eat. And Rogue answered mechanically and tried to look appreciative, and he took her order with a bit of a bow (a bow—really Logan?) and left.
There weren't that many students in the cafeteria, it being a weekend and off-hours, but after being carried, finally emerging, she was the center of attention, and she waved defiantly to the room, her gloves striking, blaring—back off. Oh, well, she had done this; she could do this.
Scott and Jean, on the other side of the cafeteria, were just leaving as she arrived, and with a lingering feeling of discomfort, she gleaned as much information from that brief look as she could. Jean looked pretty healthy, thin; not strong so much as capable, upright, in manner almost…regal. So much better than Rogue would have expected. And Scott trailed after her, solicitous, anxious, perhaps a bit too close. Scott spied Rogue for a short second as he stood, holding the door open for Jean—time for a short nod, small wave in return. Rogue frowned a little, strange, the role reversal already, but she could speculate all day and still not know what it meant.
Mind her own business, as she hoped other people would mind theirs, and belatedly she hoped that it hadn't been noted, that Jean hadn't been offended, this past week that she hadn't welcomed her back; although it didn't really matter whether Jean had. She'd behaved badly—to everyone, really. Especially Logan.
She was disinclined for conversation when he returned with their food.
They ate in dogged silence, focusing on the meal to keep from having to do anything more. Rogue studied the other students, who, despite the novelty of her appearance, were no longer studying them. Yup, they must look as interesting as they felt.
She pleaded tiredness when she was done, claimed she wanted a nap, he should leave her for the afternoon, and he stood abruptly, clapped their trays together and took them to the counter.
'You have to stop,' he told her brusquely on his return, leaning in to pick her up again: she was elevated and swinging in his arms before she was prepared. 'No more hiding.' And she was suddenly blinking back tears fiercely and turned away, and only hiding now because she hadn't been expecting it, so strong, so soon.
So, yes, yes, she was and did have to stop. She just resented being told.
'Ok. I'll try,' she conceded softly, as he set her down gently on the bed, arranged the blankets around her bad leg.
'Good.' He stood, leaning over her, hands splayed at his waist, and she knew she would really have to. She needed to, anyway. 'Sleep,' he commanded. 'I'll go out.' And she sighed and rolled over, to not sleep, to not go out, but to think of how she'd have to now.
Dressed and showered every morning. Eating in the cafeteria two meals a day. She was getting out, and Logan accepted that. And on Monday, when Logan went back to teaching, she made her way downstairs under her own power around midmorning, and it was then she found Jean.
She had pulled herself into the kitchenette, exhausted, aching, and after a few minutes of panting, she'd gotten herself a banana (all she could reach from her seat). She had just taken a tired bite, when Jean strode by, started and stopped, 'Rogue,' she'd said in warm, pleased surprise. Rogue mimed hello, swallowed a chunk, grunted out a real greeting.
'How's the leg?' Jean queried, peering down.
Rogue shrugged, shifted the ache out into a more comfortable position. 'Getting there.'
And Jean smiled in real pleasure, and began to busy herself making tea, and Rogue realized that they would have to talk about something real, that they probably should.
Still, she didn't want to come right out with the 'Glad you're no longer being tortured' talk; so…food? Not, she realized, back-pedaling, recent diets, but food here. Now. This particular food. Never good food, enough food, convenient food. Student-run kitchens, messiness, the problems inherent with public ownership. They each nodded wisely, desultorily. Rogue made to throw away her banana peel. Possibly leave, if she could manage it.
Then Jean seemed to decide to ask. With an air of detached curiosity peculiar in the situation, she brought up Rogue's membership as an X-men.
'I was a recruit two years ago,' Rogue swallowed, her eyes following Jean's movements as the tea was made. 'Then last year, an X-man. I know I don't have any offensive gifts, really. But Logan—uh, I was taught how to fight, and I could strategize, research…I could always kill. Ya know.' She shrugged, tried to explain how it had been. 'I think it was just, the number of missions grew, and they needed more trained people, and I was here…' she shrugged again.
She really didn't understand how she'd made it on the team over some others with more aggressive powers, but she supposed it was temperament, more than ability, that had made her a part of the team. And ultimately, she acknowledged, her relationship with Logan.
'You seemed very comfortable as part of the team,' Jean observed, surprising Rogue, because in tone it was so much like the oldknowing Jean, and surely she shouldn't be that still…or yet. And it was making her feel about three years old.
'Yeah,' she agreed quietly. 'I am.' You got that way fast when you trained as hard as they did, when you risked lives with people.
Jean smiled a bit, in that calm way of hers. 'You're good at being in charge,' she complimented smoothly, blowing on her tea and taking a careful sip.
Rogue frowned, wondering what Jean could possibly be basing that on, surely nothing she'd observed, certainly wasn't true lately. But she murmured her thanks anyway, tried to return it.
'So were y—are…you,' she fumbled her way into an intensely awkward pause. OH GOD. The pause had to be better than any words she said now. But Oh God, good God, Good Lord God…
'So you're with Logan now.' Was that any better than the awkward pause? But Jean, from what Rogue saw in glancing up, wasn't patronizing or jealous or surprised, just… wondering.
No hiding it, anyway. 'Yeah. It just kind of happened,' Rogue admitted, and that was precisely how it felt to her. After Jean, Scott left, she was there, and Logan had…yeah, it had just happened. And when Scott had returned, she'd known that Logan meant it. At least in the Jean-was-dead-Rogue-isn't kind of way. She'd been willing to go with it, had been pretty certain of it—until now.
Jean looked at her, slightly puzzled, a bit of concern in her eyes, and Rogue smiled in a way that was intended to reassure, though it grew a little nervous in the thickening silence. She really didn't want to go into it with Jean. She could understand why Jean might, but she really didn't want to go into it with Jean.
Jean must have seen that, because she let it drop, with a small smile, and saying, pretty sincerely, 'Oh. Well, that's nice.' Rogue murmured something even she couldn't recognize in response.
Jean glanced down, almost shyly, then, and excused herself in a low voice, made to walk off with her mug, and Rogue felt she couldn't leave it at that. 'Jean,' she called out over-loudly, spiking off the stool disjointedly.
Jean's shoulder hunched a bit, but she half-turned, a carefully open expression on her face. Rogue settled for a full confession, what she had wanted to say since…since she'd identified Jean in the lab. 'I just—you're probably hearing this from everybody, but—we missed you. I missed you. A lot. And I'm just so glad…' There was no good way to end that sentence, so she didn't even try.
Jean swallowed, and her face tightened, but she nodded, waved, and walked away. And Rogue hoped it had been alright to mention that.
She spent her days in the library, scoped out a little corner for herself by the fire, and found she quite liked to have life kind of…occur around her.
Students would drop in, over study hall, during lunch. It was rarely empty. And she enjoyed observing them, lazily eavesdropping, desultorily conversing. She caught up on the rumor mill around the school.
The students were a little wary of her, her skin. They'd never known her when she couldn't control it, and after all previous touches (a few missions, one danger room injury-healing session), she'd gained control much more quickly. So, they were understandably skittish around her, somehow less comfortable with her covered up, as though reminded. She found it morbidly comic that when she stretched out a gloved hand, they leaned away.
They got over it, partially at any rate, got used to her presence, too. And the girls would gab in front of her, and students would seek her advice about Scott or Logan as a teacher (never Storm or Hank), flip out the homework for an informal tutoring session. And she shrugged carelessly, chuckled in a detached manner at how it made her suddenly 'cool'.
She was slacking off and more popular than ever.
It wasn't so bad, the library; she was learning all kinds of things. That Scott followed Jean everywhere (the cutest thing!), but that Xavier (cagey man) wouldn't excuse him from his classes, and that Logan was helping Scott anyway, taking the senior gym class again. That Melody overheard Xavier tell Storm that Jean might be even more powerful than she'd been before, but no one knew for sure. That Remy (super hot) was always in the danger room now, and that though a flirt, he totally had the hots for Ororo.
Oh, and that Amy Sullivan had totally dissed Andy Reidman and was absolutely not going steady with him, even if she did give him tongue in the locker room.
When Logan found her there the first day, he'd been quietly pleased, and he'd even brought her dinner to her in there. He was less pleased the next day and the next, but he didn't push. He thought it a step up from their room, evidently.
He started sending people in to her for small chats throughout the day. Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, even Scott. She had to laugh at that one, because look at how far they'd come! And it was very transparent, this attempt to make her 'normal' again, which by some twisted logic, didn't allow her to talk about anything 'real'.
Jubilee in particular must have been warned, because she danced around topics with all the panache of a wrangler. At one point, they were actually discussing the weather: Catskills vs. Urals. Since neither of them had actually been to the Urals, or Asia or Europe for that matter, it wasn't a very informed discussion. But they did make a bet over it, which only an encyclopedia could settle.
It was a shade darker than boring.
Every day, she woke with a groan, from the throb in her leg, and then puffed in irritation, from her sweaty, gloved hands. She'd try to turn it off, and she couldn't. And then he'd eye her at that precise moment of irritation, frustration—cocked head, sweet and worried expression—and he'd ask about her leg, with that little glance that said, 'I'll heal it, just ask me.' And she'd answer, 'It's getting better,' more or less tightly. And he'd smile and kiss her hair and let it go.