VII: HEALING

When she opened her eyes, she saw Him, staring at her intensely. She had always secretly hated that, the idea of him watching her until she woke. It could feel protective or loving, but with him it had always reeked of interrogation.

But today, she was almost glad of the opportunity, because there were things that must be said.

She started to rise, but he pressed her back down with a hand to her hair, and she complied because she couldn't touch him, not without gloves, and her legs and forearms were still bare. She eased back down.

'So,' he said, eyes narrowed slightly. 'You still can't turn it off.'

Somehow that just pissed her off—anger that had nothing to do with his having predicted exactly that two years ago, and then taken her to bed for the first time, rather like last night, entirely without explanation. She strained to get up, but he exerted more pressure on her shoulder. 'Why?'

'Why?' she accused, let a big ol' pause hang there. 'Don't you think if I knew why that I would be doing something about it? Huh?' She flicked her arm to get his off, rolled out from him to her knees to the bed, looking down on him. 'You want to start interrogating people, why don't we ask you about last night. What the hell was that?'

He stood before her, arms aggressive even when crossed at his chest. 'You enjoyed it,' he returned evenly.

'Enjoyed it? What the—? You go on a mission, that you told me about only hours before leaving, by the way, preceded by days of not talking, and you come back with that tormented look on your face, and jump me, and that's all you can say?...That I enjoyed it?'

His jaw was tense, and he was starting to invade her personal space. 'Rogue, your skin is—'

'No, stop with the skin thing. Nothing's new with me. I don't know what's going on with me, ok? But you—' she gave him a big poke in the chest as he made a grab for her, 'are going through something, too, and I sure as hell don't know what it is. You don't fucking tell me.'

He squeezed her shoulders through her T-shirt. 'Rogue, listen, we're going to—'

'No, you listen,' she cried, twisting away, 'we're not doing anything – just back—'

'Rogue,' and he grabbed her upper arm. 'I'm sorry. Let's start again.' He was gruff and taut, but he pulled her stiff body into his, and embraced her for a few minutes. She could feel his lips brush the top of her head. She wondered if she was being petty, and then stopped wondering… ok, so she was, but she wasn't sure if she was ready to get over it. Wasn't sure what she needed to get over it.

'So, d'ja sleep well?' he asked hesitantly, his voice muffled in her hair.

She was surprised into a bark of laughter. Ok, she'd try to get over it. 'Yeah,' she answered, face down but easing away. He was still holding her by the shoulders, and she made a conscious effort not to let that piss her off.

He kind of jiggled her a few times, in an effort to get her to look up at him. So she did, a kind of darting glance, an un-smile. That's all there was, she was trying.

He sighed and hugged her to him again, and she was more willing this time. He said softly, 'So the mission was…another lab,' and he exhaled suddenly, and a few of the images from last night assembled and she could see suddenly the starkness of cement cells, overgrown, moldy, wet, with fermenting metal toilets and a drain in the floor. His behavior made a lot more sense now, and she decided to let go of the anger entirely.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, putting her arms around him, squeezing him a little.

'Yeah?' and he tugged on her hair a little, coaxing her head up so he can see her face, and he looked uncertain, searching, like last night.

And it was this…this uncertainty that she just didn't get. 'Logan?'

And his face fell a little, his eyes closing as he brought their foreheads carefully together. 'I'm sorry about last night.'

'Why?' she asked gently, because she really didn't understand why he was sorry about that. She'd far rather he was sorry about other things. 'You were right; I enjoyed it,' she tried, striving for a little hilarity. His eyes opened, and he moved his hand from her shoulder to cradle her head.

'M'rie,' he admonished.

'I really, truly did,' she smiled, stroking his back. 'You were pretty wild. Wouldn't even let me get my pants off.' His smile was pretty pitiful. 'Hey. Hey, Logan. What is this? Talk to me.'

'I'm sorry, Marie. I'm sorry I went.'

She rubbed his tense arm. 'Hey. I'm sorry, too, if it means you feel as bad as this.' He was looking a little more calm but a lot more silent, so she tried, 'Yeah, ok, but, like what specifically was it that made you so sorry? Hmm?' God, this was like milking a stone.

He stroked up and down her spine, breathing in and out regularly. 'I'm… I didn't want to leave you.'

She had to admit to being more confused by this, but she answered, 'I was ok. I was ok here while you were gone. I was ok.' Certainly more ok than he was, having left.

He pulled her full into him, and she could feel him swallow. 'Logan.' There was a pause. 'Logan, a bit more, okay? What is it? Tell me.'

His next remark was a whisper, 'I wish you'd let me touch you.'

She pulled away so that she could look up into his face, but at the first sign of her withdrawal, his arms dropped to his sides, and on his face was an expression of defeat. She grasped his shoulders this time. 'You want to… to touch me?'

'Yes,' he answered, looking and sounding weary.

She glanced down. 'But my leg…it's almost healed, I mean,' and she gestured, 'three-and-a-half weeks, a few doses last night. It's really almost healed.' She felt so foolish repeating herself, but they were both a touch slow this morning. And her leg was visibly better, the pink scar peeking out from under her T-shirt, even if she did feel where she overused it last night.

He was still standing there despondently, arms impotently at his sides, but he asked, 'Please?'

She didn't know why, and they were still not talking, not really, but he seemed to need this, and that she could see. So she looped her fingers in his belt loops and tugged him again toward the bed. 'Ok,' she answered, pushing him to sit and then lie on the bed.

She hunkered down over him, and his arm came up to lay lightly against her back, and she leaned forward, but something was still dead in his eyes. So she tucked herself in beside him and gave a small smile and waited.

He gingerly adjusted himself to his side, facing her, and his arm drifted over her clothed waist and hips, and his eyes drifted over her face, as if trying to memorize it. 'Marie,' he whispered, and then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her, long and deep.

She could feel the pull strong and powerful, and how his kiss slowed but didn't falter when it started to really drain him. She tried to pull away, but his clasp was firm, and she only succeeded when he began to lose consciousness.

His hand dropped, and she panicked at first until she found his even breathing and steady heartbeat and watched his color fill back in slowly. And then she was calm enough to feel the effects of his healing, the burn and pull in her thigh that settled into vague warmth, the relief of last night's aches and pains, and the power she always felt after absorbing another person.

She also felt overwhelming relief, and realized, after a minute, that it was his, the emotion not attached to any image she could grasp. She closed her eyes, felt the rest of him filtering in unevenly in that peculiar way it always was with him, as many of the same images came to fit in with the jumble of images she had already. Like putting together the incomplete jigsaw, never knowing if she'd seen this piece before. It was always exhausting…and sometimes boring.

She stroked his chest and hoped he wouldn't be out for the rest of the day.

He stirred slightly, opened his eyes, and she shushed him and kept him down. His expression was relieved and tired, and he accepted the admonition to sleep without protest.

She couldn't turn off her skin, she couldn't really do anything with this much from him—she needed a few hours at least, until the filter was complete. So she settled down next to him, not to sleep, but to wait with him in her mind and her bed, to see how they fit together.

She woke up groggily about four hours later: she had dozed, she supposed, when the images had started sloughing, rather than racing, by. She hadn't learned much, hadn't really been searching too hard, either. A few scenes of their arguments over the past weeks: the images blurred, roiling. So many emotions she couldn't tease them apart. Conflicted. Confused. Join the club.

He'd been really worried about her leg; funny, her concern had been so much more focused on her skin, despite the physical pain of the other. Her injury had seemed easier, to focus on, to fix, but her skin was unforgettable. Maybe it was the mission, though—she'd only got one image from him, the Blackbird, her thigh, funnily—damn that was a lot of blood—she could understand how that might result in a fixation.

But she still couldn't jive that impression with the last few weeks, the last few years, really. Didn't a leg that would heal on its own rate somewhat below a skin-sucking mutation with wonky control? She had no idea, no image, no information, there.

Not too much on Jean, either—but then she'd been actively not looking. He'd healed her, as he'd wanted, and she was grateful for that. She didn't really feel a claim to his privacy as well, not unless it was forced upon her consciousness.

Christ, she had a headache. Absorption always did that. And…no, any hopes that her control was somehow tied to her injury—out the window. Just as not-off, can't-reach-it as ever.

She should probably get Logan something to eat; he was always better with food. She knew from his memories that it wasn't pain he felt, but that he was rather under-the-weather while he recovered. She had once teased him that it was what everyone else felt when they got the flu or a bad cold. But he hadn't been in the mood to be teased, and, in all honesty, she didn't know the etiquette of teasing someone over the pain they experienced while saving your life.

She slid out, trying not to disturb him. He never liked it when he woke up from this and she wasn't there. She didn't feel that that was necessarily too much to ask, but…fine, it was boring. Confining, stifling. Especially when she hadn't wanted/needed it this time. Well, ok, that was particularly ungenerous, but sometimes…

When she rose, though, and stretched and felt how good, how energetic her body was, she wondered if she had time for a quick workout. She hadn't had a real one since she'd injured her thigh, and she couldn't waste this feeling.

She eyed him—opening her drawers slooooowlyyyy—decided she could. She gathered her clothes to her, and tiptoed her way to the door. Maybe two hours? She inched the door shut and eased it locked.

The workout was wonderful. She ran—and ran and ran, and it felt excellent and the right sort of fatiguing and wonderful. And she hefted the weights and felt the burn and knew she'd be sore tomorrow. She eyed a few of the senior boys who were grappling on the mats, but she knew she couldn't risk it with her skin.

So she called it a day, and wiping her brow, headed to the kitchenette, heating up a bowl of soup to get over her guilt, and chugging a bottle of water from the fridge. She felt guilty, but not guilty enough, as the saying went, and wiped a sweaty brow, and justified that Logan was always telling her to work out more.

Speak of the devil, in he dragged himself, eyes bloodshot, short of breath, complexion a little green. 'What are you doing?' he grated, eyeing her across the counter.

She panicked, caught and hoping to get away with it, and she gestured to the microwave, 'Soup.' He swallowed distastefully, and she hastily amended, 'Soup for you. I thought you could do with some food.'

'Not now. Before,' he panted, his voice gravelly.

She wiped her brow with her forearm, confessed colorlessly, 'I went to work out. Get back in shape.'

He swayed and clutched the wall to straighten himself. She forgot her guilt and darted round the kitchen bench to get to him. 'Come on,' she coaxed, draping his arm around her shoulders carefully without gloves, and holding tight round his waist. 'Let's get you back to bed.'

He grunted but complied. Sweat was beginning to pop on his forehead. She couldn't help but mutter, 'What were you thinking, coming all the way down here?'

'You…weren't….,' he snarled between pants, and his face squinched in exertion.

'Shut it. You're not well, sugar.' He shot a pissed and pointed look at her, and she grumbled, 'I know, I know, my fault. It'll still be my fault when we get to the room. Come on.' He paused, leant against the wall again, panting, and he measured her up and down crossly, no doubt wondering if he could get back to the room without her. 'Come on, sugar,' she wheedled gently now. 'I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be up so soon. Come on. C'mere.'

He allowed himself to be pulled down the hall, and he was leaning on her heavily by the time they got to their room. He fell onto the bed awkwardly. She settled him, and he sighed a little weakly at the ceiling. 'Alright, sugar, I'll be right back.'

He got agitated, made an inarticulate noise. 'Your soup. I'll be back,' she repeated. He attempted a grab at her wrist, but she jumped up quickly, jerked back—no sleeves, naked wrist. 'Logan,' she said more firmly, stepping out of range. 'I'll be right back. You need something to eat before you go back to sleep. I promise, I'll be right back.'

He looked resigned but unhappy, and she sprinted out, hoping he wouldn't fall into asleep in the meantime.

She returned with a tray, and his gaze snapped to hers as the door opened. She set it down, grabbed her gloves and adjusted a few pillows, hefted him rather painfully into a sitting-up position. He couldn't help much.

He grumbled when she made to feed him, gave a rather tired growl, and he grabbed the spoon, fisted it to feed himself a few grim mouthfuls and fell back against the pillows, turned his face to the wall. That's-right-I-reject-you posture.

She gave a short laugh; well, he'd never made a good patient. She picked up the spoon, stirred it round the soup a few times, and swiped off the drop on the bottom of the spoon. He was watching her now, as she'd hoped, the fiddling attracting him, and she regarded him, considering how his touching her hadn't done what he'd wanted, it seemed, and it hadn't brought them any closer to each other. He looked miserable, a little sorry for himself and a lot sorry about her, and just this moment, she was sorry, too. She cared about him, and she hadn't been showing it lately.

She softened her expression and rubbed the spoon against the lip of the bowl again and raised it to his lips. He accepted it. She fed him the rest of the bowl, deliberately, slowly, and he watched her with that unfathomable expression the entire time.

When he was done, she set the tray aside and took the cup. 'Tea?' she asked softly, her voice a bit rusty. He made no motion, following her movements, so she leaned forward gradually, giving him time to reject it, and clasped the back of his head, and supported him while he drank.

'Rest,' she told him, sitting down into her chair, and his gaze didn't falter. 'I'll stay this time,' she promised, settling in. He tested her for another minute before closing his eyes.

He made up for his docility with crankiness that evening. She offered to make him a sandwich, and he groused about how it was made and what was on it.

'It's bland,' he complained, chewing it rather viciously. The effect was ruined when he grew tired, paused with a hunk still in his cheek, and had to resume more slowly.

'It's supposed to be bland. You don't eat spicy foods when you're recovering,' she explained patiently, determined not to let him irritate her.

'You smell,' he informed her, his nose twitching, conserving energy between bites.

She laughed at that. 'Well, someone didn't want me to go anywhere. So I didn't get a chance to take a shower yet.' She leaned back in the chair, rested her feet on the bed. 'Do I have your permission to take one? Cap'n?' she asked mockingly.

He grunted and took another bite.

'I'm gonna take one after you're finished with that.' And at his look, 'Hey, if you're well enough to bait me, you're well enough to do without me while I shower.'

He ripped off another bite and turned away, and she laughed.

'Feeling like hell is the first step towards recovery,' she informed him and took his plate. 'Anything else?' He didn't respond, and he looked cutely sulky there, ignoring her, so she traced a gloved hand across his hair. 'I'll be back, sugar,' and winked.

She returned, wearing long-sleeved pajamas, gloves, and socks, blown-dry hair. She sighed and sank onto the bed next to him, and he lifted a hand enough to touch her white streak as she curled up to him.