IX: NOT QUITE HISTORY

Lights. Bright lights. White—no, blue. Swimming before her, and faces, and she was nauseous and strangely hairy and restrained, and—No! They were cutting into her, her leg, her bones. The whine of the saw, stench, the acrid smoke of adamantium, the tang of blood and salt and sweat and…almost didn't feel the needle in her arm, the syringe.

FUCK! More pain—searing pain—than she'd ever felt before, and she felt her stomach heaving, dry heaves, God—there was nothing left, and then…

Bolt upright in bed, the horror of the claws coming out, painful, but a better pain than before, but heavy, the cruel suck as they sliced through skin and bone, and—

Face to face with herself, with Marie, wide-eyed and gasping, and claws right through her, and oh, God, killed Marie, kill-killed Marie, ohmygodkid, I'm so sorry, so—Marie—so sorry, and retract the claws.

She falls and collapses, rolls to the side, and the streak is gone, and the hair is red, and it's Jean, fucking Jean that I've killed, and oh Christ, this better be a dream.

Fuck.

She was panting and shaking and her heart rate was far too fast, and she slipped out of bed, tripped out, and closed the bathroom door and sat on the lip of the tub.

Fuck, she was trembling.

She peeled off her gloves, washed her face with cold water, got cold, switched the tap to warm. Her face was too white, her eyes too dark in the mirror. Calm down. It was just a dream.

She had thought she was ok. She had thought they were ok. She was, they were; just a dream. They had been better—since the mission, since talking, since touching, since…fucking again. The old affection back again, she loved, small touches.

God, jealousy was a bitch. She was a bitch; there was a cold, insensitive, mean and small part inside of her, and her subconscious had just told her so. And maybe it wasn't so small—sizewise.

The dream—Rogue had had the dream before, when she'd first touched Logan, for a few months after the Statue of Liberty debacle, occasionally afterwards, sometimes later when Logan had touched her again. She wasn't a big fan—downright creepy to kill yourself—but she could take it, all of the fear ebbed away as soon as she awoke, because it wasn't her fear, her dream, her memories.

But that one alteration at the end. She shuddered.

'Rogue?' His voice came out low and taut, accompanied by short raps.

'I'm just—' and she heard the door open, screwed her eyes shut, hand covering them, because she couldn't look at him now, yet. She was breathing shallowly still. She could feel him towering above her.

'Was it—?' he grated out, and then even harder, 'Marie?' Poor guy was always so tense when he thought he'd caused it.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, made a tiny tilt of her head. 'No, sugar, this one's all me.'

Somehow he had always known, when she had her nightmares, his, and she had always really liked his approach of just holding her, stroking her when it happened. But this time, as she was pulled to her feet and soothingly held, and her eyes were still shut, face buried in his chest, in his shirt, she didn't know if it would be enough. Nope—tears running down her face quietly, and more seeping past the blockage in her throat, ready to bust out given half a chance—it was not enough.

'Marie.' So anxious, so displeased, so upset. 'Tell me about it.' Small, somewhat clumsy strokes to her hair.

'Logan, I—I' mouth open and wet, too wet, panting, and hot face, and she could feel how the tears were going full body now, heaving, and gulp—here came the sob. Sobbing, she was sobbing now on all over his shirt. She'd never enjoyed this scene in a romance novel.

Her sobs were high and unattractive and wailing. Howls, staccato bursts, hiccups, and more howls. Yes, like that, and the thought that she would laugh at herself another time made her sadly more depressed then. Pull yourself together. Smear away tears, smear away—just all the moisture. Cut down on the noise at least, and she screwed her fingers into his shirt to keep hanging on, and his arms around her tightened, and that helped, too.

Because it was him and it was Logan and it was the bathroom and that was what she wanted. And she realized that that was what she would always want in all bathrooms and all times forever. That sounded a little hysterical, but…ok, cry some more.

She loved him, she realized, snuffling. And if she couldn't have him, she was going to be devastated, and there was no fooling herself about that. No news that. And she was jealous—again not news. But he had held her while she was crying and sobbing in the bathroom, splotchy and overhot and poison skin in the middle of the night, and that had to count for something. And even if it didn't—

'Logan, I—' it was quavery, breathy, and she caught a glimpse of his concerned face, soft as it only was at night, when she could see, 'Th-thank you.'

'Marie,' he groaned.

'Thank you,' she repeated because she wanted to say something more, clutching him tighter, scrunching up her drying eyes and saying it again. 'Thank you.'

He growled something, tiny whine, and she hoped he thought it was ok, enough, not too much. She pressed into him, snuggled until she felt drained instead of achy; then she scrubbed her face with a rough hand, and looked up at him. When she placed a light palm on his chest, he backed up a step, hands falling away.

'Are you ok?' he asked with rough concern.

'Most of me,' small smile for him. God, he was so cute, getting wrinkles between his brows because he frowned so much, was frowning now, but cute with it. His hair, which suited him, but which she'd never been able to believe he actually styled, except he must have to. And his mutton chops, which hadn't been popular since the corset, and eyes, the eyebrows that had so much cockiness to them at times, the eyes so much sparkle and mischief, dark to light, looking worriedly at her now. That slit of a mouth, so mobile, so much character. His strong arms, taut now, and capable shoulders, and God that hard stomach, and that hard—bulge in his pants?

Oh. Hadn't noticed that before. Well, she could take care of that for him, could totally go with that, much better end to the—she was becoming a real fan of that idea. She licked her lips, ran a soft hand down his shirt and chest, flicked over a nipple, trailed down his stomach, down farther…

'Marie,' he commanded, grabbed her wrist. Did he want to start someplace else? But when she looked up, his brows had contracted from worried to scolding. 'Stop,' and he shook her a little.

'Oh,' she responded, swallowed, couldn't look up. 'Ok.'

He cupped her head, tilted her up to him, expression serious. 'Just not now. Ok?'

And she nodded ok, because she wasn't going to cry again. And she wasn't a guy, didn't know. And she knew she was not at her attractive best right now—middle of the night, layers, skin, and sobbing. And she didn't know how that…worked precisely, despite his many demonstrations. And maybe it had something to do with her and maybe it didn't.

'Are you ok?' he asked again, tracing her eyebrow carefully with a large thumb.

'Yes,' she got out tightly, maybe a touch too high.

His mouth firmed. 'You're not.'

'I'm ok,' she managed more creditably.

He studied her some more. 'Come to bed,' he pleaded wearily, then tacked on, as if needing the specifics. 'Lie down with me. Just lie down.'

She nodded, and because she couldn't help it, touched a hand to his chest, then ducked past him out of the bathroom. And with the light out as he followed, it was too dark for her to see, and he shepherded her to the bed, and settled them on their sides facing each other, and enfolded her in his arms.

'It's alright,' he stroked a smooth, warm stroke up her back. 'You're safe.' It was still so strange to her that he thought to say that first.

But if he was too sweet, she'd start to cry again. She hugged him. 'What would I do without you?' she asked fiercely, froze—realized what she'd said. Her head shot up, to study him, couldn't see in the darkness, but he had frozen, too. 'Logan, just—thank you. For everything.' She didn't mean to make it sound like goodbye; she just wanted to be clear.

'Marie,' a little bit of a rebuke, and he smoothed back the hair from her face carefully, a move she wouldn't have tried with their faces, his hand and arm and bare shoulder in such close proximity. 'Shhh, I've gotcha, go to sleep.' And she nodded and tried and did.

She tried to show him in the next days that she was ok. That she was ok, and that she loved him, without, you know, actually saying it. She wanted to love him, not pressure, not annoy him, or make it harder for him—just love him, appreciate him, show him how…Logan he was.

He was a little distant, but she got him to smile when she smiled—a little sadly. When she laughed, he would touch her hair. She asked if he was ok, he said yes.

He was not wholly convincing. She supposed she may not have been either.

The weekly strategy meeting came round—Saturday again—and Rogue hadn't actually spoken with Xavier since the previous meeting. She figured Xavier was the least of her worries, first of all, and when she'd last seen him, he'd been honest-to-God pissed, not just disappointed: she'd wanted to give him space. And he was busy. Also she forgot. She was making excuses, but, yeah, maybe leaving their next encounter until the weekly meeting hadn't been her wisest decision.

Worst case scenario, she might be asked to withdraw from the committee—'professional disagreement'. That was not the end of the world. Her only qualm, on entering, was that it might make things difficult for Logan, and she felt immediately guilty, because she should have considered that before.

She had encountered every one of the other X-men in the course of the week, though. Hank had acted as though no outburst had occurred—'Morning, Rogue,' he'd greeted, chipper, dapper, humming some opera under his breath. Storm, distractedly happy, had lunched with her one day, discussing—certainly not Remy—but had sobered briefly near the end, 'And Rogue, don't worry about the meeting. That's what you're there for.' A smile crept in, burst forth—Ororo couldn't help it—a chat, a pat, and gone.

And then, there had been an awkward but thankfully brief hallway run-in with Scott and Jean, her and Logan. Uncomfortable silence, and Rogue, guarded and slouched and the shortest one there, felt everyone's eyes on her.

Scott had been the first to move. 'Rogue,' and with the air of a man under obligation, he'd stuck out a hand, too heartfelt, 'Thanks.'

It had felt altogether like the wrong thing to be getting thanks for, and her initial instinct had been to reject it, reject the handshake, even, but she'd caught Logan's glance, his slight concern, and she'd realized how stupid that would be. Better to brush it off. 'Y'Welcome,' and she'd braved a look at Jean then, saw the look of acknowledgment, felt more embarrassed and ashamed about it. 'It wasn't—I'm just glad.' Small smile from Jean, clasp and squeeze of the shoulder from Scott, and they'd parted ways.

She'd turned, watched them go— Jean and Scott walking down the halls again. They walked together, maybe not like lovers yet, but like they'd found each other again…good for them—found Logan watching her watch them. Ruminating, weighing her up, confirming what was already suspected. Fatalistic. And there was space between them, as there hadn't been between Jean and Scott.

And Rogue finally admitted that Jean had nothing to do with it. Logan might have loved her, mourned her, might still find her attractive, might yet make love to her. But this distance, their estrangement—it had nothing to do with her, everything to do with them.

Maybe there was a reason they'd never really talked. Maybe there was a reason she'd never felt…really secure. Maybe there was a reason she couldn't say the words to him, why he'd never said the words to her. Maybe in their friendship, this relationship, they'd only ever be able to sustain those two years together, under those particular circumstances. Maybe that was all she got.

She…didn't really mean any of those maybes—wouldn't, not if it was up to her. But it wasn't, entirely. Logan's resigned expression, little sad.

'Hey,' barely audible, and she approached tentatively, just touched his chest. His head drooped, too, nose just above her head, and a finger just touching her hair.

'I'm ok,' she murmured. 'You ok?'

She finally gazed up, and he then assured, 'I'm ok.'

And she'd wordlessly nodded, and they'd been interrupted by the buzz of growing chatter and clatter, the volley, doors slapped open, passing period, and Logan had had to go, end of lunch, classes.

And now weekly meeting and Xavier, and she was oddly detached, she didn't much care what happened here, actually.

Xavier was intent on moving forward, though; not a word about last meeting, Rogue or Jean. He stuck close to the agenda: Senate hearings, private investigations, Jubilee's proposed list of talking points, student teaching and teaching candidates for next year…Rogue wasn't really paying attention. But she figured that was alright, since she should probably ease back in with the opinions anyway.

The meeting was conducted professionally, and it broke up quickly, everyone rising with their papers and agendas and tasks, and Rogue rose, too, to do…she didn't know what. She hadn't been assigned anything, again. Well, escaping notice had been the goal after all. And then—

'Rogue, stay a moment, won't you?' A dressing down in private. How considerate, how Xavier. Logan was settling down, staying, too; that was unnecessary. And though she didn't really mind, she was surprised Xavier didn't. Another surprise was Scott, hesitating on his way out the door; Rogue saw Logan wave him away.

But she didn't really need anyone's protection here. She shrugged, eyed Xavier nonchalantly, as the rest filed out, peeked a look at Logan. She had expected that staying meant that Logan was in protective mode, but he wouldn't look at her, wasn't really looking at Xavier, come to that. She frowned.

'Rogue,' and Xavier smiled, the genial smile. 'You and I may disagree, but there's no reason for hard feelings, I believe.' Rogue murmured something suitable, and Xavier continued. 'The fact that you and I disagree, have disagreed, is one of the reasons you're a sitting member of the Strategy committee. If everyone agreed—' he lifted a hand—'there'd be no point in a meeting.'

Rogue nodded, puzzled but willing to be agreeable. And Xavier was extra-talkative today. She threw a bemused glance to Logan, who was steadfastly silent.

'And you're a very valuable member of the team,' Xavier complimented smoothly, then too fatuously, 'The X-men owe you a debt of gratitude, for all your services.' Ah, maybe this was the break-up line after all. 'But it may be time that we stand back and evaluate where we all stand. What we want for ourselves and what we want from each other.' Yes, there it was.

'So what do you want?' Rogue asked calmly. Honestly, Xavier could build up like no one else; she turned to Logan in amusement, and he was curiously slack, meditatively eyeing the table, and that was…odd.

'Rogue,' and Xavier grew serious, rested his palms on the table. 'Things have altered since you made your commitment to the X-men. You were injured on a mission for us, and while that's healed, you've also lost control of your skin, perhaps permanently. Naturally, this changes our assessment of the risk we are asking you to take.'

She was paying attention now, careful attention, but she couldn't—he was talking around things. 'What does that mean?'

'Rogue, I no longer feel comfortable asking you to go out on missions for us, if this—' he gestured to her gloves, and she couldn't help the flinch—'is the result.'

'Are you saying that my skin changes my status here?' She darted a glance to Logan, immovable, unresponsive Logan. It wasn't like she wanted him to jump in, but…why wasn't he responding?

'It shows us,' Xavier corrected, 'how much we were taking you for granted.'

'It doesn't feel—' Rogue shook her head in bewilderment, some frustration—'like you are taking me for granted.' She took a moment to collect herself, read him. 'It feels like you're not giving me anything to do.'

'You're between projects,' Xavier agreed steadily. 'You've recovered from your last mission. That makes it a good time to discuss your position here.'

Bigger than the Strategy committee then. Bigger than missions. And who knew that skin could be such a big deal? Well, fuck, when was it not? But she'd listen. 'Just what do you see as my position then?' she spoke carefully, evenly. She maintained eye contact.

'Rogue,' the Professor smiled paternally. 'You've been with us two years now, helped out for longer than that. We appreciate it.' He sobered, and Rogue tensed, because suddenly this seemed like a really big fucking deal. 'But now you should think about you, your future, what you want. You should consider whether continuing on here and staying with the X-men… is actually right for you.'

And Logan stirred then, met her eyes, significant look, and…she knew—couldn't look away.

'You have your whole life ahead of you, Rogue,' she heard Xavier say. 'You could go back to college, try another line of work.' The patronizing tone didn't smart at all now. 'I'd like to give you an opportunity to choose another way.'

She was trembling, heart pounding, mouth dry, staring at Logan. How could he do this to her? Again, through a third party. Something so big and not—not mention it. And then to stay, stay to witness, calm and collected and staring her down.

Her heart was too loud, but she turned willfully to Xavier. 'Are you firing me?' she asked bluntly.

'No,' the Professor answered, quickly. 'We'd be happy to have you, if that's what you decide. You are a valuable member of the team.'

'I see.' She gritted her teeth, stood, and held out a hand. 'Well, thank you, Professor. You've given me a lot to think about.'

Xavier gripped her gloved hand in his, paused a moment, meaningful look. 'Thank you, Rogue.' Firm shake, and Rogue gave a firm nod in return, swept out without a glance at Logan.

Didn't mean she couldn't hear him behind her, mumbled word to Xavier, booted tread an appropriate distance behind.

She headed outdoors. She wasn't sure if he was smart or not to follow.

The grass was springy, few birds twittering, him behind her, his measured steps, a twig snapped, she snapped.

'YOU. FUCKING. BASTARD,' punctuated by hard, satisfying thumps to his chest, he half-blocked them, and it felt good, so good, to let that out. 'How could you do that to me? How could you? Again?' She was heaving a few feet away, and his resigned air, collected expression were just too much, she lashed out again, forgetting all her training. 'Go to fucking XAVIER, and not me?! God DAMN it, Logan! How could you DO that?!'

'Rogue,' he rebuked, palms out defensively, making a grab for her wrists.

'Back OFF, Logan,' she cried, shaking him off. 'I can't talk to you right now.' She whirled away—dumb, very dumb idea for him to follow, and she was trembling, shaking, and maybe needed a little or a lot of space right now.

God. She knew—she'd seen. He'd been acting funny all week, but she'd never—how could he…

She heard his shuffle of feet, enraged her all over again. 'So, what, you think I should leave then, quit the X-men?' she taunted, threw over her shoulder at him. Maybe she needed some answers, followed by space.

He didn't answer, and she gritted her teeth, flipped to glare at him, and he was eyeing her carefully, measuringly, 'If that's what you want,' he replied softly.

She marched up to him. 'What kind,' she seethed, 'of fucking answer is that?'

He was holding himself back, but she thought she could detect regret. 'You could go to college again. You could travel. You could leave this place, live a more normal life.' Oh, God, she might start crying in a minute, needed some distance. 'You're so young, Marie,' he said achingly.

Too much, backing away. 'It's a little late to make my age an issue, Logan,' she edged out. 'I wasn't too young to fuck these last two years.' She wasn't proud of the slice of satisfaction she felt at the words, the thrill of seeing that it hurt him, too; but it felt good.

He blanched, she shrugged, coldly. 'So, I'm young, too young, evidently,' she mocked, and his face acquired the controlled expression of before. 'And so you think I should go.'

He kicked the turf, half-turned away, strange edge, 'You need to choose. Go or stay. Do whatever you want…without regard to me.'

That last part—she let out a trembly breath, but spoke harshly. 'That sounds like you're breaking up with me, but without actually having the courage to do it.'

'No,' he bristled, 'I—'

'So you'd come with me then?' she jeered. 'You'd follow me wherever I went?' He froze. 'See that? That's—when you tell me to choose without regard to you, but when you only come with one of the choices, that's—that's breaking it off, to me.'

'Marie,' he began, less sure now. So she was Marie again, how transparent. She was in motion, pacing and swinging round, showing the agitation, hiding the faint sheen of tears.

'So why didn't you just say that to me? Instead of goddamn Xavier?' her voice was choking up with tears, she was nearly blinded by them, but the words came to her thick and before she could think about them. 'Why couldn't you say, 'Marie, we're done. And it would be so much easier if you weren't here afterwards. So go. I promise—' her last words strangled as she was hauled before him—'I p-promise you'll have a fabulous life.''

She was shaken, her name growled in a driven tone, and she didn't care if she wasn't being pretty or fair about this. 'That's not what I want,' he snarled.

'Well, then what the fuck DO you want, because that's sure as hell what it sounds like,' she thrashed impotently.

'I want you to choose me,' he bellowed, inches from her face, fingers gouging her shoulders.

She panted in front of him, hovering near tears, confused but largely angry still. 'I can't choose you,' she spat. 'You won't let me.'

He was trembling, let out a tremulous breath. 'No,' he shook her, 'Choose me, not just something you let happen because I want you to.' He let her go suddenly, and she stumbled back.

'Wh—?'

'I wanted you, and you let me. You let me keep you here when you were so young, let me take you and move you in with me, stayed with me. You let me have you, and I wanted it. But I want—I want you to want it, too.'

'Logan,' she quavered. 'I—I do.'

He snapped round, began to pace. 'Everyone said you were so young, that I had to be careful, go slow, not push ya. And I tried—' he broke off, whirled round again—'I thought…for a while, I made ya happy.' He halted, stood before her. 'You're not happy now, Marie.'

She reached for him, but he threw her off, retreated, and she grew angry now, 'I can't be happy all the time.' She pursued, touched his rigid back, took his irritated glare, and she was softer now, 'That doesn't mean that I don't want to be with you, don't—'

'STOP!' he abjured, goaded, knocking her hand away. 'I'm tired of it. Every decision, every step forward has always been mine. I'm tired of choosing for both of us, Marie. I'm tired of you letting me.'

And he looked more than tired of her; he looked contemptuous, bitter, and she reared back, closed up, teared up, 'That's not fair—!'

He loomed, spoke low and fierce. 'I don't give a damn what's fair. I want you,' he rasped, eyes hot,' and I'm not gonna apologize for it anymore.'

'No one is asking you to,' she gulped, gaining a midge of backbone.

'I want you,' he snarled, hands closing finger-by-finger round her upper arms, and she tilted up her chin, eyed him defiantly. And she felt their combined breaths, saw his nostrils flare, eyes grow dark.

'You HAVE me,' she declared.

Wrong thing to say. He grew rigid, all that desire flashed into rage, and she was hauled up, feet dangling, crushed rather painfully. 'FUCK YOU.' He dropped her, she stumbled and fell, scrambled up, to find him whirling round, claws suddenly out, and he—bam—punched them into a tree. Complete and utter silence, shock, and the claws made a dreadful groaning noise as he retracted them, staggered back.

She had never seen him lose it like that before. My God, and she didn't know how to be, whether to…she was trembling and upset, a little petrified, and God, what had set him off in the first place? 'Logan?' she whispered to his panting back.

He twisted round, stole towards her stealthily, and based on his feral expression, perhaps she had spoken too soon. 'I've never HAD you,' he accused, stalking her so that she was slowly backing away more than nervously. 'You don't let me in. There's only so much I can take.'

'Logan—' As a warning, it was pretty shaky.

'I choose you,' he barked, and she found herself suddenly bumping back into the tree he'd hit, and her eyes widening, nostrils flaring in panic, as he loomed, surrounded her. Then his face pressed close and fierce, 'Every goddamn day. I want more than you letting me.'

'I FUCKING choose you, too,' she thrashed, angry at being cornered, at being pushed. 'What do you think this is?'

'Want ME. Want it, too. Let me in. Let me show you.'

And she suddenly saw what he meant, as his hands slid in her hair, held her head firmly, and she cried in warning, 'My skin—'

'Let. Me. IN,' he insisted roughly, too rough, his hands digging in, and teeth bared.

'Logan, no,' saw he wasn't going to take no this time—too close, and she yelped something, pleaded, couldn't take it all in now: his memories and visions, his collapse, more in her head, too much there already. She pushed at his chest, tried to twist away, fumbled for the switch, desperately, manically—OFF—just before his lips slammed down on hers, punishing and cruel.

His fingers clenched in her hair, drew tears to her eyes, as he held her in place, and she could feel his hot breath and hard lips and teeth. Felt the hitch of his breath when he realized she wasn't draining him, and she was clutched tighter, his hands running over her, under her shirt, exploring bare skin again. His kiss changed, was less fierce, less angry, more desperate and needy, like he couldn't get what he wanted, like he could never get enough.

'Rogue,' he groaned, broken, cracked, and he cupped her head up to his, an open, hotter kiss, and she couldn't help kissing him back, pushing down tears, trying to figure out how the hell to fix this, when it seemed they both had what they wanted but had no idea how to take it.

His hands hard on her shoulders, and he broke off, rested his forehead on hers, she could feel the tremors through both of them, their panting, upset, unhappy breaths.

'You have to leave, Rogue,' he pushed her away roughly. 'You have to find your own life.'

'Are we back here again?' her voice sounded tremulous, undecided between tears and rage.

'You have control of it now,' he gestured vaguely, turned away. He looked miserable. 'Quit. Leave the X-men before it happens again.'

Anger then, was what she was going with. She sprinted after him, 'Logan,' sharply.

'NO,' he turned firmly, eyes dead and empty, thrust her neatly aside. 'Choose something that makes you happy, Marie,' he ordered, and he swiveled away and left.