IV: KID GLOVES
Rogue found a few odd things to do. Xavier's new girl's' typing, for one. And it was boring, and Xavier found out about it and banned her from the office. Then yelled at his assistant.
She informed Ororo about the trouble that her students were having in senior math, just to let her know, because teachers always were the last to. She helped Hank grade his weekly labs, though she strongly suspected that was pity. When she went to Scott, he suggested that she change the monthly bulletin board, for Christ's sake. The saddest part was that she agreed.
And then she thought she'd go to the cafeteria at lunch time, hang out, perhaps chat at a student's table, catch a glimpse of Logan, if he was even there…
And Logan was there. Tall and handsome and talking to Jean as he wasn't with her now. A huddled conference, just the two of them, the anonymous chatter around them, and the jealousy she'd admitted to but never really felt, well…here it was. The dark, chokingness of it, smarting her eyes, the sharp shaft of pain in her chest, radiating everywhere, quivering and brighter and sharper than she—so physical. Logan and Jean together again, and the flashes that were her memories and his, of Jean and Logan and them. Looks and pain and desire and sex. She was physically stuck, struck, in place, feeling it.
They were turned slightly towards the other, and Logan was gesticulating, and Jean was shaking her head as though in disaccord. Logan looked tense, Jean tired, and then Logan was grasping Jean's shoulder, and she saw Jean's nod, her reluctant acquiescence.
And Rogue, with the sliver of brain that was still functioning, was trying desperately to give them the benefit of the doubt. And she had known—this was a possibility, and she had determined…she had decided to stay, and—so even if…They hadn't done anything.
They were talking. Logan was still talking to Jean, scanning the cafeteria remotely, and he caught sight of Rogue, tossed a few words to Jean, Jean's sharp look, deprecating glance, and Logan's speedy departure. Rogue felt a ball in her throat, weight in her chest, stopped hearing the roar of the diners, directed herself like an automaton towards Jean, still there, waiting.
Jean turned, tired and worn, really weary as she hadn't seen her since the first day, dejected. 'I suppose you saw that.'
Rogue was strange and calm, but it was mostly surface. 'Saw Logan leave, yes.'
Jean made some noise, grasped Rogue's elbow, and hustled her out, pushing past the other diners and into the clear hallway, their steps echoing loudly, quite fast, clipped. And Rogue was absently thinking that 'run away, run away' wasn't something she thought she'd do with Jean.
She was being pulled but she was willing, happier certainly than if she were stopping, until she stumbled, her leg burned, suddenly, fiercely, really shook with exertion and pain, she nearly keeled forward, sweat popping on her forehead. 'My leg,' she ground out, now the only thing she could think, and she became aware that she was being supported, soothing words.
And Jean was there: Jean. She liked Jean, she did. Shit.
She thought she might be sick. Was.
Fuck.
'—overdid it,' she heard Jean say. And she panted something back, probably an apology. She was sorry. Fuck. Shit. Couple damns, too. God, etc.
She leaned back. That did not feel good. That was not better. And then she felt something, motion, breeze, lift of hair on her forehead, and she reared back in panic—skin—fell on her ass in the hallway.
'Rogue?' she heard Jean say, and it was amusingly worried. Like Jean was peering over a cliff, worried for her life, instead of just Rogue on her ass in the hallway.
'Mm'k, Jjjnnn,' she mumbled. Oh, God, there was nothing worse than vomit still in your mouth, grainy, foul. And her stomach was unsettled still, and her tailbone ached, and her leg pulled, trembled, throbbed. She wiped her mouth, looked up to see Jean hovering, worried, beautifully and tragically worried.
The woman Logan had once loved, mourned and loved, was beautifully, tragically worried—about Rogue, bum leg, untouchable skin, sitting in her own vomit in the hallway. And it was suddenly hilariously funny.
'Rogue?' Jean was crouching down, very concerned now, but also comically aware of where the vomit was in relation to her shoes. She was also growing desperate, gazing up and down the hallway for others to help with the now-crazy Rogue, and that was somehow funnier. 'Someone?' Jean called out, high-pitched, pinched, 'Anyone?!' And that was funny, too.
'I'm going to get Logan,' Jean said tightly.
NOT funny. 'Jean, wait—' Rogue called, holding out a hand. 'I'm fine. It was just—' she gestured down at herself—'wasn't…? Didn't this strike you as funny? A little?'
Jean looked dubious, and Rogue chuckled weakly. 'I might not be meeting my entertainment quotient lately.' Because Jean still looked torn about whether to go get help, get Logan: 'Can I have a drink of water?' she asked in a small voice.
Jean stood, nodded reflexively, paused indecisively, but then nearly rabbitted off, and Rogue sighed, contemplated her clothes, her vomit-covered sweat pants, the smeared mess in the hall. Well, she was waiting for help to clean that up.
Jean returned with a glass of water, stood over her while she drank, rinsed distastefully—nowhere to spit—had to swallow again. Yuck. Jean's head was cocked to the side, she was peering at her, as though checking for the crazy spot, and if Jean was looking for crazy…
'Thanks,' Rogue returned, and there was a pause. 'We're going to need a mop, some nice sawdust,' and she gestured. Jean remained unmoved. 'I'm sorry. Did I get you at all?'
Jean crouched down again, elbows resting on knees. 'Are you really alright?'
Rogue rubbed her forehead. 'As alright as you get from here.' Jean smiled, the weariness back, and Rogue looked round, for the same help that hadn't been forthcoming for Jean. 'I'm not gonna be much help here. My leg—I don't think I can walk yet.'
'I'm sorry about that,' Jean said in an undertone, shame-faced, then abruptly threw up her hands. 'Vomit. Logan asks me to take care of you, and I cause you to vomit.'
'You can cause someone to vomit?'
'Evidently, I have the gift,' Jean edged out. 'I walked too hard, too fast. Forgot about your—' she pointed.
And as keen as Rogue was to have that be the explanation Jean told herself, the one she told herself, she wasn't keen to have guilt bring this story back to Logan. 'I don't know,' she qualified. 'I walked quite a bit already this morning, even before I ran into you. More than I should've.' And Jean glanced up, shrewdly. 'Coulda been either one.' She shrugged. 'I won't tell if you won't.'
'I don't know, Rogue,' Jean worried, glancing up and down the hallway, but it sounded more like something she wanted to talk herself into, rather than out of.
'If this is more than a one-time thing, I won't keep it a secret. I swear,' Rogue held up a hand—scout's honor. 'But I don't want this to be a big thing. Logan's only just stopped hovering.'
And Jean turned back, uneasy smile but commiserating glance, and Rogue knew it had been the thing to say. Jean went off to find a mop, and Rogue maneuvered to take off her sweat pants, which meant she was in a shirt, a bandage, deadly skin, and her laundry-day Hanes-Her-Way in the hall, but…well, she wasn't exactly sex-on-legs these days, anyway.
She balled up the sweats, inside-out, scooted over to the side of the hallway, and enjoyed the sight of Jean mopping up the hallway more than she might have thought. Well…there was karmic balance. Sort of. Christ, she was a bitch.
Jean finished, swiped a forearm across her brow, and swung round to Rogue quickly enough to see the traces of amusement there. 'Enjoy that, did you?' she admonished without heat.
'In the deepest, darkest part of me,' admitted Rogue, smiling a little.
And Jean chuckled tightly, made to sit beside Rogue in the hallway companionably but sat with such tension, such misgiving that Rogue knew something was up. She looked a question at Jean, who began to worry with her outfit, pants, smoothing down. And Rogue with building anger, dread, and…fear, felt that perhaps she would never forgive Jean, forgive GOD, if she was to be told here, ass growing cold and hard on the floor, that Logan had picked not-her.
'He wants me to—' Jean paused, looked away and down, flipped up again, 'He wants me to go into your mind, see if I can turn off your skin.'
'Oh,' Rogue replied. She wasn't going to process more than that.
And Jean rushed on, 'I told him it would be hard, probably impossible. Even if I could. Because if you can't do it, no one else can either.'
Rogue murmured something.
'And I haven't done that—not since I've been back. I don't—' Jean shook her head, angrily, spoke hardly, 'I've tried hard to create a wall, and I don't know what happens when I try and breach that. It could—could hurt the other person when I do that.'
Rogue made some kind of gesture, but even she didn't know what it meant.
'And,' Jean squared her jaw, stared straight in front of her, 'it would be personal and private, and I may not be the one you want to do it. But I—I promised I'd tell you, ask you.'
Jean turned, and they regarded each other then, and Rogue didn't know what it meant precisely, but she knew she could refuse. 'I don't want that,' Rogue said quietly, calmly. She knew that, and Jean did, too. And their moment wasn't one of understanding, assurance or pity or sympathy…it was about…they both knew.
And it was enough, felt almost like the possibility of friendship with Jean. And Rogue considered it a marvel, that this could do that. And despite Logan's not having asked her, his confiding in Jean, his love, their distance, even Jean's undecided status—she saw how it might be, that worst-case scenario: she might even grow to…unbegrudge Jean. Time.
Flashes of Jean and Logan together. God.
Maybe not. She leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes.
She heard Jean's rusty laugh. 'Boy, isn't this something?' and Jean, when she looked, was bemused but also enervated, twitching slightly. 'We shouldn't let these guys do this to us, huh?' She kicked out a toe absently.
'No, we shouldn't,' Rogue observed ruefully. She shook her head. 'Scott still being an ass?'
'YES,' Jean asserted balefully. 'Although I've got him glaring from a distance now.'
Rogue giggled suddenly, remembering. 'Yes, I saw that—hands on hips, icy looks. The whole bit.'
Jean nodded decisively, 'Comically juvenile.' She crossed her legs primly. 'If it weren't so tiresome. And Logan—?'
'Logan,' Rogue echoed, but with a trace more bitterness.
'Weell, Logan,' Jean swished, then sighed. 'I don't know. He's—' Jean trailed off, but more to get Rogue to answer than anything else, peering not-at-all subtly. Rogue stared blankly ahead.
'Yeah,' Rogue finished evenly.
Jean scrutinized her hands, spoke low, 'I think he's trying.'
Rogue felt the pricks of—blinked them back, swallowed, focused on Jean. 'I think we all are.' And she was proud of how dispassionate it sounded. They exchanged some sad smiles, understanding, rueful. Rogue couldn't do more than that.
A noise from the corridor, thankfully, broke the moment. A nervous voice, tentative steps, 'Um—Rogue? Ms. Grey? Are you—?' A young student approached, stopped, blinked. 'Are you not wearing pants?'
Rogue could laugh at that. 'No, I'm not, hon.' She eased out her leg, winced. 'Starting a new fashion trend, I guess.' She pressed a hand against the wall, got up painfully to a knee, staggered ungracefully to her feet. Stomach—would be ok.
Jean stepped in over-solicitously, drew to her side, but since Rogue actually needed her, she could hardly object. 'I'm alright,' she assured Jean, the student. 'I'll be alright. Nothing time won't fix.'
They were hovering indecisively still, and Rogue leant a hand on the wall. 'But I will heal all the faster,' she confided, more to the student now, who was approaching shyly, 'if you will promise never to tell anyone about my fashion-forward…bare bottom.' She got a small smile out of it. And a shoulder, two shoulders, to limp back to her own room with.
She'd told Jean no, and she knew that would stick. But she still had to tell Logan. Although since he hadn't exactly asked her himself, that in its own way, was his little problem, not hers.
But they had to discuss it; she knew it would come up. And it shouldn't be a conversation about going to Jean, going to others first. Not at first. Not yet. The skin seemed a real issue for him, more than she'd ever suspected. And she tried hard not to let that matter to her, too much. Skin was an issue for her, too.
But, casting back, at those pivotal moments in their relationship—her skin had always been a big deal. When she'd learned to control it, hadn't told him, when he hadn't noticed. At graduation, the lack of an anniversary. Small touches from her—always noticed. And then, of course, her use of touch during her first recon assignment, the bizarre 'what if it never turns off again' conversation that had precipitated their entire relationship. Oh, yeah, so prophetic that. Her skin and touching others had always been an issue with him, perhaps the issue. One she'd never understood or followed up on.
So maybe this was that. Maybe this was Jean. Or Maybe this was them.
But (and she was trying to remember it), this was Logan trying. This was Logan trying to make it work. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
'Did you talk to Jean today?' he demanded, cornering her in the bathroom, stood over her as she rinsed her toothbrush, stowed it away.
'Yes,' she answered, directly, readily. 'Just as you were leaving.' She pivoted to face him, leaning on her good leg, the counter.
He shifted uncomfortably, foot-to-foot. 'What did you talk about?' Guiltily.
She waited until he was looking at her. 'You.'
He was arrested, and his brow pulled, down, frowning, but like he was trying hard not to.
'We talked about you,' she repeated, and he eyed her, huffed away, moved to something else. He was opening the closet, rummaging around, slamming clothes around a little aggressively.
'Logan,' she appealed, limping after, but he continued, and her tone was a little beaten, because she didn't know what else to do, 'I'm trying here.'
He froze, his back growing tense, and he straightened, pivoted slowly to meet her gaze, and he looked ready, waiting, but not like it was with pleasure.
No use dancing around the topic, then. 'I'm—I'm not going to do it,' she told him, with finality, disappointment, defeat. 'My skin. I'm not going to do it.'
He studied her, still taut, still tense, still still. 'Ok,' he affirmed.
Her face felt tight, was beginning to droop. She reached out a hand. 'I don't want her in my head, Logan. It's private, and I—'
'Ok,' he rumbled, more quickly.
'I think this is something that—' and he made a dart, striding past her, and she trailed just behind—'something that will happen on its own.' The shower sputtered angrily, and Logan was treading and retreading the tile, yanking down a towel, flinging the bathmat to the floor, zinging the shower curtain between them.
Clothes plopped to the floor from over the rail.
'Logan?' she called, arms wrapped around herself. 'Logan,' she entreated, could hear the irregular chug as he stood beneath the stream, the splatter, the clink of his dog tags as he shook himself off. She was desperate enough to try once more. 'Logan, I'm sorry,' she confessed wretchedly, then, with no response, cried louder, 'I'm sorry, ok?'
Probably ruined the point of the apology, and anyway, there was no response to any of it. So after a few painful moments, she left, snuck in bed, curled up on her side still facing his, counted the minutes.
She wasn't ready for the squeak of the bathroom door when he came out, the plunge of steam, but he got in, got dressed, quick-time, shut out the light, lay in bed, lay his back to her. Just his stiff back, and then silence and stillness, and she couldn't help whispering, 'It's not a rejection of you, ok?' Her resettling rustled the sheets a bit, but he was perfectly still.
She reached out, laid an open palm to his rigid back, felt the damp heat of him, could just make out the beat of his heart, and her gloved hand was stark, dark against his white shirt. 'Ok,' she answered her own question, because he wasn't going to, curled her hand back to cushion her cheek, curled up tighter in her ball.
She couldn't bring herself to say she was sorry—not again, not to nothing. And, even though Jean had said he was trying, well…she needed more than this.
'Ok,' he said the next morning, as soon as she opened her eyes, and she was groggy, brain not working. His face swam before her, oversized, too close, and he just touched her shoulder lightly.
She gurgled out something incomprehensible, and he repeated, firmly this time, 'Ok.' As though it settled the matter.
'Logan?' she croaked, sobering up quickly, rising quickly, remembering last night's conversation, yesterday, the last few weeks.
He rose, too, shrewdly, assessingly. 'It's ok,' and he rose, began to get dressed.
'What is ok?' she asked, bewildered, a little frustration thrown in.
'It's ok. I forgive you,' he informed her, buckling his belt, zipping his fly.
'You…forgive me?' Had they—all that resentment from yesterday, yes, that was there, alive and well.
He threw on a shirt, his hair was spiked and disarrayed beneath it. 'You're sorry?' he smirked. 'Well, I forgive you.'
Smirked?
'You know what, Logan?' She was stiff, she was deliberate. She considered, and she went with it. 'FUCK. YOU.' And she had never told him that before. Fuck it, fuck off, fuck that. Fuck fuck fuck, shit be damned, but she had never said that before, and she had never truly meant it, either.
'Fuck me?' he repeated, amused jarring little smile.
She bared her teeth. 'Yes. That is what I said. Fuck. You.'
'We don't do that anymore,' he returned mockingly, rocking a little back on his feet.
Her mouth dropped open, and her stomach quivered, and…wow. She hadn't thought she could hate one person so much. She hadn't thought she could hurt so much.
Her brain was working now, bubbling over with things to say to that. Like…
Whose fault was that? And he wanted to fuck her, now? After ignoring her for the better part of a week? After he talked to her through JEAN of all people? Or maybe it wasn't about her, or fucking her, or even fucking? What the fuck was this? All these, hosts more, competed for attention, leaving her flopped and agawp on the bed while he nonchalantly got ready for the day, she heard his daily ritual—bathroom, teeth, shave.
But those other questions—they weren't really at the center of this, and when he came out again, hair combed, glistening sideburns, cocky walk, casual air...
'Why?' Because she needed to know if he was driving her away. Because she wanted to know if he was…hurt or something, angry, or trying to tell her something. Because… she wanted to know—more than she wanted to vent her anger, more than she wanted to hurt him back. 'Why would you say that?'
A foul look fell over his face. 'Nothing. No reason,' he growled, scouring the floor, the closet, for his boots.
And she was propelled, stumbling to her feet, ignoring her leg awkwardly. 'Logan.'
He whirled round. 'I'm SORRY. OK?' Advancing on her, teeth bared, then backing down, crouched away, ripping open the chest of drawers, tossing contents aside to search for something. A pair of socks, evidently.
'It matters, Logan, it matters why you did it,' she insisted, trembling, watching him discard pair after pair, 'You did it to hurt. It matters why.'
The jitters increased, then disappeared. He rose gracefully, and she was tugged off balance and into him, a fierce embrace, not really a hug, and she could hear and feel how calm he wasn't.
They were neither of them calm, both breathing hard, both rigid, awkward, and hot, uncomfortable. She supposed they were both trying, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, buried her head in his chest, and felt him squeeze 'til it hurt.
He smoothed her hair with an open palm, smeared it really, he pressed so tight, but he said again, rumbling low, still that trace of irritation, 'I'm sorry.'
She closed her eyes tighter. 'Me, too.' It was a little cracked at the edges, and she didn't know what it meant, what she was apologizing for, or whether that was the right response. She heard his lusty sigh, and when she shifted to look up at him, his arms fell away too easily.
'I tried to say,' and he touched her shoulder lightly, just barely grazing it, as he had when she'd woken, she now remembered. 'It was ok with me. Not going to Jeannie.'
It was his expression—the little interior part of it that she could still recognize, the part that cared about her—that made her squash her problems with that statement, too, try to reach him, have a real conversation. 'It's not that I don't want it to get better, that I don't—'
'I said it was OK,' he interrupted, squeezing the hand she'd seized, dropping it, patting an arm, but only to dodge past. He seated himself on the bed, pulled on socks, boots.
'O-kay,' she returned slowly, leaning on the bureau, eyeing him as he got ready, and it was harder work now to get past her resentment of him and his 'big idea', his confiding in Jean, his being 'ok' with it. But she didn't want to fight, and he didn't want to talk.
She felt like she was always healing things between them lately. Maybe he felt like that, too. And at some point, she feared one or both of them would find it not worth the effort.
'I have to work,' he informed her, not a complaint, not even an excuse. Information.
'Ok,' she affirmed, slowly, as he shot to his feet, gazed round absently. 'What are you working on?'
He threw her an impatient, rough look.
'It wasn't an interrogation,' she muttered. 'I just wanted to know if I could help.'
He reproved, hands-on-hips, 'Just rest up.'
'My skin is on. I'm not incapacitated.' Well… 'Except for my leg. But I can type, sort, help out. Think.'
He was amused, but softer with it. 'Focus on getting better.' Did he know how boring that was? How much she needed something here?
Maybe he could see, or maybe…that look crossed his face again, and he approached her softly, sniffing slightly, sidelong glances to see if it was alright. And she didn't understand the uncertainty in him, after all that obliviousness before, and she was unhappy but not with his approach.
So when he ventured close, breath hot and uneven, and held out two careful fingers, just touched a lock of her hair, she wrapped both arms around him, squeezed him tight—it was either that or hit him—and he tangled his hands in her hair, pressed a kiss to her crown.
Were they going to be ok? And she realized that would only be comforting if she knew before she asked.
'Have a good day,' she whispered, and he drew back, his face drawing out, too, and he studied her, weariness, some regret mixed in, smiled with old affection. 'You, too.' One last darted kiss to the hairline, and he was gone.