V: PRE-MISSION, POST-ARGUMENT

It was a strange week.

She and Logan were living like polite strangers: solicitous, inquiring. Nice. But this was even worse than her first week of enforced isolation, because then she had known if she sniped at him, she'd be forgiven. Maybe yelled at, but forgiven. She wasn't so sure of that now. It was making her wary, him careful.

She succeeded in finding something to do. Jubilee and Kitty put it together, thankfully—great friends. The school's website had been getting a substantial increase in the number of hits per day since the Ohio story broke, and Rogue was charged with creating a blog, linking to relevant news sites, and coordinating with so that online users could make donations to Xavier's PAC. (The 'What can YOU do' link—all her, baby.)

It was a task that could take as long or as little time as she wanted. She could scour the web, find clips of talk shows, search Google News, Lexus Nexus, drop names, read blogs as much or little as she wanted. She could respond to emails en masse or individually. She could be as bored or as busy, as agitated or blasé about mutant affairs, as she liked.

And since Xavier, Logan, Scott didn't really understand or care about the site, no one objected or scared her off the assignment; she doubted they noticed. Rogue loved some parts of working for 'old white guys'.

She often ran into Jean, also at a loose end. They didn't meet up purposefully, but at least once a day, the lonely times like 10:17 or 2:44. They talked about nothing, something, casually mentioned what they noticed around them: Bobby was visiting Kitty at college a lot of weekends, Xavier was getting a lot of phone calls. But they didn't really care that much; or rather, they didn't talk about the things that mattered. They chatted, they sipped tea, they smiled.

Jean was more somber now, perpetually weary, and though she surrounded herself with students, she rarely talked, led discussions as she had before. All Rogue knew was that the 'press of minds' helped, and that she could occasionally make Jean smile.

Jean still hadn't forgiven Scott, whose archangel impression at meal times and short fuse with the students made that clear. But Rogue didn't think it was Scott, really. Something was going on: Jean was in session with Xavier for several hours a day now, and Rogue wondered if the torture, the years of incarceration were beginning to take their toll. Or if Xavier was pushing; she'd heard nothing from Jubilee at all.

But she didn't ask, never would. They weren't friends, not even truly friendly, but chatting, even for an instant, helped break the day up, lighten it. And Rogue figured that was mostly because there was someone else just trying to get by, too.

She couldn't turn her skin off, couldn't make that final incisive off that she'd kept in place for months at a stretch before. She was growing concerned about it.

Logan was, too. Perhaps concern was the wrong word.

She'd had to buy new gloves, had taken to wearing the scarves, too, and his comment—the one spontaneous one of the week—had been, 'So when's this gonna end?' Like it was such a problem for him. Like she even knew.

But he'd half-apologized. Again. Been reserved but moody, polite, and distant since. Nervy, too. And she didn't know how much longer he would take it, how much longer she could.

Her thigh was healing up, though. Just a long red gash, the new skin strained and slick. The shower spray beat down on her, and she felt the discomfort that was all muscular now. Ached but in a good way. Her leg was healing – why couldn't this? Was she sure she wanted to know?

A draft of cold air made her look up, and behind the rushing steam, she could see Logan there, hand on to the door to the bathroom, staring at her, at her leg. He looked tense, intense, and she couldn't see his eyes to see what that meant, but she braced herself.

His voice was low. 'Let me heal it, Marie.' Advancing.

'Logan,' she warned, shunting off the water, firm click.

'Let me heal it,' and he stepped forward. 'It's been three weeks. Let me heal it now.'

And she couldn't take it now, not from nothing. 'Logan, I can't turn it off,' she trembled, pulling the shower curtain over her in a futile attempt to cover up. That gesture, more than her words, stopped him. 'I-I can't turn my skin off. Logan, please.'

He halted, his chest heaving a bit. 'Then it's not a problem for me to heal your leg,' he countered, huffed.

'But I can't—I can't have you in my head right now.'

'You already have me in your head,' he said, angry now, advancing, unconvinced. 'Don't you?' he questioned suddenly. 'Don't you?'

'Yes,' she confirmed, swallowed. 'Yes, Logan, I still have you in my head.'

And he nodded, but he didn't look particularly happy about that either. He also looked like he wasn't conceding the point. He took another step towards her.

'It's…it's different every time,' she tried frantically. 'Please, just…please, don't touch me?' She tugged on the shower curtain a little desperately now to try to cover herself more completely. 'Okay? Don't touch me?—Please?'

He stiffened, and she wondered, a flash, if she'd hurt him, but couldn't let herself worry, not in the face of his stiff, non-control. But then he grated, 'I won't.'

And…'Ohmygod, Thank you,' she breathed.

He made a fist, and she could tell she had hurt him. 'I wouldn't if you didn't want me to, Rogue. I wouldn't ever do that.' His eye was glinting a little, and she suspected, when he swallowed, that he had more he'd like to say that he wasn't. She was sorry that she wasn't ready to hear it. A frozen moment, as she was feverishly hoping he wouldn't say anything more, and he grew ever more rigid.

'I know,' she placated, swallowed anxiously. 'I'm sorry. Thank you,' she tried instead, but that did nothing to appease him, his jaw tensing more.

She decided…she decided to reach out a tentative hand to him. 'I know. I'm sorry. Logan.' She touched his chest gently with one hand, felt him…shift slightly. 'Logan, please. I'm sorry.'

'Marie?' he asked in a breath, and it was searching and frustrated and bewildered all at once.

'I know. I'm sorry. I know…I know you'd never hurt me,' she got out, leaning into his chest, the wet shower curtain still between them. She did know that—not if he could help it, not when he knew for sure. And his arm crept around, pressed carefully, so careful not to touch her skin. And she nearly cried; the closest to understanding they'd been in several days.

She stayed pressed into him for a few minutes, and it felt good to hear the beating of his heart, and the warmth of his body, the heaviness of his skeleton.

Her thigh began to ache in this position, and she didn't want to acknowledge it, considering. But Logan seemed to notice, holding her from him and shooting her an ironic look while he found a towel and gently unwrapped the shower curtain.

'Turn around,' he ordered quietly, and he calmly dried off her back and legs and towel dried her hair. She strove not to shiver while he did it. Then he scooped her up in the towel and deposited her on their bed. Going to the bureau, he brought out her underwear, socks, a comfortable bra. 'Here,' he motioned, sitting on the bed, and watched while she got dressed quietly.

No clothes, no gloves, lotsa skin, and she wondered if this was a test of her trust. She'd give it to him. She forced herself to relax.

He was still watching. She could sense that there is something else, but didn't know what to ask, what she could ask.

'There's a mission,' he stated, and she nodded. 'I have to go.'

And he was calm, so strangely calm now, after his inexplicable demand before—really poorly timed, if there was a mission, really long in coming, if about her leg—and after their silence, their distance these last few weeks—really, really odd. Would she ever have predicted they could be so calm like this? Pre-mission, post-argument.

But if he could be calm, so could she. So…'For how long?' So she wouldn't worry. So she wouldn't wonder.

''Bout a day,' and he said it sternly like…a warning?

That was enough of that, so she made her own warning back. 'You're not going to pull some crazy shit just because I'm not there to stop you?'

He grinned, thank goodness. 'I won't if you won't,' and it was only half-warning now.

'Deal.' She grinned back, and would have offered to shake hands on it, but…no gloves, and she didn't want to bring up that hastily-diverted topic. So she leaned forward and pecked his cheek in those lovely ridiculous sideburns. She loved him. 'Be safe.'

As she pulled away, his face turned towards hers, and he was gazing at her lips, and she knew, now at least, after their little we-don't-fuck conversation, that he wanted her—still—his gaze drawn along there and down her front, over her skin. His eyes heated, locked on hers, and the emotions were shifting quickly there, like he couldn't quite decide how to play it.

Maybe that idea scared her more than all, because she didn't want him to think to be careful with her. Not with her, not with this; it wasn't working, had never worked, and hell, between the two of them, they'd fuck this up with overthinking. And who could have predicted that?

But while she was worrying, he reached a decision, the last one she would have expected.

His hand ran along the edge of her bra, his nail scraped gently against her breast, and he watched her flush. He growled, still touching, and tipped his head to the side and bit her neck at the pulse point, just a puff of breath, a nip of teeth.

And then deliberately, he was rising. 'When I get back.' And it sounded like a warning and a promise.

She stared up at him. 'Ok.'

He smiled wolfishly and left. Rogue flopped back on the bed, letting out a whoosh of breath.