Nocturne

©2000 Sandra Leonetti

Genre: Romance/Drama

Sex Content: none, just innuendos

Violence Content: G

Language Content: PG

Characters: X-MEN Characters

Rogue lay staring at the ceiling, then the wall, then the doorway, then the ceiling again. But it was no use. Her trials, to determine if she would become an official member of the X-Men team, were the next day, and she was not going to sleep. Abruptly, she flung back the covers and grabbed the cloak and gloves that were draped on a chair. After pulling them on over her thin cotton nightgown, she left the room and sidled along the hallways until she reached the students’ common room, which was thankfully empty. Rogue cautiously opened the balcony door, propped it open, and stepped out, pulling out from her cloak’s inner pocket a pack of the cigarettes she’d begun smoking surreptitiously. She lit one and inhaled pensively. Maybe I can stay awake all night; that’ll keep me in a fighting mood, she mused.

Logan strode along the main corridor, having completed his security round for the night. As he often did, he felt at a loose end. Midnight was the beginning of an evening for him, but not so for most of the residents of Xavier’s academy. Maybe someone’s hanging out in the commons. Shoot, I’m bored enough to watch TV. When a turn into the students’ wing met with silence, he cast his eyes up in chagrin and was about to leave, when he detected a scent. Rogue? What’s she doing up? And who’s with her, smoking Camels? He approached the commons room noiselessly, then charged in. A vague picture of Rogue being menaced formed in his mind---he didn’t want to consider an assignation.

Rogue turned instinctively towards the sound of footsteps. Smoking was not forbidden at the academy, but for her it was a private ritual. She also knew that it was foolish for her to be out alone at night, but anxiety had overcome discretion. Well, if I can fight off an attacker and win, maybe that’ll count towards the trials.

When Logan got in sight of the balcony, he was relieved to see Rogue alone and tensed to spring, holding the lit cigarette to use as a weapon if need be. "Good reflexes, darlin’," he commended her. "But what are you doing up---tomorrow’s the day, right?"

"That’s why I’m up," Rogue shrugged helplessly. "I just can’t sleep." He called me ‘darlin’’!

"Well, that—" Logan indicated the cigarette, "---will keep you awake for sure. And since when do you smoke, anyway, Miss Magnolia Blossom?" He narrowed his eyes in the rakish look Rogue had so often seen him give Jean Grey; it tore her heart almost as much to have it directed at her.

"Since nobody asked you, Mr. Canucklehead!"

"Att-i-tude!" Logan stepped back, only partly affecting surprise. "Don’t lose that before the trials."

Rogue drew on the cigarette and blew smoke upwards with a saucy air; an action that didn’t betray the shock she felt at her own daring. After a pause, Logan said, "How ‘bout you finish that, then go back to your room, and I’ll bring you a hot chocolate."

"Um…okay!" She examined the lit end of the cigarette with studious care as Logan left for his own room, where a hot plate and a tin of Ghirardelli chocolate was waiting.

After finishing her cigarette, Rogue scurried back to her room, glad that she always kept it neat and ready for visitors. After shedding her cloak and gloves, she propped her pillows up, then fetched a book from the shelf. She settled herself under the covers, prepared to read herself to sleep in case Logan didn’t show. Before she could begin dwelling on this possibility, there came a tap on the door. "It’s open," she called softly.

Logan stepped in, bearing an earthenware mug Rogue didn’t recognize from the dining hall. "Le chocolat, mademoiselle," he announced in a Quebecois accent.

"Merci, monsieur," Rogue answered in her Mississippi drawl, accepting the mug from his outstretched hand. She took a tentative sip; the chocolate was just the right temperature, smooth and rich, but with a slight taste of…

"A little Canadian penicillin," Logan assured her, seeing her questioning look. "Not enough to give you a hangover."

"Well, if you say so…" Rogue took a larger swallow, and felt the warmth of whiskey at the back of her throat. I’m drinking from his private stash! How intimate is that? she rejoiced.

"Mind if I look around?" Logan inquired, as more of the chocolate/whiskey mixture disappeared.

Rogue waved her hand toward the bookshelves. "Go ‘head," she acquiesced, her bayou accent making itself heard.

Logan perused the carefully ordered books, less out of interest than to find something to look at besides the intriguing pattern Rogue’s slender legs made beneath the quilt. At the end of the row, a battered, armless teddy bear sat, as if on guard. "Who’s this?" he asked, charmed by this evidence of Rogue’s perennial innocence.

"That’s Paw. He’s been with me all my life—literally. He was a baby shower present."

"And you brought him with you—"

"When I left home, yeah." Rogue looked down into the inch or so of chocolate that remained in the mug.

Logan sensed that he’d said the wrong thing. Wanting to lighten the mood, he picked the bear up, careful of its head, which was going the same way as the arms. "Well, then, he can keep you company." He set Paw down on the bed, next to the pillows Rogue was leaning against.

Rogue was briefly electrified by the closeness of Logan; then as he retreated, she addressed herself to Paw. "Hi, big guy!" She scratched his head playfully, thinking, There’s only one furry brown creature I want in my bed, and he definitely has arms. She tipped up the mug to drain the last drops, sharp with the whiskey that had settled on the bottom.

Logan turned his attention to some pewter ornaments that were arranged on the desk. Cozy place, this, he reflected. Now I know how to picture her when---

"All gone!" Rogue said brightly, holding the mug out towards Logan---there was no table within reach.

"Good girl," he responded. "Now snuggle down." Listen to you. Why do you talk to her like she’s seven years old? Because the alternative is---ah, hell, don’t think about it.

Rogue obediently flattened the pillows and turned over on her side, facing the door. She pulled the covers up, bracing herself not to be disappointed when Logan would cut out abruptly, as he always did. She heard the sound of the mug being set down on the desk…then stiffened as Logan approached. He reached out to her, and before she could decide whether to be afraid or excited, his strong hands were tucking the quilt more firmly around her shoulders.

She closed her eyes, deciding to feign sleep and avoid the issue. When she heard the chair being dragged closer to the bed, she didn’t react, although her mind remained alert. For a brief moment, nothing happened; then the world fell away as Logan placed his hand on her head.

Rogue was learning to control her powers, and it was possible for someone to touch her hair, though still not her skin, without danger. In a moment, her perception returned enough for her to realize that Logan was stroking her hair, as gently as the weight of his bones would allow. With a soft inhale, he began to speak.

"I lived in Saskatoon for a while; almost a year. That’s in Sasketchewan, and it was one of the last places in Canada to remain unspoiled. The sky was the purest blue, because there was almost no pollution. The streams were so clean you could drink out of them---and I did. Animals and birds were in their glory. Well, there was hunting, of course, but not for sport, only food. There was a pond where swans lived in the summer---fourteen of them, one year." He continued caressing her hair with long, steady repetitions. Rogue wanted to stay awake for this most romantic moment of her life, but the sensation, and Logan’s voice, slower and deeper than his normally aggressive speech, combined to release her from tension.

"But of course, no one can stop what they call progress. Regress, if you ask me. City people started building out there, and ruined the peace and quiet they’d come up for. A factory went up, and a lot of stores, and then a mall. So when I got back, the streams weren’t clean any more; the sky was dull, and of course, the swans all died."

"Nice bedtime story, " Rogue observed drowsily.

"Shhh!" Logan pulled at a lock of her hair, careful not to hurt her. "Well, a guy I knew commissioned me to make a swansdown cape for his wife. Swansdown is very fine, very smooth and sleek." He ran one finger along the streak of white in Rogue’s hair. "You have to handle it very very carefully, and it took more time and concentration than I can remember giving to almost anything. But it was worth it to see this lady’s face when she wore it. She said it was the softest, silkiest material on earth." He paused and looked carefully at Rogue; she could be asleep, he thought. "But if she’d felt this---" he lifted a hank of hair and rubbed it between his fingers, "---she might have said differently."

There was no response. Logan got up slowly and stood for a long moment, fists jammed in pockets, staring down at Rogue, serene in the dim light. Finally he leaned down, and, careful to avoid skin contact, draped her hair across her face and kissed it, almost too lightly to be felt. Looking up, his eyes briefly caught Paw’s glass ones. Just hold my place for me, buddy, he thought as he slipped out the door, locking it behind him. Dammit, I forgot the mug. Well, that’ll be a reason to go back.

When the lock clicked, Rogue exhaled, turned on her other side, then reached back for Paw and held him in the crook of her arm. Maybe someday he’ll notice me when I’m conscious, was her last thought before oblivion.

The End