*****

I knocked on Scott's door at ten that night.

He might have been asleep--but I doubted it. I could hear them in my room--and why the hell hadn't Jean's voice gone out yet? He opened the door, a little surprised to see me, but merely stepped back politely to let me storm in. I took in the white shirt and pajama bottoms--plaid, navy blue, drawstring.

It was the first time I saw him out of his normal clothes and it threw me for a loop and my black-and-white world had a new color and Scott officially moved into a nebulous set of categories that included man.

"Hey." It was weak but the best I could do.

He nodded and I noticed that his radio was on, playing something depressing and country-sounding--never knew he had a thing for country music. The blonde hair was still neatly combed and I glanced at the desk and saw the essays spread out and then at his hands, which still held a red pen, and the smear of ink on his forefinger.

Oddly--and I just realized it as I was standing there--I'd never been in this room before. A quick glance confirmed the almost painful neatness--all Scott, no laundry on the floor, the rug parallel to the wall, dustbunnies beware.

And though I'd never been here before, I could feel the absence of Jean like an ache. How he could stand to be in here I had no idea.

"You busy?" It occurred to me--rather belatedly, admittedly--that maybe he wouldn't want my company. But he shook his head and took the pen back to the desk and pulled out a chair. I glanced around the room, taking in the hospital-cornered bed and wondered when the last time he slept in it was.

"Are you okay, Rogue?"

Screw hospital corners. I sat down on the bed--but I did feel a little guilty disturbing the carefully tucked comforter and could almost swear that the sheet beneath actually bounced me a little it was so tight.

"Can't sleep." And I couldn't face Remy's room tonight, even if it was a floor away from the sounds coming from Logan's. Prostituting myself was an art form and maybe I didn't feel that artistic tonight.

"Me either." A hint of a smile, but God, he looked tired. And that's not something the light of day would ever see, I knew. Without meaning to, I reached out, touching his arm. I almost expected him to jerk away, but he didn't, only nodded a little before covering my hand with his. "I'm sorry, Rogue."

He had nothing to be sorry for. I did. I was the bitch fucking Remy so I could live my own fantasy life. Scott sat in his room and did things that were productive and worthwhile and useful.

"You wanna talk about it, Scott?"

That brought a smile this time, a little sad, but more real than anything I'd seen in so long, even on my own face, that it made me smile back.

"That's my line."

"I know--but I thought maybe--" Maybe I could be what you are to me. He'd already shifted in my perceptions--and I got the feeling, though silly and unlikely and maybe even egotistical, that he wanted to talk to me.

We were in the same boat, after all.

"Maybe I needed it?" he finished with a slightly self-deprecating turn of his mouth. "I really must look bad." He laughed softly and I didn't move my hand. His skin was warm through the gloves I'd pulled on before coming in here.

"No--just tired. I didn't know you liked country music."

Then he laughed and it was real and there was no bitterness at all.

"It's relaxing. I used to take Jean dancing--before we were together. Gave her a sense of normalcy she didn't get anywhere else."

Maybe my face showed my surprise, because his head tilted.

"I can talk about her." Funny, how I couldn't talk about Logan yet. "She's not a strong telepath, but she didn't have any shields at the beginning and crowds were hell for her. When she learned to tune out the background noise, I took her to this little bar and taught her to dance. She'd never done it before--isn't that odd? She didn't like being in crowds, so she didn't go anywhere she'd learn how to dance. And being touched scared her." He smiled a little at my surprise, growing thoughtful, lost in a memory. "Touch emphasizes her power. Before she had shields, she'd pick up things from anyone who came in contact with her, with or without clothes barring it. When I taught her to dance, I had to be so careful to keep calm and not broadcast what I was feeling. I didn't want to scare her." A pause. "I wanted her to trust me."

I tried to dismiss the image of an eighteen year old Jean being scared of touch.

"She likes this music." His voice was a little wistful and despite myself, I sighed. So I wasn't the only one torturing myself. That was actually comforting.

I listened to the song for a few minutes. I'd only danced once, and never to this kind of music. Another song came on and Scott saw me glance at the radio.

"You've never done it either, have you?"

Yeah, you'd think growing up in the south, I would have. But that hadn't been trendy at school, and like all teens throughout the ages, I'd been a slave to fashion.

"Get up."

I snatched my hand back.

"Scott--"

"Be productive. Learn something new." And he picked up my hand from my lap and gently pulled me to my feet, walking with me to the center of the room. And he was tall--I knew that, but suddenly, when you're only inches away and not a foot or so, it was definitely noticeable.

He put me into position, like a moveable doll, and placed a hand around my waist. He ignored the way I stiffened, even now, at the contact. "It's a four count. Just follow me--trust me, it's easier than it looks. Look at me--don't look at your feet or you'll confuse yourself. Okay. Ready?"

No, I was most definitely not, shooting a panicked look at him, but Scott was already pressing me to move and--

And that's how I learned to dance.

I stepped on his foot once and he spun me too hard so I collided with the desk and at some point we both started laughing and couldn't stop. Then he moved a little closer and we turned together and I stumbled against the door and he caught himself from falling against me with a hand on the door beside my head.

And maybe Scott's world got a new color too. I'm not sure. Mine did, staring up at him, aware of how close he was and the feel of his hand on my waist, warm through my cotton nightgown.

But sometimes, you can deny that if you try. I had. So did he. He stepped back and he was the Fearless Leader again in pajama bottoms and I smiled and said good-night and went to my room.

Found Logan's tags in my dresser and poured them into my hand like water and stared at them and still refused to cry while my stereo continued to play in the background.

* * * * *

It would have made everything easier if I'd just remade my world into black and white and tried to stop seeing Scott's damned colors. If I could hate Jean cleanly instead of seeing her at eighteen being afraid to dance because she didn't want the emotions of others filling her. Not wanting touch.

It's hard to see someone else as yourself. Harder to hate it.

Logan unexpectedly asked me to lunch when I forgot to avoid him and we took a picnic into the Great Outdoors and I mused on the fact that I was getting to know the woods way too well.

We chatted about something and I didn't smell Jean on him, which made my conversation a hell of a lot better.

"Did you like your last trip? What did you do?"

It could have been last year, sitting with him and asking about his life outside the mansion, the life I wasn't going to get to have. He could. I couldn't. Possibly not ever. Logan leaned on an elbow and told me.

"Fought." A wolfish grin and I laughed. "Nothing interesting. Just moving."

I finished off my sandwich and wiped my fingers on the blanket, reaching for the thermos I'd absconded with from the kitchen.

"You know why Ororo's so pissed?"

Wow. Just like him, though--throw it out like a bomb and wait for the reaction. Studied indifference, like it didn't mean a damned thing, but since he hadn't asked why half the school was avoiding him, I knew it had bothered him. A lot. And I reviewed what I knew to date and just smiled a little. Ororo was Jean's friend first, but that maybe didn't mean she couldn't go in the Marie-category of friends too. And I laughed to myself that I was blurring the lines again.

My world would never be black and white again.

"I'll talk to her."

He bristled, which I should have expected.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, darlin'."

I remembered the first time he called me that, how the chill had gone down my back and I wanted to hear him say it again. And my smile faded when I remembered seeing him in Jean's lab earlier that day and heard him call her Jeanie and saw her smile.

"I'll tell her that too, sugar." He looked startled suddenly and I wondered why. I checked my watch and realized it was my turn to feed the horses and I was late. "I gotta go, Logan. I'll see ya later, okay?"

"Yeah." He was still ruminating something--maybe Jean's latest lingerie, who knew--and I started packing up. He helped, which was unusual, but the brush of his hands against my gloves still sent a tingle through me and I disliked myself for that.

For some reason, I thought of what Ororo had said to me days before, about Jean, about Logan--and something caught my tongue.

"Do you ever think about the future, Logan?"

It was on the edge of my mind, twisting into inevitable color, the thing I didn't want to think about.

Logan would hurt. He'd hurt a lot. I stared into the friendly hazel eyes and tried to catch my breath. Hell, I wasn't sure how I'd feel when it happened. Happy? Ecstatic? That didn't sound right in my head, like it should.

"Not really." That steady gaze was still fixed on me, but I couldn't concentrate on it, on anything but the painful swirl of understanding coming to life inside of me.

He loved her. Not just sex or attraction or even some sort of twisted need that would burn itself out given time. I had him in my head, all of him, all those complex and endlessly frustrating feelings, but it was genuine and the real thing and--and he'd hurt.

And if what I wanted--them apart--if I got my wish--God--

"Have you?" he asked, and his complete attention on my face startled me--but not enough to dispel the thoughts that were all so new. All yellows and sick greens edged with grey.

Colors.

"I have," I whispered, staring at him. Taking in the face, the lean body, the general good humor that she brought out in him. Began to talk again--about the future, I guess, I'm not sure, I just needed the words. I pushed everything back in the bag and got to my feet, a little unsteady.

She made him happy. And I was the one who wanted it all shattered, so I could have him myself. What the hell was I, to want to see him lose her, lose this feeling, lose that happiness when he'd had so little in his life?

"I'll see you later." Logan got to his feet, looking startled, maybe even worried, but I couldn't handle that now, not with this too.

I didn't like colors. I *hated* colors.

When I got to my room, I dug out the tags and stared at them in my hand for a minute, shaking.

I left them on Jean's desk. She'd find them in the morning. Hell, maybe she'd even know what they meant.

* * * * *

Scott didn't look surprised when I ambushed him that night. Green pajama bottoms, clean white t-shirt that looked vaguely starched, without a crease. Stood up when I came in and slammed the door behind me, pacing to the center of the room, pinning him with a glare.

The radio was on country music again. Masochism at its finest.

"Fuck you, Cyke. I hate you almost as much as I hate them."

He regarded me calmly for a minute, then motioned me to sit. I stood, childish, defiant, angry as all hell.

"Rogue--"

"I didn't want that! Why the hell couldn't you leave it the way it was? I didn't want to--" I didn't want to know Jean wasn't evil, I didn't want to know that Logan would be hurt, I didn't want to look at Scott and see a person who could hurt as deeply as I could, even if he could hide it better.

Black and white didn't hurt this much.

And he understood. Without me even needing to say the words.

I didn't want to sit down on his bed and cry but I did. I cried on his perfectly made bed and he sat down beside me and slid his arms around me and held me, while I tried to gain some measure of control.

"Now you know why I won't say anything." A whisper and he stroked my hair back, lifted my head to look in my eyes. "Everything we do has consequences, Rogue. For someone else, not just ourselves.

"I don't like colors." I was a kid being comforted by the only stable adult in my life. For the first time, I understood him. Understood where all that control and that quiet strength came from--he didn't have a choice.

"That's the difference between being a kid and being an adult. You don't have the luxury of screaming about the unfairness when you can see why it's unfair no matter what you do. And when you can see consequences and realize you can't make it any better if you jump in."

"She'll hurt him." If she leaves, when she leaves, when she walks out as easily as she walked in, having found whatever the hell she was looking for. And she was eighteen and scared to be touched and Scott was trying to teach her to dance and not let her feel what he felt, so she'd have one person she wasn't afraid of, one person she could trust.

How can you hate that? How do you even try?

"And he'll hurt her, if he leaves. I don't hate him, Rogue. I understand him--and it's easier to hate what you don't understand."

We preach that, we mutants. It bites you in the ass, though, when you gotta apply it to your life and not to pretty theories at large conventions. All that fucking understanding and looking past the obvious and the crap we say and really believe in our hearts until the very second we have to put it into practice. I shifted to look at him--really look this time, to see the perfect, painful understanding on his face that what we both wanted would rip apart the people we loved.

We stared at each other--and I felt my fingers untie my scarf, shaking it out a little, and he took it from my hands, looking down at it. A moment that it seemed enough to believe we could let go--just believe we could, whether or not we actually would.

"In color," I said softly, and he understood. Lifted it up over my face, leaned to kiss me, and--

--it was as natural as anything else--more natural than Remy or Bobby had ever been, no awkwardness, no uncertainty.

It was so gentle--just pressure from the warm lips on the other side of the material. Then a little more, and fingers laced through my hair and tilted my head a little and his tongue brushed over my mouth, opening it softly, easily sliding over my lip. A slow, gentle taste, silky smooth and I forgot all about the fabric and the difference that I couldn't even remember anymore when I began to kiss him back.

It wasn't anything more than that--this delicious, long, slow kiss that took my breath and my thinking, and I wasn't worrying about him touching me or if he'd dislike the feel of leather on his skin when I touched him. His hands left my hair, going to my lap, taking my fingers in his. Lifting them so I touched his face--and I did, tracing the lines of his cheeks, his hair, thinking about all the power behind his glasses and not even caring. Sliding my arms over his shoulders and sliding against him and he pressed me back on his bed and the feel of his body was--

--it was so right.

He lifted his head, looking down at me and I stared up, fingers tracing the line of his glasses against his head. Raising himself on an elbow, and I knew I'd just blurred my lines again and he was a new color for me now, no matter what. Then smiled, a different smile, and it was completely for me and I'd made him smile like that--I meant something to him. Then leaned down, tasting me again--kissed me until we both could barely even think and he shook his head when I awkwardly thought I should leave and I went to sleep beside him with while the radio played in the background.

* * * * *

Logan met me for lunch--not exactly by invitation, but when my heart thumped, I figured this would work just as well. We raided the fridge and settled at the kitchen table with cold chicken, a loaf of bread, and some butter. I pulled on my gloves--habit, more than anything--before I started hunting for edibles.

Neither of us were fond of vegetables. So those were sadly lacking.

And we chatted. It was odd, how simple it was, like nothing had changed, so different from the last two times. He asked me about my day and actually seemed interested to know that my classes were going well, though--though every once in awhile I'd catch a glance from him, and I couldn't read it at all.

"I'd like to learn to drive that damned bike," I told him, maybe a little plaintively, because he chuckled.

"Do you even have a license yet?"

Details, details.

"Not yet." I put down the chicken leg (now bone) and we both went for the last piece of bread. I got it first and probably looked as smug as I felt. He growled at me and started laughing when I growled back--I can growl and damn well.

"I'll take you out tomorrow afternoon, if you want to learn," he said finally, pushing the plate back. "If you can manage not to wreck the damn thing."

"I'm not the one that went through his windshield like a bullet, sugar," I answered, leaning back in my chair and bracing a leg on the edge of the table, cradling the beer he let me grab from the back of the fridge. One of his. "Before you start castin' aspersions on my driving, check your own."

"Fuck you, darlin'."

"Hate the truth, doncha?" I didn't know where all this good humor was coming from--and I leaned closer to take another piece of chicken and something crossed his face and he caught my hand. And even when he pulled it, I didn't really get what was wrong--

--and it took a second to recognize I'd grabbed the gloves I'd worn yesterday. Last night.

He smelled Scott on them. A lot of Scott.

I schooled my face to confusion, my heart beating so hard I could hear it echo in my ears. "What's wrong?"

The real question was actually--why the hell do you care?

Logan didn't answer for a minute, then dropped my hand like it burned and I grabbed the chicken, lacking anything better to do. And for some reason, I couldn't read the expression on his face.

"How're you and Remy?"

The jump in subject was startling and I tried to get my mind back in place but--but--

"Fine, I guess."

I wasn't sure. I should have talked to him. Maybe considered going by and telling him goodbye, see ya, but this isn't working, and God, I'm sorry I fucked you and did it for all the wrong reasons. I'm sorry you loved me and I used that when I was looking for a way to escape my own life.

Maybe drop off another necklace and get as free as I could.

"Logan?"

It was her scent, her voice, and my body went completely still when she came up behind me.

"Hey, Jeanie."

It shocked me, how much it could hurt, even without hate. Maybe because of it. Maybe because there wasn't anyone to blame now. No one I could turn on and scream it was all their fault.

Nothing except a pile of what-might-have-beens surrounding me in a nasty haze of colors I was tired of seeing.

It's strange, but until that point I'd managed to avoid seeing them together--really, er--*together*. As a couple. Oh, I had the glimpses, and those were enough--but I hadn't seen this. Not the way the brown eyes warmed, not the way Jean moved toward him, not even registering I was there. And--and it wasn't like he jumped up and kissed her or anything overt happened--she just brushed her hand across his shoulder and his entire focus shifted to her, completely and absolutely and--and now I understood how the moon felt when the sun came out.

Like I wasn't there at all.

At first, I didn't even think they noticed me leave. But as I opened the door, I caught Logan's eyes on me again, before Jean stepped between us.

* * * * *

I found Scott alone in the conference room. It was suddenly awkward and I stayed at the door as he cleaned up the papers and switched off devices and generally did normal-Scott things that would have fooled me a long time ago into believing that was all there was to him.

So I didn't say anything at first, just watched him move. The neat precision, the calm arrangements--shelving this, considering where that item would go, putting it all in place. Any day at the Mansion, nothing changed except everything.

One day, I wanted to ask him why. What happened in their room that nasty night that screwed up everything for us. Hell, I wanted to ask her that too, get a glimpse of her eyes when they looked into Logan's and see if they were like his.

I took in his appearance, neat as always--an uncreased black turtleneck and khaki pants. Perfectly clean shoes, probably immaculate white socks. I watched him place both hands on the conference room table and lower his head for a minute, taking a breath, and I remembered his cool voice when he delivered the weekly update to all of us here this morning.

I remembered Jean reaching over to touch Logan's hand and the way his long fingers clenched behind his back, where only I could see it.

"Scott."

He didn't stiffen in surprise or even turn around, so maybe he knew I was there after all. The long fingers didn't move and I found myself looking at him, the slim body and the strong line of his jaw. And I found myself unwinding my scarf, running it between gloved fingers, slowly walking to stand beside him.

"Hey." His voice was low and I reached out and touched his cheek, wishing I could feel his skin. "You need anything, Rogue?"

"Not really. Are you okay?"

"Just tired." He smiled and it was so forced it hurt me to see it. Hurt me to think about it.

"Come on." I caught his hand and pulled it and he looked up, surprised. "It's late, you know. Tired is usually an indication that it's time for bed. So go."

A smile curved his mouth--a small one, but it was there, and he followed me out of the room. We took the stairs--which in retrospect probably wasn't the best idea, since the elevator let out on the other side of Logan's room, not requiring us to cross in front of the door.

And if we'd walked by three seconds later, we both could have probably dismissed it as imagination or even pretended we didn't hear. But I chose the stairs, Scott stole my scarf and made a run for it, and we both heard it when we skidded past Logan's door.

"God, Logan."

Through several walls, somehow it dims. It's a little more abstract, and it may sound odd, but you stop hearing it after awhile. But this wasn't dismissible or ignorable and Scott went completely and utterly tense beside me and stared at the door. It was the first time I forgot how hurt I was to see that hurt burned into him.

Everything he had never let me see before, I saw in that second, an instant before it was gone. Everything that as Leader he couldn't afford to ever act on, that he could never say, and I realized that no matter how much color I saw, he saw more. He saw every possible complication and ever possible problem and in the space of a second he turned away as Scott and walked to his room and gave me a nod before he shut the door.

I stood in the hall, scarf forgotten in my hand, but there weren't any more sounds, like we were only meant to hear that one and no more.

Like destiny or something.

Well, fuck destiny. It'd screwed with me long enough.

* * * * *

Maybe he expected me, I don't know. Two hours later, in my favorite flannel pajamas, gloved hands, standing at his door like any waif on the street and he was in red tonight and let me in and closed the door behind me. I took my place on the obsessively neat bed and waited for him to sit and we looked at each other.

"What if it isn't always in color, Scott?" I asked him, and he looked at me and he wasn't even surprised.

"Rogue--."

I unwound my scarf from my pocket and put it on the bed.

"Black and white for one night," I told him, trying to keep the shaking out of my voice. Trying to keep my hands still, slow the beating of my heart. Hoping I wasn't wrong, feeling the sweat break out on my palms, feeling sick and scared and higher than I can ever remember.

He didn't move, didn't even breathe I think.

"Rogue--"

"Just say yes or no. One or the other. Don't complicate it. Don't rationalize it."

It was a long moment before he stood up and walked to the door and everything twisted in me, but all he did was stop and ask me to turn on the lamp. With shaking fingers, I did, and he flipped the light off and sat down beside me.

"You need gloves."

He smiled then, something in his face that had nothing to do with Jean or Logan, something I had put there that blocked it, at least for a little while. At least for now. Still looking at me, he stood up, walking to the dresser, finding what he wanted by touch, as anyone could expect of Scott, so organized. Pulled the soft gloves on he'd used when he was training me years ago, still watching me while I played with the scarf and tried to breathe through the sheer shock of what I was doing and why I was doing it.

When he sat down, I lifted the scarf and he took my face in his hands and kissed me--no different from the night before, just as gentle, just as sweet, just as addictive. Followed the line of bones on my face, the curve of my ear, down my neck to my shoulder. Found the edge of the nylon bodysuit I wore and then--then he laughed and looked at me with this wonderful smile that took my breath away completely.

"You're prepared."

"I learned from the best."

He kissed me again, sliding his hands over my shoulders, shifting closer, his tongue tracing the interior of my mouth slowly, patiently, as if he was tasting something sweet. Looked at me again, before dropping his fingers to the front of my pajama jacket and unbuttoning it, watching my face to make sure it was okay. Always careful, always Scott right down to the tips of the fingers that traced my skin over the nylon, slipping it off my shoulders and looking at me.

Then dropped the scarf and kissed me, hard, and I shut my eyes in shock and almost pulled away, but he was already moving back--and in my head there was nothing of Jean or Logan or anything else--but just me. How much he wanted me, how I tasted and smelled--things that made my breath catch.

"So you know for sure," he said softly when I looked at him again, eyes wide. "Nothing else."

Then he kissed me again, fine silk between us, and I raised my hands to touch him--finally. Feel the lines of muscle in the slim body, the strength I'd relied on more often than I hadn't, slipping my hands down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it up. He let me, moving back when he had to, then taking my face between his hands to kiss me again, press me back onto the bed, the comforter soft against my back, and cool before my skin warmed it.

Easily, he sat up, letting me slide the pajamas down off my hips with shaking hands, raising himself on one elbow beside me when I turned on my side to face him, kissing me again and I forgot all about the fabric that had to cover me to protect him, forgot everything else in the damned world when he drew his fingertips down my chest, traced my stomach, then skipped back up to cup my breast, so lightly, so gently.

Then he leaned down and silky blonde hair brushed my chin when he licked the tip of one nipple. I shuddered and slid on my back and he followed, one hand catching mine and our fingers lacing together, his arm supporting him when he nipped me lightly, sending something hot through my body that was as different from Remy and Bobby as--well, as night from day. Slipping to the other breast, taking his time between them, feeling his breath shorten against me before he traced down onto my stomach and too near my bare legs.

"Scott."

He flashed up a grin so brilliant the words died in my throat. I had never made anyone look at me like that before.

"Don't worry."

I stared up at the ceiling when he positioned my legs, and I felt the silky brush of his hair against the bare skin of my thighs. Then--then everything just changed when he parted me through the thin nylon and I felt the brush of his tongue.

"Scott," I whispered on a gasp. Desperately, I locked my legs in place, trying to breathe through the sudden heat that strengthened with every brush of his tongue through the thin cloth, every slide, and I fought to be careful, felt his gloved hands on my thighs, and arched into him. To everything he made me feel and the sparks of light that danced in front of my eyes. "God, Scott, please, yes, please--" I know I said more, probably a lot more, but that's the only things that made any sense. And I felt him slip back up my body and I ground against him when he found my mouth through the scarf, fingers digging into his back, swallowed his groan and--God, I was doing this. I was making him whisper my name like that. Run his fingers through my hair and kiss me again as if he'd never do anything else. As if he never wanted to do anything else, not ever. And--

And I laughed when he kissed me and it was so good--it was everything this was supposed to be, that it had never been before, not in reality, not in borrowed memory. No guilt or anger and nothing in it edged with bitter regret. I stared up at him when he traced my face with the tips of his fingers.

"Do you have--"

"In the drawer."

Always prepared.

I pushed him on his back and laughed when I looked down at him and he slid his hands over my hips and thighs. Smiled up at me, slightly flushed, very aroused when I rocked into him again, watching his breath catch and the tightening of his shoulders beneath my hands.

I twisted to open the drawer, felt him sit up and his mouth fastened on my breast and I gasped and he laughed again and grinned up at me when I dropped the condom on the bed.

"You're good at this," I told him, bracing myself on my arms and staring down.

"I'm very flexible."

"Even better."

It was a simple matter to unlace the top of his pajamas, red plaid that I might end up with a fetish for, finding the opening in the shorts and carefully sliding the condom on. Feeling his eyes on me when I did it, letting him roll me on my back and I moved my legs and stared up at him, wetting my lips when his smile faded and the look on his face changed before he moved into me in one hard thrust that took my breath.

"Scott."

And he smiled a little, but pulled the scarf between us to kiss me again, rocked out of me only to slide in again, making me bite his tongue through the silk, hearing another groan out of him and gripping his back, moving up against him with every thrust.

And everything suddenly became the grip of my fingers on his back, the only anchor I had, and the feel of his lips on mine and the heat that was burning all the way through me. The smell of his arousal and my own, the way he braced an elbow by my face and lifted his head to look in my eyes and I knew I was so close--and he was taking me there.

"Come on, Rogue, please, let me--" It was a staccato rush against my cheek, another long thrust that jerked my body, shot tiny stars in front of my eyes.

"Scott, please, I'm--don't stop, God, please--" Please don't stop. Nothing had prepared me for this.

"God, Rogue, yes, good, come on, look at me, Rogue, please--"

I stared up into the smooth glass, feeling the knots in my body twist so tight I was shaking with it and I knew--it was so close--

"Yes, Scott, please,--yes, that's it, I can--I can--"

"I'm here, Rogue, come on, I'll--*Rogue*--" And he cupped my face to look at me, stare in my eyes when I began to shake and I know I screamed something when it happened, the heat running all the way through me to my toes, and I couldn't see anything at all and I bit his shoulder through the scarf, feeling the break of skin and his groan and suddenly he shouted something--I couldn't understand it--and he lay still on top of me and I stroked his hair while the sparks still danced in front of my eyes.

"God," he whispered into my hair. I turned my head, carefully, and he met my eyes. He licked his lips, pulled my scarf over to kiss me again, rolling on his side and taking me with him, holding me close. "Rogue--"

No one had ever said my name like that. He breathed out sharply, and I felt his body relax against mine.

"Go to sleep," I whispered. A smile turned his lips.

"I'm not that rude. Move over and I'll pull down the covers."

I giggled and did so and he pulled the red pajamas pants back on--hell, I *was* going to get a fetish now--and we slid under the blankets. And as my eyes closed sleepily, he turned me over and curled around my back, one arm around my waist, the other above my head, his breath warm on my hair.

And I laced my fingers through his against my stomach and fell asleep too.

* * * * *

Logan was sitting outside with a cigar. Not unusual in itself. Sitting alone--again, not something that should surprise me. Logan isn't social. Logan, in fact, lurks in that nebulous space between anti-social and absolute isolationistic.

On a good day.

What tipped me off that Something Had Happened was the way he looked at me when I came into range. A long look, studying me, face unnaturally blank, and I took that in for a second before venturing a word.

"Hey, Logan." And if my voice was as casual as I wanted it to be, it must have been a miracle.

His expression didn't change. If anything, it intensified as his eyes went down my body and it was strange, that it felt like he was touching me when he did it. Like he was looking for something on me.

"Rogue."

He never called me that. I took in the scent and my body tensed at what I was picking up from him from seven feet away. I stood still for a second, staring at him, trying to think what possibly could have pissed him off. Because he was pissed. Not angry, not mad, not annoyed--he was hitting Magneto-level intensity just in the way his body moved, a body I knew almost as well as my own.

Hell, in some ways, better.

"You weren't at breakfast," he commented rather mildly--deceptively mild, in fact. Little alarms went off in my head. Breakfast--yeah, that was because I snuck down much earlier and Scott and I had some interesting experiments with fruit this morning. But that was neither here nor there.

Or anywhere. Or anything I should be thinking about right now. Logan knew me probably better than anyone else.

"I went early." I felt like I was walking on a minefield. Logan has that effect on people.

"I was down at six. You weren't there."

Why the hell was he up at six?

"I stopped by your room to see if you were up--"

Oh fucking hell--

"And you weren't there."

Silence. He let me stand there like an idiot, grasping for some sort of explanation as far from the truth as I could manage and still get away with it. Which wasn't much, because while Logan may not be perceptive, he's as far from an idiot as anyone I've ever met when he gets his full attention on something. And I had his full attention and I'd give away the lie with every word I stammered.

"I was--" I was what? Hunting? Playing chess downstairs? Practicing my backhand on the tennis court? Riding? Showering? It'd never occurred to me--hindsight is a nasty thing--that I'd ever have to account for my whereabouts. When the hell did he start getting so interested in what I did, anyway?

"Remy was looking for you too."

There was a picture I didn't need--Logan and Remy looking around the Mansion while I was in the one place neither of them would suspect. I took a breath. Let it out slowly. Carefully. One of the colors I'd avoided last night.

"You checking up on me now, Logan?" Take the ball to the other court. God knew, I sure as hell didn't have much choice in the matter. Dark eyes narrowed dangerously and I suddenly wondered if it showed on my face. I'd showered, and I thanked God for that, utter and complete gratitude because I didn't want to know what he would say if he smelled Scott on me.

He dropped the cigar, grinding it into the dirt with some relish. From the way he looked at it, he could have well been visualizing my head.

Why the fuck this morning, of all mornings, why the hell--Rogue. *Rogue*--and it hit me, with all the subtlety of a freight train, and why the hell didn't I even consider it--

He'd heard. Oh God, he'd heard. Logan, with that wonderful sensitive hearing of his that made me want to just sit down and close my eyes and hope this would all go away.

"It's none of your business."

It was disconcerting when he winced and I covered my mouth with my hand and shut my eyes. It wasn't black and white anymore. And it--

"Logan--"

"You're right. It's none of my fucking business."

Damn, damn, *damn.*

"When did you start caring about my social life?" I shot back, suddenly unwilling to let him leave like that--*why* the hell was he so upset, anyway? He knew I was dating Remy, knew perfectly well I wasn't exactly being chaste.

God, I felt like I'd cheated on Logan, not Remy.

He turned, walking by me toward the trees, and less than three feet away, he stopped, not looking at me.

"You still smell like him."

There was nothing I could say to that. Nothing I could even think, and before I could manage to piece together something comprehensible, he was out of range.

Oh *fuck*. Fuck, fuck, *fuck*.

Unbreathing, I watched that painfully familiar stride that expressed what he would never say verbally. Hell, better than anyone could express verbally. And I stood on the porch, hands shaking, trying to breathe through what I'd done.

If Logan had heard--

--this day could only get worse, I knew it.

I walked in quickly, knowing where I'd find Scott, and heard their voices before I even got near enough to see them.

"You don't have the right to ask about my personal life, Jean. Nor to question me on who."

Calm and unruffled as ever. He could have been discussing the menu for next week. I checked myself at the door, taking a breath, unwilling to trust myself around a telepath--I knew the vague mechanics of shielding, but I'd never practiced it and I didn't think this situation would be the time to turn theory into practice.

"Scott--"

And it was in her voice, whether he realized it or not. Like Logan's, like some kind of fucking betrayal--like they had the damned right to feel betrayed. Like Scott and I hadn't been screwed over three ways from Sunday.

But Logan hadn't told Jean yet. Not all of it. Because Jean still lacked my name. And my mind filed that away for future leisure reference and came back to the situation at hand.

"I'm busy, Jean. I have a class." I heard him shuffle some papers and ducked back into the hall, looking for somewhere to hide.

"We need to talk."

And it was strange, that even as desperately searching for hiding as I was, I could feel the tension. Even smell it, in a vague sort of way that Logan probably would have been able to identify if he'd been here.

"Another time, Jean. I'll see you later."

I heard his footsteps in the hall, but not hers. Waited around the corner, checking to see him go in the elevator and ducking back out of sight. Listened for Jean, who still didn't come out.

And suddenly wondered, really in retrospect, why the hell I was so worried about it.